“Make Me a Sandwich”

I grew up in a small, country town. We had more cows than people. Our high school always supported Bring Your Tractor to School Day. We went fishing at the local park for entertainment, and many students always hung out at the local car wash (because there was nowhere more appealing).

I grew up bouncing from social group to social group. The problem was that I never really fit in anywhere. I wasn’t athletic, so I didn’t fit in with the jocks and popular girls. I didn’t have a passion for music, so the band kids never accepted me. The farmers didn’t relate to me because I didn’t raise crops or livestock. And, the other groups just didn’t seem to want me.

I became a floater. I drifted along, all the while, trying to gather and maintain a stable friend base. It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I finally convinced myself that I had friends. They were punks. They valued themselves as rebels, living on the cusp of society. They drank, smoked pot, cranked up heavy metal music, and loved anything artistic. They were bonded together through rebellion.

And, I wanted to revolt with them. I tolerated anything they did because I felt like they were my only chance at ever being appreciated. I also drank. I also smoked a few joints. I also rebelled.

It would take me a few years before I would realize that none of us were actually leading a revolt. We had never formed unique identities, and we were never attempting anything revolutionary.

“We never formed unique identities.” That’s important. It’s important because at this point in my life I wasn’t actually unique. I didn’t know who Erina truly was. All I knew was that conforming to the group made me feel like somebody. Little did I know, compromising my soul for a few friends was hindering me from finding out about the woman that was breathing just below my flesh.

Besides, most of the people I knew weren’t actually friends at all. We all just played Leap Frog together. We’d constantly jump over one another, always trying to stay in the lead. We were all bitter. We were all hurting inside.

I never stood up for myself. Not then. I’ve always been a feminist. Or, at least, I’ve always claimed to be a feminist. I don’t think I actually realized what it meant to be a feminist until I attended fashion school. At first, being a feminist was just chic. It made me feel like I was part of something bigger and more important than myself.

When I was young, if I had understood the importance of being a feminist, I would have never let myself get involved with the troubles I did. I never would have let anyone talk down to my female friends. I would have never let any man threaten or hit me. And, most importantly, I never would have stood for the words “make me a sandwich.”

They seem harmless, don’t they? Those words: “make me a sandwich.” These words were spoken to me constantly. The male members of my (so-called) friends would utter these vile syllables to me almost every day. It was their joke. That’s what they said. A joke that I should tolerate, or else be accused of being uptight.

But, these words did hurt me. I don’t think I was being uptight by disliking the words. Those words, spoken in the tone they used, said to me that I was of no use except for providing them with their dinner. I’m not sure if they realize it (and they’d probably deny it), but they said those words to me because it gave them power. It placed me a step lower in the cultural hierarchy.

It made them appear more important.

Now, I was reduced to a task. No longer could I claim feelings, intelligence, or ambition. I was simply a tool. All women were tools. Women were cast down from the ranks of humanity and placed among slaves. They were not as good as men. They lacked all privileges and rights that men were granted.

That is what those words told me.

In Nazi Germany, political cartoons were often drawn of Jews. The artists would almost always stress the size of the illustrated Jew’s nose. Therefore, readers could make distinctions, and, depending on their race, would be able to find humor in what would be considered a ridiculous, odd, or humorous appearance.

The same principal was applied to African Americans. Historically, African Americans were often drawn with large, protruding lips. White Americans could see the distinction from themselves, and therefore, Caucasian individuals could find humor in the black person’s over exaggerated physical features. These images were offered in the society they originated from so that hierarchies could be defined.

Why is this so different from the way women have been portrayed? Is it fair that the majority of images you see of women are comprised of a beautiful housewife, complete with perfect posture and a gorgeous home? Women are almost always visually portrayed as homemakers or sex objects. In America, the image of the strong, independent, working woman is still fairly new. This is besides the fact that most women in America did work. However, race and class dictated that the working woman was never portrayed in the media. It wasn’t until WWII that working women were even given the faintest focus.

Images of cultural ideals are offered to society in order to define roles. These are often gender roles. Once gender roles are defined, a sexual hierarchy is established.

When a teenage girl hears the words “make me a sandwich,” she is taught that she is to serve. Every time a woman looks at a Skye Vodka add she is taught to be a sex object. If a woman turns on the Style Network she is bombarded with images of crafty women, dazzling beauties, and cooking cuties. Each of these images is an exaggeration. They are examples of cultural ideals. Thus, they are never able to be achieved, and perfection must always be strived for. Women are taught that real women can do all of these things. While there are movements attempting to inspire women (i.e. Tyra Banks’ “So What?” Movement), the majority of images presented by the media show the perfect female. She is tall, slender, breathtakingly beautiful, an excellent cook, a proper housekeeper, and has curve in all the right places. Furthermore, she will make you a sandwich. Not because she wants to, but because it’s her duty.

