Crazy Crap Item #171: The part where we have fun with food

Sub-Part A

Eamon and I regularly gather with a gaggle of his friends from high school. About every three months, we have a rotating dinner party for which each couple takes a turn hosting. Two of the couples live in the Milwaukee environ; the other two (including the valiant Dalys) live in the whereabouts of Chicago.

At each gathering, the hosting couple supplies the entree and, usually, a side dish. Other couples volunteer dessert, appetizer, salad.

As will be no surprise to anyone who has met him, Eamon sees this a sort of competitive event. That is, it's competitive when it's our turn to host. He could care not one fig for desserts, appetizers, and salads, which are relegated to me. But when entree turn comes around, it's Eamon's time to shine.

In the past, this has meant attempts at outlandishly picturesque meals, such as the Pineapple Juice-Can Quail (like beercan chicken, but smaller). At least I got to set the table.

This time around, he fixated on fried chicken. Not picturesque, you say? Well, imagine if its paired with mashed potatoes served in a bacon cup!?! Eamon had caught wind of this remarkable innovation via the intertrons, and had to give it a go. He experimented with several methods--weaving, encircling, toothpick, no pick--and two varieties of bacon--real and turkey, with varying results. I vote woven pig meat.

And how did our guests enjoy it? Well, in a week of fiascos (to which I've alluded here), it was no surprise that all six of our planned guests declined to attend. As a last ditch attempt to dazzle the masses, we invited Eamon's intertron buddy Andrew (founder and publisher of the notorious website Gaper's Block) and his presumably lovely but as yet unmet wife Cinnamon. I say "unmet" because, in keeping with a week of disappointments, she suffered a bout of stomach flu and could not attend.

But Andrew joined us anyway, bringing with him another culinary delight, little walnut-shaped shortbread cookies filled with a delightful chocolate fudge, purchased from neighborhood standby, Devon Market. They, and the bacon cups, were a delight.

Sub-Part B

Last Sunday, we attended Easter dinner at the home of Eamon's Aunt Kathy and Uncle Ken.

"What can we bring?" I asked Aunt Kathy.

"How about dessert," was the reply.

Music to my ears, as I love nothing better than the concocting of sweets. Citrus-scented angel food cake, I decided. A light, airy dessert, perfect for the season.

Eamon was not so pleased. "What makes it Easter??" he demanded.

It did not have to "be Easter," I replied. It's light, airy, spring-like flavor and texture would be Easter-y enough, I assured him.

To no avail. Easter-y it would be.

Behold the Easter-y goodness.

Crazy Crap Item #170: The part where I question the last 20 years of my life.

It's remarkable how in one single moment, you can see in a flash what a monumental idiot you are.

In this case, a musical idiot.

So, as is well known, I like to warble. Showtunes. Yes, embarassing, I know, but a girl can't fight what she is.

This has been a long-term obsession, stretching back to the womb, or at least back to my first viewing of The Sound of Music at age 5. Looking back, it was strange that at that tender age, I didn't want to play the actual 5-year-old in the play (the youngest von Trapp child Gretl). No. I wanted to be Maria. Sigh.

Fast-forward to college, where I have the enviable opportunity to participate in "Musical Theatre Workshop," a course offered through the Music department, where you basically get up twice a week and make an ass of yourself by trying out your audition material. Besides being a forum for receiving feedback every 18-year-old kid should have to learn to deal with (Did you know I'm "too thick for my type"? It's true!), it was a great place to learn really obscure songs that no one in their right mind ever sings. I still dazzle friends with my ability to recognize ditties from How Now, Dow Jones and Flora the Red Menace.

And that, my friends, is how I came in contact with a song which came to be something of a signature piece: "The Joint Is Really Jumping Down at Carnegie Hall." Before it belonged soley to me with all rights in perpetuity, it belonged to one Adrianna Villem, a classmate. And before Adrianna got her hands on it, it belonged to one Judy Garland.

