Sour Cream Corn Bread

My dear friend, Dr. Steven Lance, commented on Facebook this morning that his daughter had requested corn cakes for breakfast. Reading his status conjured images of butter sizzling in my great aunt’s cast iron skillet, its foam filling my kitchen with that heavenly, distinctly Southern aroma. My mind wandered to collard greens and black eyed peas in a rolling boil atop my stove. What started as a nostalgic whirlwind of memories dancing one by one across my mind caught fire and then engulfed my entire being in an overwhelming craving. I had to have cornbread and bless the poor soul of anyone who might get in my way!

You would think there wouldn’t be any problem right? What’s the big deal? I have plenty of cornbread mix, eggs, oil and time but alas, my world came crashing down all around me. “What’s the problem?” you might ask. Well let me clue you in. I have recently developed a wheat allergy and guess what is in every cornbread mix in my house? That’s right. Wheat is the new bane of my existence. My face swells up and then breaks out in splotchy, painful hives. Nice image right? Logically I can tell myself “Jessie, you don’t need it. Cornbread isn’t the be all and end all.” Right about then I give my logical self a mental slap to the back of my logical head and added the double bird salute. I would have cornbread even if I had to make up a new recipe. Luckily we live in a world of internet searches and I was able to find an old time recipe that didn’t appear to have the ability to kill me so I gave it a whirl.

SOUR CREAM CORN BREAD
2 c. corn meal
2 T. sugar
1 t. salt
1 t. baking soda
2 t. baking powder
2 eggs
2 c. sour cream
Bake 400° for 20-25 minutes.

I started by measuring out my dry ingredients.

Next came the wet ingredients that were blended until they were evenly incorporated.

Even though this particular recipe is for baked cornbread I wanted corn cakes. I melted butter in my old cast iron skillet and fried a few up. I served them with black eyed peas and this allergy prone southern girl's beast of yearning was satisfied!

How can you write about your life and then post it for all to see? That’s just weird!

For starters, I’ve never been one to shy away from words like ‘weird’ or ‘strange’. I embrace them like an old friend and wrap them around my shoulders like a warm blanket. Give me the definition for what ‘normal’ is and I can show you a woman who will run as fast as her chubby legs will take her in the other direction.

To address the ‘how’ of this question I’ll start with explaining a big difference between myself and others. I’m not one to go on about how I’m feeling all the time. Sure, I will tell you how I feel about given topics. I won’t sugar coat my opinions to lessen the impact on yours. I don’t believe in riding the fence. I’m usually all or nothing about pretty much everything in life though I try to see the many facets of the situation before making my opinion. I try to keep feelings about things that are personal to myself or between me and whoever else might be affected.

This habit has been developed over time as a sort of defense mechanism. I have a tendency to get too emotional to verbalize how I feel. When I get very angry or very sad or even happy, I cry. That’s right, I’m a crier. If there was one thing I could change about me it would be my total inability to hold back the hot downpour of tears and snot that seem to erupt any time I am forced to deal with some emotional upheaval. People tell me to just “stop it”. Well, thank you very much asshole! It’s easy for you to say. I can’t just stop it when I feel that hard lump creep up into my throat, feeling like I’m going to choke on the emotions threatening to pour from the apparent limitless ducts in my eyes. Seriously, I think I got a few extra when I was being formed in the womb.

I don’t have major melt downs very often and I attribute this to my writing. Where many people I know talk incessantly about how they feel about this or how they feel about that, I write. I purge myself of negative thoughts and feelings by pouring them onto the page. It’s how I solve problems, how I deal with unrest, how I cope when my world feels ready to crumble around me.

My written words never fail me. Even through my roughest hours, sobs raking my core, words will spill from my pen or ricochet from the walls as I type at a maddening pace. When I feel the weight of all life’s burdens threatening to topple me to the ground and then trample my soul, I can transfer that load to paper and immediately I feel lighter. If I fail to do this, the negativity is nothing but poison to me. It becomes all encompassing and will eat me alive until I am an angry shell. Writing is what saves me from all those things in life that drag me down. Sharing that writing is what keeps other people aware that I am listening, I am feeling. This is my process, my way. This is me.