So I ask you, what should be done to destroy this cultural stereotype and give women the freedom to be imperfect? Can stereotypes even be destroyed? Should women accept their position in the cultural hierarchy or should women (and men) fight to see that both sexes are portrayed a bit more fairly? Should anyone even care?

I open this Friday Debate up to all of Into the Inkpot’s readers, and look forward to all responses.

Lumbering About With Nails

I know that today is Feminist Friday; however, I don’t think I’ll be posting a political debate until later tonight. Why? Well, I am in the process of remodeling. Don’t worry, Mr. King Frog will still be here. Actually, everything will look the same. It will be different though. You’ll see. I have gifts and surprises coming.

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On another note, I am very pleased to receive two awards. Both were given to me from Rolando of R Playground. The first is the Nice Matters Award. The creator of the award claims that the honor should be given to, “…those that are just nice people, good blog friends, and those that inspire good feelings and inspiration! Those that care about others, that are there to lend support, or those that are just a positive influence in our blogging world!”

The second award is the Thoughtful Blogger Award. The creator of this award says it is for, “…those who answer blog comments, emails, and make their visitors feel at home on their blogs. For the people who take others feelings into consideration before speaking out and who are kind and courteous. Also for all of those bloggers who spend so much of their time helping others bloggers design, improve, and fix their sites.”

Thank you, Rolando. I appreciate my awards. They have made me feel closer to the blogging community. You are a great friend, and I hope that you and I remain blogging buddies for a long time.

I understand that I am supposed to pass both of these awards on. As soon as I have made my decision, I will do so accordingly.

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New blog post later today. Feminist Friday is here!

You All Run Faster Than Me!

It seems that I have been caught next to the maple tree. I’m heaving for air. I’m now “It.” I’m tagged! Oh dear!

Rolando has snuck away from his home over at R Playground, crept into my neighborhood, and tagged me! Now, I obey the rules of the game. I wouldn’t want to be one of those “spoilsports.” I don’t think I could stand the taunting from the other bloggers.

The following are my Seven P’s:

My Passion: Forged in steel and set in frigid ink, my passion is definitely writing. Writing, a metaphorical lifeline, has been a part of my life since childhood. Compounded with an ardor for literature, I have come to realize that my life would not be complete unless a quill is always poised within my narrow fingers.

My Purpose: I believe that everyone in life serves a purpose. Their function may be accidental, but still, a purpose is always served. Personally, I hope that my purpose is to become an English Literature professor. I have been diligently working towards my goal for years now. I wish to become the sort of professor that communicates with their students in a way that inspires interest and excitement. Many Americans struggle with both reading and writing; thus, their self-esteem suffers. Even if I only make one student feel more confident in their abilities, I have fulfilled my purpose.

My Pursuit: My pursuit is much like my purpose. However, I am also an advocate for women’s rights and for the rights of individuals suffering from mental illness. Both groups need louder voices.

My Position: I am a writer, daughter, girlfriend, friend, and student. Each position I carry out with pride and dedication.

My Pummeling: Procrastination. For example, I began writing this post several hours ago. Instead of finishing immediately, I relaxed, ate dinner, read my favorite blogs, and took a nap. I always finish my tasks. I think sometimes I just like working under pressure and with a deadline. (This post had no deadline.)

My Progress: Is extremely slow. I don’t have a lot of money. Therefore, I financially progress at the rate of a snail. In school, I am very dedicated and do well in all of my classes. However, I am going to keep attending school until I earn my Ph.D. I hope to have it by the time I’m thirty. I won’t beat myself up if I don’t (or so I tell myself).

My Personality: I dislike questions like this one. I always feel like trying to explain my personality is like trying to spear a fish that is swimming in a river during broad daylight. Since the sun is always glistening off the water, I am never sure if I’ll actually spear the fish or just the illusion of its form.

While a few of you were reading this, I snuck up and tapped your shoulder. I announce that the following people have been tagged:

Brown, Suzie, Joanne, Amit, and Christina.

You’re all “It!” Now, it’s your turn to tell us your Seven P’s and what they mean to you.

No tag backs! Ha!

[sticks tongue out]

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I welcome Stephen Newton! Check out his blog here.

The Showdown

There swam the croc, his head bobbing like a granny smith apple in a barrel of cold water. His teeth, bed-linen-white and gleaming in the sun, curled round his lower lip. The eyes were glazed. I remembered the documentary my dad and I had watched about the most dangerous killers in the wild. The one that said you shouldn’t get too close. The one that said those eyes, the eyes that stared at me, had special lids. Lids that made it so that croc could get me. Made it so I couldn’t just splash water in his face and run like hell.