Funny enough, though I've sung the song for some 20 years now, I'd never actually heard Judy sing it. It's from a movie called Thousands Cheer, which I've never been able to find hide nor hair of.

So I've always wondered: how did Judy sing it? What tempo? Does she slur the way I do? Does she mess with the rhythms?

But my biggest question was: How does she handle that crazy high F? You see, "Joint" is swinging boogie-woogie belt tune. Most voices don't adapt nicely to the practice of belting for three minutes then jumping up into soprano-land. In singer parlance, it causes one to over one's "break"--a harrowing and often unsuccessful venture. So it's odd and cruel that this song, so deliciously belty as it is, requires a random high F.

This break-crossing has always been my bete-noire-- particularly in my younger years. I've gotten much better at it, but the extremity of this strange popped high F, and the adrenalin rush of performing (which typically resulting in way more vigorously than is healthy or advisable) usually means the F is, well, not quite right. A little sharp. A little off. Not "swinging."

Each time I'd pop--and miss--the F, I'd think, "If you were Judy, you could do it."

But exactly how did she handle? Anyone who knows the repertoire of Ms. Garland knows that, while she did many musical things, singing high Fs was not among them. Assuming she sang it in a lower key, the question remains: how did she leap out of belt into soprano?

Well, just the other day, I googled the song title--again. Past searches had turned up nothing but a few stray mentions of the song titles in "Lists of songs about New York," "Judy Garland's repertoire," and so forth. So imagine my shock when on this latest search, what to my wondering eyes should appear but a video of Judy singing it! Apparently, someone swiped the clip from the movie where she sings it and put it online.

So of course I wanted to hear it--in general to hear how she sings it but also to solve my age-old question: how does she handle that high note that has give me such grief over the last 20 years?

So, first off, she sings it one step key lower than I do, which is not surprising, as she /is/ Judy Garland, and has the vocal range of a long shoreman. But that still means her "High F" is a "High E", which is still pretty high. So I'm listening. And I'm listening. And I get to that dreaded high note... AND SHE DOESN'T SING IT! She drops it an octave down. Which, in the context of the song makes perfect sense. And actually sounds more natural and a little better. And IT'S SO OBVIOUS that that is what any sane person would do.

So I just start laughing. Just laughed as I sat there. Of course! An octave down. I'm such an idiot.

See, friends, there are songs where you have to sing the high notes. It's expected. They're famous. There's no point in doing the song unless you do. However, that is not the case with this particular song. And how I missed the obvious, well, I guess that's just the folly of youth.

So I'll keep singing that song. But the high F? Screw it. Just call me Judy.

Wanna hear the song? Here's Judy singing it. And here's my squeakier version (click on it from the song list on the right-hand side of the page).

Crazy Crap Item #169: The part where I announce a major award.

In response to my recent thumb-related fiasco, Mr. Michael Shattner wins the award for the best off-the-cuff invention of a name for the event:

Drama Amidst the Empenadas

As recipient, Mr. Shattner wins a shiny new dime!

Crazy Crap Item #168: The part where I discover that I am a Top Chef!

It's been one of those weeks.

Ever since, say, Sunday, my life has been riddled with fiascos and broken plans. I'm a survivor, though. I bounce back.

But things really spun wildly out of control yesterday. I'd been planning to have my good friends and fellow America's Next Top Model (ANTM) fans Jackie and Roxi over for a girlie tv night of Tyra-gone-wild accompanied by homemade empenadas.

But then Roxi got a last-minute, early-morning job interview scheduled for Thursday morning, so had to beg off. We suggested some alternate viewing plans, but since there was a still a chance that Jackie and I might gather (and since I'd already thawed out some meat for the empenadas), I thought I'd prep my little meat pies just in case. They do nice quitely, unbaked, in the fridge, thank you very much.

In my haste -- and due in no small part to my piss-poor knife skills and remarkably dull cutlery -- I sliced my thumb. Strike that. I sliced off my thumb. Or at least a the very tip of it. And some fingernail to boot.