Fiber One Cereal Bars Should Come With A Warning Label

I decided the other day that since it’s the beginning of a new year, it should be the beginning of a new me. In the last eighteen months, I’ve concentrated too much on school work and not enough on me, in effect turning any muscle tone I may have had into pudding. (Oh, and I’ve also eaten pudding. Lots and lots of pudding.) In making the decision to pursue a healthier lifestyle, I chose to forgo my morning trip to McDonald’s and instead head to Wal-mart to purchase some quick and healthy snacks for breakfast.

Upon arrival, I was inundated with heavenly aromas wafting from the bakery along with delicious smells of fried chicken promises. My will power never faltered. Once I’ve made the decision to change, nothing can get in my way. I ignored the beautifully glistening donuts beckoning from behind their glass door prison. I stuck my nose up at the Little Debbie snack food aisle as if I had never known the passion shared between me and a Swiss Cake Roll. I kept trudging along until I made it to the breakfast aisle.

Box after box of brightly wrapped and packaged cereal standing like straight back soldiers, staring at me, judging me, watching me make my new healthy decision. I turned my back on them to focus my attention on the cereal bars. Some promised antioxidants while others claimed to give you superhuman strength. There were chocolate, caramel, strawberry, blueberry and cinnamon choices for as far as the eye could see and I wanted to pick the very best for me.

My eyes came to rest on a simple tan box with a picture of caramel wrapped awesomeness shimmering up at me. Fiber One caramel breakfast bars looked amazing and after a quick scan of the ingredients, I was on my way. I made my purchase and walked to my car with my head held high, feeling proud that I had taken the first step towards a new and healthy lifestyle.

I got in my car and started making my way to school, unwrapping a tasty bar and reveling in the fact that it actually tasted good. It had a slight crunch accompanied with the sweet chew of caramel. I had been expecting something along the lines of sweetened cardboard and I was surprised to find the experience was quite the opposite. I finished off my little breakfast with a bottle of Diet Coke. (I know, I know but one thing at a time here people!) I was feeling proud of myself as I walked into the Writing Center ready to face a new day.

My tutoring sessions flew by as did my first class of the day without incident. I was sitting in my second and, thankfully, last class when a slow heat started engulfing my body, seeming to spread from the epicenter located in my abdomen. A low rumble of boiling trouble cried out into the semi-silent classroom. I was sure everyone around me would look up and notice my distress but the deafening sound seemed to be amplified to my ears alone. I’ve never been a religious person but, at that moment, I silently began reacquainting myself with Gods present and past.

A dangerous pressure was building in the pit of my stomach causing a sweat to break out on my forehead. Had the temperature in the room just risen by ten degrees or was it just me? Stealing a glance at a classmate who was still blissfully, comfortably, easily taking notes, I knew that my own digestive distress was the culprit.

Finally, class came to a close and as soon as I felt it was safe to stand up, the pain dissipated. The cold sweat that had so forcefully gripped my soul was gone as soon as I shifted myself into a standing position. The queasy feeling hadn’t left completely however. It was if the pain in my stomach had left me a “Be Back Soon” note lining my intestines. I wasn’t willing to take chances with this sort of pain so I headed home taking time to tell my Writing Center director that I would be missing our weekly meeting.

I didn’t have any other issues as I made my way back home and even in the confines of my own house, the pressure and pain seemed to have disappeared. It was the most unlikely thing. I considered venturing out for groceries but the very real fear of a new episode in a public place seemed too risky. I hung around the house until time to pick my son up from daycare. Again, there was no incident or issue of any kind but I didn’t feel the need to push my luck.