But, that was my only plan. I had never fought a wild animal. Not a croc at least. Once, when I was young, my family and I went camping near Mammoth Cave. That night, there were bats flying everywhere. I thought they were after me. I still feel guilty for smashing that bat’s head wide open. I crushed him with the broad side of an iron skillet. He flew through the air when I hit him. Landed dead-smack in the center of a giant tree trunk.

I didn’t have an iron skillet now. I didn’t have anything except a Clark bar, dental floss, and a camera. And, I was no MacGyver. There was no way I could jury-rig up some cannon using the stuff in my pockets. Movies do that. The croc wasn’t in any movie.

He inched a little closer. My heart beat a little faster. All I could see were those scales. All those dark, slick scales that made the croc look like he wasn’t even real. He looked plastic. Until that moment, I didn’t know that plastic could make you feel your guts clinch.

I didn’t know if I should stay still or run. That was the one damn thing I couldn’t remember from that documentary. For a second, I thought that maybe the croc was like the dinosaurs on Jurassic Park. Maybe, I should just act like a tree. But, I wouldn’t have been a very still tree. I was so scared my leaves would have shaken like a maraca.

What happened next, was all grainy like a TV that gets bad reception. I remember there were three loud bangs, and I remember hearing a panicked sob. Then, everything was dark.

It didn’t hit me until later, but that sob was from me. When I woke up I was laying on an old, primrose-printed couch. Some music, I think Frank Sinatra, but I’m not sure, was playing low on a dusty record player. Off to the side, I could see a couple kitchen chairs. That’s where I first saw her. She was short and built like a coal miner. In front of her, rested an assortment of knives.

She looked up, and I saw her eyes were a piercing blue. Smiling, she asked, “Ever had croc for supper?”

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Welcome Zunnur, NeoAuteur, and JR's Thumbprints! I hope to know you all better!

UPDATE: Because I have been asked twice now, I never really killed a bat at Mommoth Cave. The whole story is fiction.

The Giants

Y’all’d never believe it. I’m almost positively sure you won’t. But, when I looked out’a my window today there were giants.

Now, please don’t judge. Hear me out. Ya see, I didn’t believe it at first either. Ya know that sticky, white gunk that creeps into yer eyes while ya sleep? The stuff that gets all crusty after a while? Right, well, I thought that my vision was just being clogged up by that pasty junk.

I was wrong!

There was hundreds of ‘em. Some were furry. Others were just plain weird. Alien-lookin’ really. They followed each other. It was like a sorta’ parade. Didn’t know much what to make of ‘em. I guess it is like those bees over at Uncle Gurt’s. Ya know the ones? They’re always a buzzin’ round. Can’t go too close. Ya might lose an eye to their stingers. Kora told me. Told me bout those stingers, that is. She said it, so it must be right.


And, I didn’t much care to get too close to these big fellas. One of ‘em, a big dumb-lookin' one, sorta’ fumbled round in the bushes. Knocked over my trash can, he did. If he wasn’t so big, I’da gone right up and knocked ‘em one on the head. It ain’t that I’m scared. I’ll tell ya it ain’t that. I’d fight a lion any ‘ol day. Ya just take me to his cage. Naw, this was different. I ain’t stupid. I ain’t fightin’ no aliens.

You’d best be watchin’ out yer windows. I’da think they’d be going towards y’all’s places soon. I don’t think ya should shoot ‘em. Ain’t never seen anything so big. They’d be liable to rip yer roof plum off.


King Kong and Godzilla. I bet ‘cha that is what’s going on. They came to rule the whole dang Earth, and they dun brought their army.

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I thought I would switch up my writing style for one evening. I hope that you all found the entry enjoyable. In the next post, I will be returning to my previous techniques.

Welcome: Rudi, Joanne, Jamie, and Nihal! It is an honor to meet each of you.

Bowling Shoes and Thank You

Saturday night, my best friend and I went out. Not knowing what we would do, we opted to wear dresses.

After an hour-long dinner at Romano’s Macaroni Grill, Cindy began asking what on Earth we were going to do for the rest of the night.

“Let’s go bowling,” I said with a smirk.

“Bowling? Erina, we’re in dresses!” She was obviously in disbelief. I felt like I had just asked her to help me fling kittens off a bridge.

“Well, it is either that—or, I teach you how to shoot pool.”

She stared at me for a second. Her eyes, wide with shock, resembled two hubcaps.

“Umm…”

“Of course, that would mean I’d have to take you to some dive bar,” I laughed.

“Okay, then no,” she said bluntly.

“Bowling it is.”

At the bowling ally, we had no wardrobe difficulties while playing two games. She beat me both times (billiards is my game), and I quickly learned that gutter-rails are meant for fools like me.

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On another note, I gave Into the Inkpot a makeover! Do you like it? I photographed the image of the frog a few weeks ago.