Now, let me clear, friends: I'm an no stranger to damaged digits. See my note above about piss-poor knife skills. Scarcely a meal goes by during which I haven't slice and diced something on my person. So rather than panic, I simply stanch the blood with a wad of toilet paper and press.

I lift the wad. Still bleeding. I press some more.

Still bleeding.

It will stop, I assume. I attempt to dab on some Neo-sporin, but greasy ointments, I find, don't stick to blood. Funny that.

I manage to unwrap a bandaid with my remaining fingers and stretch it over my mangled tip. As the blood pools out the edge, a thought crosses my mind: This is no ordinary owie.

I rip off the bandaid and reapply the wad. Emergency room crosses my mind. I feel a wave a panic. I bat it down. I sit on the toilet lid and force myself to breathe very deeply. The panic passes.

I go back to the kitchen, where I had set up my laptop (a girl needs showtunes while cooking). I text Eamon with a brief explanation of my predicament. He expresses concern. I elaborate. He asks follow-questions. Tired of trying to IM with one hand (while keeping toilet paper wadded on my thumb), I ditch the laptop and pick up the phone.

Eamon: Do you think you need stiches?
Kay: There's nothing to stitch.
Eamon: Sounds like you need to go to the emergency room.
Kay: [weepy gulp] OK.
Eamon: Do you need me to come get you.
Kay: [weepier gulp] Yes.

As I wait for Eamon, I open the front blinds so I can watch our neighbor children cavort. Because, of course, this is the first day with cavort-worthy weather we've had in ages. Which I knew. And which I'd planned to join in for, pre-thumb-amputation.

To kill time, I go back to inspect ground-zero of my accident. Hey! There's my thumb tip, nestled amongs the diced onion. Actually, it's a big hunk of fingernail, with some scraps of skin attached. Still, pretty gross. I discard the tip, nail and onions. I even toss the potatoes I'd chopped before all the carnage, just for good measure.

Eamon arrives, and off we go to St. Francis, where within a mere hour and 45 minutes, I'm nicely equipped with more bandaids, hospital-grade Neo-sporin, and a shiny new tetanus shot.

Fast-forward to tonight. I watch ANTM solo, as I just couldn't imagine hosting poor Jackie with no delicious chopped items for her to savor. Later, I watch the season premiere Top Chef.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear? Chicago chef Stephanie Izzard (with whom I share a one degree of separation!) succumbs to nerves in the first Quick Fire challenge and... gasp! ... cuts her finger while chopping onions!!!!

Mayhap I'm a Top Chef after all!

Crazy Crap Item #167: The part where I discuss local Chicago ancestry

Last summer, our little neighborhood of 1500 W. Norwood suffered a lost. Long-time resident Bernadine passed away.

Bernadine was a beloved fixture on the block. When I think Bernadine, I think "dame." The kind of stylish, 1950's-style urbanite who might be seen just upstage of Katherine Hepburn in The Desk Set. When the ladies and I would gather at the benches during the summer, Bernadine would make frequent, brief appearances, always dressed to the nines in matching pantsuit ensembles with coordinating scarves tied with a tidy knot at the neck. Her hair and makeup were always impeccable.

Bernadine was feisty. She knew her own mind, and didn't sugarcoat a thing. "No, there's nothing afterwards," she'd say, with certainty, of death. Tart, I would call her. Wry.

She loved the kids on the block, calling them sweetheart and darling. She was an especial favorite of Sam, son of Ruth and Kevin, and the O'Connor triplets (now incomprehensibly fled to Milwaukee).

She was also the sworn enemy of Delores. None of us ever learned the source of this enduring enmity -- perhaps some borrowed folding chairs, never returned, or one too many requests for a cup of sugar. Me, I suspect there was no single trigger; rather, a deep and abiding difference in style, temperament, and philosophy of life. Like Bonaparte and Wellington, they were.