Day passed into night and our household was at the edge of a deep slumber. Thor was snuggling warmly beside me in the bed as I surfed the night away on my laptop. Brian had called it a night and was pulling back the covers to join us when the horrifying rumble and sweat erupted from my core. I knew the time had come for me to pay for the Fiber One cereal bars.

At this, I will spare you the details of what went down in that bathroom. Some things should be left between me, the four untalking walls and the many Gods that I prayed to, begging them to make it stop. After seemingly unbearable pain and a purging of both my bowels and my soul, I emerged with a new found respect and a slight fear of the Fiber One brand. Those guys aren’t joking around. I do think their name is rather unassuming and should be changed immediately. How about:

Fiery Fiber from Hell Bars
Or
Gurgling Gastric Pain in Granola Form

Don’t get me wrong, the bars are delicious and promise a new healthier you but don’t take their unassuming appearance for granted. They have the ability to produce the pain that nightmares are built upon. They will make a heathen pray, the most pious curse the Gods, or the manliest of men run crying to their mamas. Eat them at your own risk but know that they are much like the sirens of old. They are beautiful and delicious, a seductress of the worst kind. They will lure you in with nibbles of chocolate, bites of sweet berries and the decadent chew of caramel but will send you crashing down into a cramping digestive death wondering how you were tricked into such a state.

Who am I and what is this all about?

Welcome to my first blog. Seeing as I’ve never written one before but have read several, I’m going assume that I should use the first blog to explain what it is you might find in this thing. I’ll start with telling you a little about myself.

I am a mom who, on a daily basis, cannot believe she is a mom. My son, Thor, will be four in February and it still feels unreal. I mean, shouldn’t there be some sort of class you’re required to take before you’re allowed to breed? I’m still flabbergasted with the fact that I never had to sign anything before egg and sperm met that faithful day/afternoon/evening (who can remember these things?). After nine months of womb rental, out squirted a real-live, screaming, squirming, eating and pooping human blob that the hospital trusted me to take home and raise. I’ve kept him alive this long which is in and of itself amazing, seeing as I’ve killed every plant I’ve ever touched. (Thankfully the hospital didn’t know my track record in the botany world, though I’m not sure it would have mattered.)

I am a wife who, on a daily basis, is assured that her husband is totally insane. Brian forever shocks those around with various perversions and absurdities that pour from his lips. We met while working for a home improvement warehouse. On my second day of employment, my co-worker asked me if I had been introduced to Brian yet. I had met so many people that I couldn’t remember. My co-worker let me know that if I’d met him, I would know. She warned me that he was disgusting and that I shouldn’t take anything he said seriously. I knew instantly that this was the man for me. We’ve been married for seven years now and whenever I have new friends over for dinner, I find myself warning them in much the same way that my co-worker did all those years ago.

I guess the first part of this blog covered the Life and Love aspects of the title…what’s left? OH YES! POOP! I will start by saying that I am forever in the headspace of a 13-year-old boy. I love fart jokes, talking graphically about bodily functions and giving WAY too much information about any number of topics. I’ll talk about my son’s poop, my poop, your poop, the poop I saw in the yard before I walked to my front door. (I’m convinced there is a squirrel bestowing gifty-pellets as some sort of homage to my awesomeness or there is a tiny hobo living in the man hole leaving gifty-pellets for the same reason. Either way, I’ve got tiny piles of crap in my front yard and they are fair game for discussion)

So this has been a rather lengthy description of what you’re in for as you delve into this crazy blog about Life, Love and Poop. I’m not going to make any promises to update daily, weekly or even monthly. I’ll just do the best I can with the things that happen around me. If you think about it, life, love and poop are things that happen EVERY day so I should have plenty of material to work with.

I’ve known few great men in my life. Of those few, most are in my immediate family. That being said, I’m currently losing one of the greats as I type these letters.

Grains

He’s a worn hourglass, cracked, the last of the moments caught in sand, spilling through my frantic fingers.

Maybe if I wet the sand with my tears, I can hold onto them with more ease, mold them into new lungs, a new heart, anything to keep him here.