I am also utilizing Snap Shots now. I think it will be useful. I like to include links to websites that contain information that is complimentary to my posts. To see a snap shot, simply hover your mouse-pointer over any link.

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I would like to welcome the following visitors: Ricky, Magari, Brown, Suzie, Speedcat Hollydale, Rolando, Happily Anonymous, and Amit Schandillia.

Thank you all for your comments! I appreciate all of your words, and I look forward to knowing you all better.

The Happy Housewife Meets Academia

Feminism, a movement and theory centered on the idea that women should have equal rights to men, has long been a staple in American (and international) politics and culture. There is such a vast array of feminists that it is often difficult to settle on one uniform definition. Therefore, Feminism, like many other social and political ideologies, is comprised of numerous different viewpoints and translations.

The Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, located in Texas, recently introduced a new area of concentration into their curriculum. The new addition is homemaking. Students are able to participate in classes such as “Orientation to Homemaking” and “The Value of a Child.”

Interested students must match one specific criterion; they must be female. Men need not apply. Their applications will only meet with rejection.

There is a large controversy surrounding the idea that the program teaches women that advanced homemaking skills are vital to success and happiness in life. Thus, advocates of this belief agree that women would be less inclined to enroll in studies that would earn a substantial income. Therefore, women remain transfixed on traditional gender roles, failing to advance the political and economic position of women in society.

Other individuals view the new addition to Academia as important to feminism. They base their argument on the idea that feminism seeks to give women the option to choose their own path in life. Homemaking is viewed as an active choice on the part of the female student. Therefore, if a woman chooses to enroll in this particular curriculum, she is actively selecting a future for herself.

I see no problem with a woman wishing to become a housewife. The women that do take on this job are often not met with enough respect. Managing a household, children, and a husband is a difficult task. It is no wonder that so many women suffer from forms of depression and anxiety. If you choose to be a housewife, you are deciding to heave a large amount of responsibility for many years.

If a woman wishes to take courses in homemaking, I support the decision. After all, I, as a feminist, personally believe that a woman should be able to make any decision that leads to her personal fulfillment, unless, of course, that choice is immensely harmful to someone other than herself.

The problem I have with this new line of coursework is that men are not able to participate. Due to this fact, I am worried that the coursework presented by Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary actually is harmful in that it further instills the vitality of traditional gender roles in American culture.

Furthermore, I am worried that this area of study will not allow a woman the ability to acquire a job—with enough income to support her family—should her husband decide to declare divorce. If a woman with this concentration of study does decide to enter the workplace, I am wary to believe that employers will offer her a suitable salary. In addition, many employers may not take the degree seriously, and in return, will not take the woman seriously.

Overall, I would agree that the course does seem like a step backwards, only because it does not allow men the option to enroll. There are plenty of men that would enjoy the curriculum due to their personal desire to become a homemaker. These men are unjustly treated when they are denied access to education simply because they were born male.

I am skeptical that this area of concentration will also be incorporated into state college curriculum. However, I may be incorrect. With more and more women expressing their desire to be skilled in raising a family, capitalism may dictate that this area of concentration become mainstream. I only hope that women choose the courses because they will find happiness and satisfaction. Not because they are trying to desperately live up to the traditional cultural ideal of femine perfection.

NOTE: I open this topic up for debate. If you are my friend, please do not worry about offending my views. I will still respect and appreciate you.

Manual Not Included

Monday, as I was driving down the express way, I was cut off by a lime-green Volkswagen Beetle. Being cut off on the expressway, or anywhere for that matter, is not a strange occurrence. It is my belief that when drivers purchase a new car they neglect to figure out how to operate their turn signal. I say “neglect” because I can not comprehend why a person wouldn’t realize a turn signal is a necessity while driving. However, perhaps I am only inclined to believe such radical ideas because I was actually required to demonstrate my abilities to operate the turn signal during my driving test. Perhaps turn signals are simply out of fashion. After all, I, as a responsible citizen in a capitalist nation, must move with the times. If turn signals are not chic, I will be forced to rip the turn signal lever from my car in the name of fashion.

Obviously, the driver of the lime-green Bug was, in fact, chic.

I hit my brakes as the driver merged into my lane. Naturally, there was the initial moment of panic. I’ve often wondered if after years and years of driving you simply become blasé about maniac drivers. You begin to take it all with a grain of salt, punching down the brake pedal as you sip a Dairy Queen, peanut butter milkshake. It is a shame that I couldn’t have taken that approach in this case. It would have stopped me from gasping while my eyes bugged out to the size of comets.

After my shock had worn into a dull nervousness, I decided to merge into the right expressway lane (I used a turn signal). Much to my surprise, the driver of the Beetle decided to do the same. Furthermore, the driver failed to use a turn signal—again. Nervousness was quickly building into contempt.