What I always respected about Bernadine was her absolute commitment to living as she liked. She was regularly teased about her "boyfriend," a local fellow who would squire her out to dinner, after which she would rib him about eyeing the waitresses. She was always ready to share an opinion about restaurants she'd recently visited, and, if not dining out, had a regular report of what she'd planned for her evening meal.

She occasionally spoke of her husband, who died of leukemia years before. He went into the hospital, she said, and never came out.

When she passed away, after several months of illness and hospital stays, she was deeply mourned. Her memorial had a large turn-out, with many Norwood families in attendance. Ruth gave a heartfelt eulogy, in which she recalled how Bernadine had taught Sam the pleasure of "drinking the little half-and-half containers" at the restaurants they visited on their regular dinners out.

Bernadine's memorial was an eye-opener. Her family had laid out tons and tons of family photos on tables. There was Bernadine, in the fashionable '50s, coifed and cutting-edge. She was a model, we learned, and it made all the sense in the world.

I found myself thinking of Bernadine this morning, as I was perusing my copy of City of the Century: The Epic of Chicago and the Making of America. After Bernadine's passing, her family held an estate sale. We were all invited to look in. I did, not expecting to actually buy anything. As is well known, I'm tight with the purse.

But, as it turns out, Bernadine had amassed a fascinating collection of books about Chicago. I snapped them all up, including City of the Century. I recalled that Bernadine's son-in-law, when he got up to speak at her memorial, described her great pride in her family's old-school Chicago roots. He mentioned her maiden name, Beaubien, and noted that her family stretched back to some of the city's first founders.

So it was this morning that Bernadine came back into my life. I cracked open City of the Century, and some 50 pages in lit upon Mark and Jean Baptiste Beaubien. Mark is described as "a devil-may-care Creole from the Detroit area." With the help of Jean Baptiste, he opened a tavern called "The Sauganash." To quote City of the Century:

"Visitors from the more civilized parts were shocked to see Indian braves spinning the white wives of fort officers around the dance floor of the Sauganash to the frenzied fiddling and toe tapping of Mark Beaubien, or Indian and white women drinking home-distilled liquor straight from the bottle..."

Sounds remarkably like a 1500 Norwood block party. No wonder Bernadine loved living here.

Crazy Crap Item #166: The part where Eamon takes the plunge

I recently posted that Eamon asked an odd question. Strangely, no one has yet expressed surprise or asked for any follow-up. Despite my readers' lack of interest (or, perhaps, familiarity with Eamon's character and habits), I will provide a follow-up, gratis.

Polar Plunge, you see. A bunch of people jumping into Lake Michigan as a fundraiser for the Special Olympics, you see. Derby-related, you see.

I will digress for a moment to note that I've never quite understood the rationale of the "make-a-pledge-so-you-do-unpleasant-things" style of fundraising. I like my friends. I like the causes they support. I don't need to be bribed into giving them money in exchange for the pleasure of viewing them in uncomfortable circumstances--say, walking for three days straight, or climbing the stairwells to the top of the Hancock, or, for instance, jumping into a freezing cold lake in February. But that's just me.

Back to our story. The Windy City Rollers entered a team to jump. They would be costuming themselves as the "Babe-raham Lincolns." Chicks dressed as our 16th president. Top hats and beards abound.

But tragedy struck when one of the skaters was unable to do the plunge. Who, a stricken nation cries out, could possibly take her place???

Yeah, one guess.

So Eamon is set to plunge. But, since a tall, bearded man dressed as Abraham Lincoln is neither funny nor gender-bending, he decided to attire himself somewhat differently. As "Betsy Rawsome."

This puzzled me some. Betsy Ross. Abraham Lincoln. I questioned. I gingerly reminded that they weren't from the same historical period. I was told not to be snippy.

Leaving doubts and a basic knowledge of American history behind, I settled in to watch the fun of Eamon cobbling together -- yes -- another costume.