Each tiny moment, so precious, so fleeting. I’ll collect every one that I can and store them as my own grains in the hourglass within.

I’ll hoard them like a secret stash of wealth that no one can touch.

They are mine to store, mine to cherish, mine to adore

An Open Letter to Fall Semester 2009

Dear Fall Semester 2009,

You have been the bane of my existence, the scourge upon my land, the plague upon my house. You have made me short with my husband, snap at my child and unreachable to my friends. I have been unable to do all the things in life that make me happy and calm because I have been too concerned with papers and tests and quizzes and required blog posts.

Now, I understand that you were set up as a sort of scapegoat by Spring Semester 2009 and Spring Semester 2010 in that the classes I was required to take during your time are not available during the spring. I also understand that the classes I was required to take were of a magnitude that deserved a separate semester devoted to each individual class. I understand that you have nothing to do with my choosing said classes but I did and you were the placeholder for said classes and now my vengeance shall be brought down upon you!

It will forever go down in the history of Jessie that you were the semester that she hated from the start. From the very first day we met, there was a torrential down pour setting the tone for what you would put me through. The very first day of class, I arrived soaked to the bone and angry. The class loads and difficulty levels followed me day to day, never giving me a break. I especially enjoyed when you saw fit to make EVERYTHING due at once. There is just nothing like having two papers, a test and a presentation due within two days. I appreciate how you enjoyed torturing me with assignments.

Finally, the day of reckoning came. It was the last day to be under your rule. The light was bright at the end of that tunnel. I could almost taste sweet freedom. I walked out to my garage this morning with a spring in my step ready to put the nightmare that has been you behind me. What did I find this morning when I opened my garage? RAINING AGAIN! Imagine that! It was as if you just wanted to take one more jab at me. So you ended much the way you began. My feet were cold and wet and I was mad as hell. Thank you Fall Semester 2009 for making the last three months of my life hellish and terrible.

If you were a man, I’d insult your manhood. I’d say something about the length of your days or your lack of performance but you’re not a man are you? You’re simply an entity that I’ll never have to have contact with again. I hope you see me somewhere down the road with Spring Semester 2010 and see the satisfied look on my face. I’m sure I’ll be smiling and going from class to class with the air of confidence that you tried to stifle. Know this. It’s not me, it’s you.


Jessie Davidson

A Tin Can, A Paper Towel And A Rubber Band

I thought I was fine, that I had worked through most of the sadness. I can drive past Grandma’s house without breaking into tears. I can even talk about her to classmates when they want to know some of my history. I’ve used some of her sayings as examples when people need to know the “real southern way” to say something. All in all, it’s been a pretty emotionally stable past month. That is, until tonight.

Brian called from work needing his eye drops with a side of Laffy Taffy. Even though those two things go together like peas and ducks, when Brian calls in need, I come running. I convinced Thor to pause “The Nightmare Before Christmas” right in the middle of Jack’s Lament and with surprisingly little fuss, we loaded into the car to head to Lowe’s.

Freshly wiped lawnmowers glistened in the setting sun. Grills of all sizes and types were aligned like soldiers guarding the entrance doors. Thor made commentary on everything he saw in his rapid fire style that always mesmerizes me. The doors slid open with their mechanical welcome and a burst of cool air hit us like a wave. Hand-in-hand we made our way into the bustle of the afternoon crowd, down the cool grey aisle, searching for the man we both love.

Thor’s shyness seemed to be directly proportional to the distance we traveled into the store. At five feet inside the building, he started to bury his head in my hip. At ten feet, both arms were around my waist and he was begging me to “Hole me Mama, Hole me”. Lifting a 42 pound 3-year-old isn’t an easy task but it’s doable. He wrapped his legs around my hips and twisted his arms around my shoulders, burying his head into my neck. We continued on our journey and finally made it to the appliance department. Brian was there, eyes red rimmed but relieved.