I’m not one for road rage. It seems like a hazardous vent. I’d much rather spill angst into poetic devices and poisoned prose (much like right now). I was quite proud of the personal restraint I demonstrated as I was driving behind the lime-green Beetle driver. Why? Because, if I had been one to throw a high-RPM temper tantrum, I surly would have tracked down said Beetle driver after noticing that he was carelessly jabbering into the mouthpiece of his cell phone.

I doubt I need to explain the logistics of why talking on your cell phone, on the expressway, in rush-hour traffic is not a wise decision.

I decided to pass Mr. Lime-Green Beetle Driver. The icing to this story is that as I was gliding past, I looked over to see a tiny Chihuahua dog sitting on the Beetle driver’s lap. Appropriately, the dog was barking towards me and my car. I suppose dogs really do have a sixth sense. It seems that even they know that not using a turn signal is a dumb idea.

The First Day

Please accept my apologies for not publishing an entry yesterday. College has taken precedence over everything in my life. Being a full-time student is often stressful. This is especially evident in the first few weeks of a student’s classes. I could tell many stories, both personal and from other students, about the woes of finding classrooms, obtaining books, and finding cash to pay for the seemingly never-ending list of college necessities.

Cash is valuable to most college students. Here we are, straddling the line between youth and adulthood. In front of us is the promise of a better life, complete with a dream job and home to match. Or so that is the dream. When reality rears its twisted horns into our lives, we may not be so sure of that promise.

But, I like to dream big.

In dreaming big, I would love to assume that no college campus will ever have a parking problem. I’d like to think that a school, brimming with great minds and creative ideas, could produce a plan in which every student that has purchased a parking permit could actually park in a parking place. However, this is not always the reality of life.

I can’t blame any of these three drivers. Parking at the college I attend is dreadful. Too bad the Corvette owner had to park in the grass. It rained today. My assessment is that mud and a white sports car probably don’t mix well.

Tomorrow is another day. Hopefully, a sunny, vibrant day. A day where every student has a parking spot and no textbooks are on backorder.

Yeah, that is what I dream. I dream big.

The Last Day

Sunday was my final day of summer vacation. College has returned, bringing with it strange schedules, infuriating parking predicaments, and over-priced textbooks. Please, don’t misunderstand. I absolutely adore college. Being inside a classroom, abuzz with creativity and knowledge, makes me excited. Even though I may complain about small hassles, I assure you that come class time I will be brimming with glee.



To celebrate, Rob and I went on a few adventures. There are several parks in the state where I live. Each seems to be vibrant and equally beautiful. I suppose I was lucky to be born in such a lush environment. This realization aside, you know how most people feel about the geographical location in which they dwell. They usually dislike it, longing for another person’s lawn. I am no exception to this trend. While I realize that I live in beautiful surroundings, I can’t help but wonder what life in states like Arizona and Hawaii must be like. I can’t even imagine how captivating it would be to watch a desert sunset or wake up to the sounds of the ocean.



While an ocean would be enthralling, I suppose vibrant fields of daisies and rolling hills will need to keep me satisfied. And, they do. For now.



While we were visiting the different parks, Rob and I went in search of any wildlife that might be walking about. We did manage to capture several images. My favorite, by far, is the image of the bee on the purple flowers. It was exciting to take the photo because the bee sat so perfectly still.



I fumble with my camera quite frequently. I am definitely not a photographer. I do, however, greatly admire photography. Images always tell me stories. Reaching into a moment of time and freezing everything has great appeal. It is a permanent, visual scene from a story. It’s a chapter to one long novel.



My camera is a dinosaur. I’ve had it for five years now. The pictures don’t seem to come out as clear anymore. It doesn’t matter though. I still have memories that radiate all colors in absolute glory.



While summer has been excellent, I think I’m ready to go back to school. I miss desks, projector screens, and computers. I miss books. I miss open discussions. I miss it all.

At least I know that just like summer vacations, there are still school years waiting.

Lost with the beast…

Amid a tangle of vines and spider webs, I sat. Peering from behind a young tree, I could make out its faint form. The flesh was smooth, much like the bark of the tree that sheltered me from the late-evening sun. Ivory rays beamed down from the heavens, illuminating the massive shell. The feet, broad and rugged, fell heavy upon the dirt like those of a great mastodon crossing a vast plain.

I crept closer, slinking my back against the rock wall. The earth was dry and crisp. A sharp pang of pain shot through my hand. Raising it to my eyes, I could see a splinter of wood embedded within my dirty palm. I’d have to remove it later.

The beast, unaware of my creeping, admired the lush grass that fanned out around its body. Like waves in the sea, each blade bowed. A dance—a waltz—brimming with life. The beast appeared to know the sea swayed for its pleasure.

I valued the sea of grass. I appreciated its hypnotic ballet. I respected the power it held over the beast. The power to hold its gaze. The power to let me lay claim.