It started with a wig and bonnet ensemble from the local party store, amusingly labeled a "Betsy Ross disguise." (Why a disguise? Are we thinking someone will mistake him for the actual Betsy Ross?)

Then, he tried to squeeze himself into an old hand-me-down bridesmaid's dress I had on hand. It used to serve as the foundation for my ever-popular Snow White costume (royal blue, big puffy sleeves, full skirt). I assured Eamon it would never fit, as even I can no longer zip it up. He refused to believe without proof. A few popped stitches later, and he had his proof.

It was then that one of the skaters stepped in, with two former prom dresses, in the famed size 14 mentioned earlier. A pale blue taffeta gown fit the bill nicely.

As it was strapless, Eamon asked if I had any white fabric on hand that would serve as a shawl. Being the best wife ever, I remembered some lace curtains I had packed away. A patriotic themed pin to hold it together completed the ensemble.

And so it was that, bright and early on Sunday morn, we headed to North Beach where Eamon and the Babes took the plunge. And won first prize for individual costume. I am not kidding.

Another Daly triumph!!

Crazy Crap Item #165: The part where I am witty

Yesterday, Roxi informed me that it was "National Grammar Day."

To which I responded, "Do you think they chose March 4th as the date because the date itself is a full sentence?"

I'm so clever, I shock myself.

Crazy Crap Item #164: The part where I encounter a question I don't want to answer

eamondaly1110: would you say i would fit into a women's 14?

Crazy Crap Item #163: The part where I raise a salient question

Why is it that Scooby Doo speaks with a very strong speech impediment, while his nephew, Scrappy Doo, speaks perfectly clearly? I always assumed Scooby's speech problems were due to him being a TALKING DOG. Apparently, that's not the case.

Crazy Crap Item #162: The part where we are not haters

Unlike many of our acquaintance, we are not Valentine's Day haters. Yes, I know, it's a "Hallmark holiday." Yes, I'm being ordered to love.

But the thing is, I already do love, so why not take a moment and wallow in it? Eamon and I are of one mind on this matter.

So last night, we did up VD, Daly style. And it was quite nice.

I'll start with this amusing anecdote about the gifts. Anyone who's been in a relationship beyond the courtship phase knows: the gift-giving grind can begin to get relentless . And VD -- well, it's a toughie. I honestly can't imagine expecting -- or giving -- some expensive jewelry/watch/small island sort of extravaganza. After all, VD should be about small tokens, correct? But how many pewter handheld hearts and small stuffed bears wearing bulky red knit sweaters does one really need?

So it was with a deal of puzzlement that I launched into this year's VD gift hunt. Which means, basically, doing Google searches on innumerable combinations of search terms.

To whit:

+"Valentine's Day" +male +steak

+Gift +Man +love

+Valentine's +present +geek

+"roller derby" +"comic book" +love

Despite this rather scattershot methodology, I very quickly located the perfect gift. It had hearts. It was wearable. It was geeky. It was: the 8-Bit Dynamic Life Shirt.

The gag is this: you each wear matching shirts, emblazoned with five hearts. When you near each other, the hearts begin to light up. When you diverge they darken.

It's simple. It's brilliant. It's ... expensive. Just a little too, rather, for a gag gift. I hem. I haw. I look for cheap knock-offs. I almost place an order.

Then I recall an innocent question I was asked just one week earlier.

"What's your tshirt size?"

Knowing that Eamon had already filled our light-up-my-lover-is-near shirt needs, I retreated to the perfect present-giving fallback position: liquor. A nice bottle of black Sambuca for my sweetie, accompanied by 5 black licorice pipes.

Presents in hand, we plan the rest of our evening. No crowded "romantic" restaurants for us. I head to Paulina Meat Market, and drop a comically exobitant amount of money on two ribeye steaks (for us and what army, I'd like to know), and a pound of shrimp.

We then execute a nearly perfect meal -- Eamon manning the cast iron skillet for the steaks (cooked to perfection), me succeeding in locating and excecuting a truly easy and wonderful recipe for shrimp scampi. (Seriously. Try it. It's amazing and so easy).