When Thor was comfortable enough to disengage the death grip he had around my torso, he leapt immediately into his daddy’s awaiting arms. They sat down at the cluttered desk and Thor’s shell began to crack. He started pressing buttons on the phone and then typing in a language native only to preschoolers. When I asked him what he was doing, his round eyes trimmed in dark lashes, deep with thought darted quickly to meet my gaze. “I’m woukin’ Mama! I godda make sum monies”. I laughed. How many times had he heard that saying from Brian or me? The shrill chirp of Brian’s department phone shattered our moment of pretend play. Brian had to leave to take care of a customer issue at the front of the store so we had to make our visit short.

I asked Thor if he would like to get a cart and ride around. I needed to price some flower bulbs, since the planting season is quickly approaching. With much relief, he easily agreed and we made our way back to the front of the store.

Red Cart----Check!
Thor secured in Red Cart----Check!
Making our way to Outside Lawn and Garden---Check!

The smell of fertilizer and potting soil hung heavy in the damp evening air. The sun’s rays were barely peeking over the horizon, showering everything in a pink haze, making labels difficult to read. Thor and I glided slowly around the perimeter of the department. Huge pots loomed above us in all of their highly decorated glory. Stacked bags of rocks shocked me with their prices and made me proud of all of the rocks I had “acquired” for free this summer. Aisles of do-it-yourself this and do-it-yourself that were splayed out before us.

After rounding another corner and admiring a gargoyle garden statute that would surely be mine, I found myself among the numerous bags of bulbs. Each bag contained an array of small brown cocoons that promised to bring forth some form of beauty the following year. I began to take in the pictures of the different varieties of flowers. Hyacinths of purple and pink looked extremely promising when I noticed that they just don’t take that much care. Tulips of all sizes, colors and shapes seemed to pour out of the top of the crates they were attempting to be contained in. I picked up a few of the bags and studied the information on the back, trying to decide if I could keep them alive.

Our cart circled to the back of the bulb section and I was bombarded with pictures of daffodils and irises of all types. My throat suddenly grew tight and tears began to burn my eyes. I bowed my head immediately and tried to take some clearing gulps of air. Thor noticed and asked “You ok mama?” I said I was and asked if he was ready to go. As if he knew what was happening, he didn’t make a fuss. He agreed to go to the car and I lifted him to my hip making my escape to the parking lot.

I fastened Thor into his car seat through tears that were now burning my cheeks. I thought I was past this point. I thought that I had made it to the spot where the pain of loss is numbed with a little time. It was obvious that I was not at that spot, not even close. I sat in the car and sobbed quietly.

The pictures on the bulbs danced in my memory and mixed with the memories of Easter dinners at my Grandma’s house. Then, her yard had been covered in hundreds of daffodils and irises of all types. She viewed her arrangement of the bulbs as an art form and she excelled in their upkeep. Flowers were her passion and taking care of her garden was what brought her great peace. When the weather grew muggy, her grounds were brought to life with aroma. The heavy fragrance of so many flowers would cling to your hair and clothes seeming to saturate their very fibers. At the height of her floral growing season, Grandma would bring the family small bouquets. They were always arranged in an empty tin can with a paper towel wrapped around the outside, secured with a rubber band. I’m sure there was some type of functional purpose for that other than decoration but I always considered it very “Grandma”.

In the summer and fall since my Grandma’s death, I have planned how to arrange her flowers in my own planters at home so that I never forget my past and the woman who was always such a huge part of it. Being bombarded with the feelings of loss and anguish while looking through the bulbs at Lowe’s, caught me off guard. I saw the bulbs like little promises of old memories and new memories alike. The very memories that I find so important in defining my heritage, I realize Thor will not have. That makes me sad but determined at the same time. I will carry on my Grandma’s memory in the best way that I can think of. I will continue the tradition of empty tin cans, a paper towel and a rubber band. Sometimes it’s the simple things that are the most defining of a person we’ve lost.


~Written 08/05/2009