Holding my camera, I felt the breeze gently push a few strands of my hair. My hair swayed, much like the sea of grass, and as I pressed down the shutter release button, I could almost swear that I too was a part of the sea.

Now, the beast still grazes upon the waves of that sea. I, now drowning, remember the beast.

Thanks to Christina for visiting Into the Inkpot! Anyone that is interested can find her blog here.

Salmon Patties

Dinner tonight was tasty. I created a salmon patty recipe. It turned out rather well. The patties were very moist. Delicious.

I have been posting quite a bit of food-related entries. I promise I’ll write about other topics soon. Until then…

Enjoy!

Ingredients:

1 can (14.75 oz) canned salmon
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 tablespoons parsley flakes
pinch of black pepper
2 large eggs, well beaten
¾ cup plain, dry bread crumbs
2 tablespoons cornmeal
3 tablespoons butter

Open canned salmon and drain thoroughly. Place in large mixing bowl. Flake the salmon by using a fork. Mash any bones you may find (they are edible).



Add parsley, onion, eggs, ½ cup bread crumbs, and 1 tablespoon cornmeal to the flaked salmon. Stir well. Form mixture into patties. On a separate plate, roll patties in a mixture of ¼ cup bread crumbs and 1 tablespoon cornmeal.



In a large skillet over medium heat, melt 2 tablespoons of butter. Add patties to the skillet. Fry patties until brown on one side. Flip the patties; then, add the last tablespoon of butter to the skillet. Patties should be fried until brown.

Makes 7 salmon patties.

By the way, thanks to Heather Harper for stopping by. Anyone that is interested can check out her blog here.

Bread Pudding and Sugared Chaos

I made my first bread pudding. A fat, plump loaf that smelled delicious and looked even better. To say the least, I was excited. Especially since I made a vanilla sauce to go with it.

Here is a slice:

Sadly, I did not like the finished product. It isn’t that I botched the recipe somewhere along the way. The dish turned out exactly how it should have. However, it was far too sweet for me to take more than three bites. It was as though a vanilla-cream volcano had erupted inside my mouth. The villagers couldn’t see through all the sugar-ash. Chaos everywhere. Millions died.

Rob loved the bread pudding. He loved the sugared carnage. He is now an enemy to the villagers that died in my mouth. The poor villagers that ran from the molten, vanilla lava.

He’s heartless.

Cranberry Orange Scones

Ever since I attended the fashion school at Kent State University, scones have been one of my favorite treats. I was never one for excessively sweet desserts. Actually, I’m not much for desserts in general. There is just something about a doughnut or a chunk of banana cream cheesecake that makes my stomach feel like its about to do the limbo on a set of rollerskates. Desserts just aren’t my thing.

However, baking is my thing. I love to bake. There is something theraputic about it. I can be in the worst mood, but if I bake, I can rocket into a honey-glazed daze of happiness. I enjoy mixing the ingredients, and I love garnishing my creations. Baking is a creative vent. A creative vent with an exciting twist.

It makes others happy too.

That is why I’m sharing my original scone recipe with all of you. The final product always puts a smile on my face. I want the same for Into the Inkpot readers.

By the way, when you see the letters “CGS” it means there is a tip or trick that I will reveal. You’ll find the details after the recipe. Have fun!

Ingredients:

3 cups all-purpose flour
2 ½ tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
½ cup unsalted butter (or margarine), cut into chunks
1 ½ cups dried cranberries
orange zest
juice from half an orange
¾ cup buttermilk
1 egg white, lightly beaten
sugar, for glaze

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. In a large bowl, combine flour, 2 ½ tablespoons sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and nutmeg.

Cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse meal. Mix in dried cranberries. Next, grate fresh orange zest into the mixture. Make sure you only grate the orange-colored peel of the orange. Cut the same orange in half, and squeeze the juice out of one of the halves, directly into the mix (be careful not to get seeds in the mix). Mix in buttermilk with fork (CGS#1).

Gather the dough into a ball; knead it on a lightly floured surface for about three minutes (CGS#2). Pat or roll the dough out until it is ¾ of an inch thick. With a sharp knife, cut the dough into 4-inch triangles.

Space apart on a greased baking sheet (CGS#3). Brush the tops of the scones with egg white (CGS#4). Then, sprinkle each with sugar. Bake for 20 minutes or until nicely browned.

My recommendation is to serve the scones warm, with butter and orange slices (CGS#5).

Recipe makes 4-6 scones.

College Girl Secrets:

The following are some tricks I have discovered while baking during my college years. You are welcome to try them out. A few save me time, and others save me money.

College Girl Secret #1:

Don’t splurge on a half-gallon of buttermilk if no one in your home drinks it. Milk products are often sold in single-serving sizes. Save a buck. Buy it tiny.