For afters, Eamon suggested -- surprise, surprise -- that we make truffles. The New York Times says they're easy, he reports.

This is stunning to me. Eamon doesn't particularly like truffles. But I do not look a truffle horse in the mouth, so I happily comply.

So, with NY Times recipe in hand, we embark. We each get half a batch, ours to flavor as we please. Me, I'm pretty tame. Cayenne/vanilla, rolled in sugar cinnamon for one batch; cardamom rolled in cocoa for the other.

Eamon is like a crazy man: He spikes one half with Couvoisier, and with a fire of inspiration in his eyes, adds liberal dashes of ... bacon salt. Stepping back from the brink of madness, he leaves his other batch plain, and rolls them in finely chopped walnuts.

We are delighted to find that our handiwork is surprisingly tasty. And so easy.

Eamon marvels. "I wish I'd know how easy these were to make. If I'd known about these in college, I would've gotten 40% more tail, guaranteed."

Crazy Crap Item #161: The part where Eamon is witty

kaydaly88: my horoscope says i should do yoga

eamondaly1110: you did yoga already!

kaydaly88: so i'm ahead of the game!

eamondaly1110: you're precrastinating.

Crazy Crap Item #160: The part where Eamon and I attend an "affair"

Recently, Eamon and I received a thrilling invitation. A formal party, the invitation read. "Top hats, evening gloves, and dancing shoes encouraged." The invitation came by way of Pam Demic, one of the referees for the Windy City Rollers, where Eamon serves as head of Rules and Regs/Stats.

Of course, we RSVP'd with a breathless "Yes, indeed!"

But this left us with a dilemma: What to wear?

Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a passion for costumery. There is nothing I love better than cobbling together the semblance of some other identity using stray odds and ends that come to hand. All without the aid of any skill in stitchery (which I sadly lack).

Eamon is of the same mind, so, as you can imagine, our house is literally stuffed to the rafters with ensembles from days past, including get-ups approximating an Olympic torchbearer, an old-timey carnival strong man, a witch, a wild west prospector, a native islander, a robot, a Thanksgiving turkey on skates, Salvador Dali (mustache only), Pumpkin Head and a Bearded Lady, a dubious Frenchman, a creepy gym guy, and a seemingly innocuous table.

And thus began the quest for the perfect outfit. I will not report on Eamon's endeavor, as it consisted mainly of saying, the night before the party, "You know, Kohl's has tuxes, and they're pretty cheap..."

Life is not so easy for we ladies. Our finery is infinitely varied, and subject the whims of taste, budget, and availability. Nonetheless, as soon as saw the invitation, a vision began to form in my fevered brane. Ginger Rogers-esque. But where was one to find such an ensemble? And what to do with one's drab, layered, non-descript hair?

Well, as luck would have it, two weeks before the affair, I had to have a tooth crowned, which put me in the vicinity of Elliot's Consignment Store, located a few doors down from my dentist. So it was that, numbed and woozy, I wandered in to browse the used clothing within. On the ground floor, nothing. Standard-issue little black dresses, appalling woolen affairs, racks of denim. So it was only on the slightest of whims that I decided to answer the call emblazoned on numerous placards to head downstairs for "basement bargains."

The combination of "basement" and "bargains" was not promising, but in my fevered, post-crown haze, I figured, why not?

It was there, nestled amonst some truly appalling prom dresses and bridesmaid gowns, that I found something that looked, surprisingly enough, promising. A floor-length gown. A sort of retro, empire-waisted affair, it was sleeveless, and sported a bodice emblazoned with black bugle beads in remarkably good condition. The skirt consisted of a heavy silvery cream fabric with an overlay of black chiffon shot through with a silver shimmer.

I checked the price tag. "$35" was slashed through with not one, but two lines. This could be, as I said, promising.