College Girl Secret #2:

In a hurry? Small cooking space? Want to clean up fast?

If you are working with dough, you will usually need a lightly floured surface. This can be messy. However, there is a trick to help you save time.

Using clear tape, secure wax paper over your work surface. Dust the wax paper with flour. Then, when you need to clean up, the wax paper will easily roll up if you loosen the clear tape on one side. You will be able to easily transport the mess directly to your garbage can.

College Girl Secret #3:

In the spirit of quick cleanup, cover your baking sheet with aluminum foil. After your food has been baked, you can easily remove the aluminum foil and toss it in the garbage can. Your baking sheet is ready to place back in the cabinet. WARNING: Does cause waste and costs money. Aluminum foil is not free. Use this technique sparingly.

College Girl Secret #4:

Need to separate the egg white from the yoke, but you don’t have the right tools? There is no need to take an emergency trip to the store. Instead, you can use a spoon. Crack an egg open and empty its contents into a small bowl. Next, use a large spoon to scoop up the yoke. The egg white will slowly slide off of the yoke and fall into the small bowl. Tada!

College Girl Secret #5:

Do you like the pretty, gourmet garnishes that are achieved by using a sifter? Do you have a sifter? If not, you can use a tea diffuser. Simply fill your tea diffuser with the powdered garnish of your choice (I used cinnamon for the scones), and then lightly shake it above the dish you are using. Now your dish is fabulous!

The Skies Were Ablaze

Actually, I didn’t stay out long enough to see the meteor shower in full glory. Rob and I drove an hour south of the apartment where we live; the city lights were far too bright to see any stars.

What we did see, however, was marvelous. Rob saw four meteors. I saw seven. There was even one meteor that flashed through the sky, leaving a chalk-like tail of fire for a significant amount of time (significant for a meteor anyway).

I tried taking several photographs. Ultimately, only one was significant. I have a photo of Mars. It appears as a red dot next to several stars. Rob and I were quite pleased to have something to help us remember our night.

Writing in the Midnight Hour

Poised, staring out into the silent darkness, the predator lurks. The fanged teeth. The crinkled brow that tents a hollow socket of the emaciated face. The crude slit of a mouth. All are the characteristics of that fiendish consort that creeps throughout chill, cerebral caverns, always searching for its prey.

It knows its victim too well. The sanctuaries that its prey regards as impenetrable, the predator has already probed. The defenses that its prey has employed, this predator knows how to thwart. It knows.

A toying menace, the predator will find its prey again and again. The head bowed in grief, the prey will know it has been trounced. A sharp sting to the abdomen will usher in a gasp of relief. Not because death was swift, but because death has not yet been welcomed.

The prey will heal. The meat will stay fresh. The predator will continue to feed.

Meet Meep…

Meep, like many of his friends and acquaintances, is one of the Aghleutlim. You’re probably probing your head, wondering what on Earth an Aghleutlim is. If you are puzzled, just as I was not too long ago, you will be able to relax in the knowledge that Meep is quite capable of introducing himself. You see, after an intense photo shoot (check out those wings!), Meep was kind enough to sit down and speak with me about his life.

BEGIN INTERVIEW

Hart: Hello, Meep. Thank you for making time for this interview.

Meep: Meep!

Hart: (laughing) Yes, well tell me about your life. What is it like living with the other Aghleutlim?

Meep: Meep!

Hart: (puzzled) That’s right, you are Meep. But please, what is it like?

Meep: Meep!

Hart: Yes?

Meep: Meep! Meep!

Hart: (sighing) Oh my. You can’t speak English, can you?

Meep: Meep. Meep! MEEP!

END INTERVIEW

Well, I suppose Meep can’t actually explain his life to all of us. However, I did say he could introduce himself, didn’t I?

Actually, Meep is the latest gift that my boyfriend, Robert S. Morner, has given me. Rob is an artist and fellow writer. His creations, The Aghleutlim, are sculptures based on his original designs and concepts. Each sculpture is of a unique and colorful monster. Meep is his latest creation.

If you are interested in his work, Rob will soon have an online gallery. Currently, none of his unique sculptures are for sale.

I will definitely be posting updates.

Of man and nature…

Today, or rather yesterday if exactness is enforced, my mother and I spent the day exploring Cincinnati, Ohio. This journey was not planned, but instead, was completely spontaneous. When the sun rose to usher in Thursday morning, we did not even have a minuscule notion of what we would like to do. Therefore, we did something that we have always admired; we chose to learn.

We visited the Cincinnati Art Museum. The art museum seems bizarre once you have crossed over its threshold. Those of you that have encountered this building will probably remember how bamboozling it truly is. You may remember how the galleries all seem to form a mighty labyrinth. A labyrinth, mind you, that is captivating.

The museum and its baffling labyrinth inspire me to glance around corners, looking for a minotaur. I assume that he would probably be planted firmly upon a bench that rests in the surrealist gallery. He may have a newspaper. That would only seem likely considering the fact that the minotaur has probably memorized all of the paintings, sculptures, and other works by heart.

After the museum, my mother and I stopped by the Krohn Conservatory. This was perhaps not the wisest of decisions considering the general tri-state area has been under a heat advisory warning for days. However, beauty and life are two things that are valuable enough to the point where pain and suffering can be endured.

While it was excruciatingly hot—a vibrant, pulsing furnace—inside the conservatory, the plants were brilliant. I even saw a clutch of bananas hanging from one of the banana plants. Today was the first day that I have ever seen bananas hanging as they do in the wild. For a moment, I contemplated how glorious it would be to scale that plant, pluck that fruit, fire up a grill, and toast myself (and my mother) a fried banana dessert.

A few shops later, my mother was delivering me back to my boyfriend’s apartment. I wish that more individuals in my mother’s life would respect how intelligent, curious, and inspiring she truly is. Today she showed me, once again, that she is an interesting and caring person. One day, when she is no longer with me, I hope that I can still venture into the many inspiring places that she has taken me, content with the knowledge that she is still there pointing out the Sweet Orange tree and marveling at Benjamin West’s Ophelia and Laertes.

Standing on the edge…

My body is aching as though my spinal cord has split itself away from my brain stem and plowed its way through my stomach. Today, I finally prepared the one thing that has been pecking at my neck, eagerly pleading for me to turn and glance in its direction.

The publishing packets.

I mail the packets tomorrow. All four will (hopefully) take a trip along the Pony Express.

Hopefully.

In the beginning…

There was only a gray area. A mass, marked off by four right angles, left to wander a vast world known as the internet. While it did long for adventure, this muted, plain, unadorned box feared the dark, digital alleys and disheveled databases that might lurk just beyond its tiny home.

So it sat.

It sat and waited for a sure sign that there were no electrical errors or tubed terrors waiting to feed. For several seconds it waited (eons in small-gray-box-time). It noticed no abnormalities in its surroundings. The humble, gray scroll-bar still stood to the gray mass’ left. A large blue box hung high above the mass’ head. There were no strange, pixilated towers plowing through the mass’ black webpage background. No tiny arrows fluttering about like the ones in old pixels’ tales. No, there was noth…

Wait! There was something strange!

The mass squinted its blobby eyes and peered closer. There, just beyond the scroll-bar, came a parade of squiggles. Dozens of squiggles. All dancing.

“This can’t be,” the gray mass exclaimed. “What bizarre dancers! What a foreign spectacle!”

From out of the darkness, the squiggles danced. Leaping and bounding. There were squiggles everywhere. They frolicked and cheered. They jumped and sprang off one another as though they were made of taffy.

The gray mass was thrilled. It wished to join in the festivities. It too longed to bounce and spring as though it were nothing more than a renegade pogo stick.

The gray mass laughed deep from its belly (assuming it has a belly). It could not remember feeling so much glee. Here were marvelous creatures from beyond the darkness. The darkness that it had judged to be too horrifying. It was too afraid. Now, looking out upon the sea of squiggles, it only felt silly for not taking its adventure.

Clearing its throat, the gray mass spoke. “Tell me, tiny visitors, what are all of you?”

The dancing stopped. Seconds—eons—passed without a word. The squiggles were frozen as though an invisible blizzard had ripped through their festivities. All was silent.

Until, it leaped forth. A tiny one. It was no bigger than four pixels. It sprang upon the tops of its fellow kind; only stopping inches away from the gray mass.

“We’re letters, silly.”

“Letters?” the gray mass replied. “What are letters?’

The letter laughed, “What are letters? That is a funny question!” It glanced to the other letters before continuing, “What could you possibly be?”

“I’m a mass.”

“A mass? That is a boring thing to be!”

“Then what should I be?”

The letter thought. For sixteen seconds, it thought.

“Perhaps, we could name you,” it finally said.

The mass was skeptical. “You? Name me?”

“Of course,” the letter cheered, “we will name you the first four letters that leap upon your belly.”

The gray mass contemplated this idea. It knew that having a new name would be exciting. After all, the programmer had never offered it a true name.

“That sounds fine,” the gray mass agreed.

Before it could blink, the mass saw the sea of letters begin to rumble. Hundreds of letters began to jump upon the tops of one antoher’s heads; pushing forth so that they could be the first four to land atop the gray mass’s abdomen.

“That tickles,” the gray mass exclaimed. It could feel the letters canvas its body like a tent.

“Tada!”

The gray mass looked down. There, resting casually upon the gray mass’ tummy, sat four tiny letters.

The gray mass smiled. “Blog,” it said, “Call me Blog.”

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