So into a drafty changing room I go, and what to my wondering eyes ... the dress is almost a perfect fit. The straps need shortening (per usual for a girl with a legenadarily short torso), but the length is perfect, as is the curve-hugging silhouette.

But what would Eamon think? As I contemplate the potentially rock-bottom price, I think, who cares? Dresses like this come once per decade.

I slip back into my jeans and woolly sweater, and toddle up to the register.

"That's a cute one," says the clerk. "Did you want to buy it?"

"Sure," I say. "How much is it?"

Dear friends, there are times in life when even I, as blessed with verbal puissance as I am, fall short of the expressing the wonder of life. Words simply cannot express the enormity of her response. There is no way I can prepare you for what follows. So I'll simply record it here, unvarnished.

"$10."

Done and done.

As she preps my purchase, I nab a pair of dangly rhinestone earrings as well, for the low, low price of $8.

The rest of the outfit comes together with remarkable thrift and serendipity. After dropping off my dress at the dry cleaners for alterations ($10), I stop into Payless Shoe Source (musing that I could pay more, but why?), and pick up some strappy silver sandals ($8) and a bangly clutch ($8). Kohl's rock-bottom jewelry sale reaps me a fishwire-and-faux-diamond necklace for $5. And at Vogue Fabrics, my big indulgence, a diamond headband for the exorbitant price of $20.

And now, the hair. Given the empire-waist silhouette and my alabaster and ebony complexion, I decide Ginger Rogers is not the best muse. Audrey Hepburn, I think. A la My Fair Lady.

I dig deep into my once robust hairstyling skills (yes, friends, I once played a 1930's-era private secretary in an execrable production of Annie. I know how to do my own hair), and manage to craft a dreamy concoction of bobby pins, hairspray, and stardust.

And when all is done, I'm truly impressed by the sheer volume of bargain glamour we Dalys manage to muster.

When we arrive at the party, held at the hosts' lovely Printer's Row loft, we discover we were well advised to evoke some personal glamor. Our hosts have crafted a truly elegant 1930s-inspired party backdrop, complete with a sparkly mirrored ball suspended beneath of white chiffon canopy backlit by twinkly lights. They hired a bartender, who offers seldom-seen gimlets and old fashions as well as a menu of signature Old Hollywood-inspired cocktails. A DJ spins vintage jazz. At one point, we're entertained by a duo tap-tap-tapping to "Putting On the Ritz."

Ginger never had it so good.

Crazy Crap Item #159: The part where I indulge in some childish whimsy

As I've mentioned before, I am not a Chicago native. And while I've gotten used to this thing they call "snow," there are still many wintry rituals I've not partaken of.

Exhibit A: the snowman.

I've heard tell of such critters, even seen them live in the flesh. But before today, I'd not put hand to flake in an effort of snowy creation.

So you can well imagine that when neighbor Ann suggested making a snowman, I was a bit hesitant to join in. Surely, there is some trick. Some technique you learn only through dint of hard labor over years in a bitter climate. But I didn't want to seem like, oh, a freak, so I voiced none of this, and tentatively began packing snow on the nice pile she'd amassed.

The more I did so, the more satisfying it became. Jack, who claimed to be "helping," seemed more intent on trying to tempt us away to other acts of creation ("No! Let's build a fort! A space alien..." and so forth) or launching wry critiques of our work. We paid him no mind.

Finally, it was completed, and we were stepped back to admire the fruit of our labors.

And proud we were, until the Brenners came by to visit. "Nice snowman," Erik Brenner ventured. "Did you see our snow pile?"

We had. It loomed from half a block away on their front lawn. We'd marveled at the energy it would take to amass such a pile, and secretly wondered ... why?

Would we like to come see it? Yes, we would.

Upon approaching, it seemed nothing but a pile, but then, one of the Brenner twins alluded to a "secret" on the back side. We investigated, and were thunderstruck to discover a perfectly servicable igloo! One capable of holding small children, adults, and even a dog!

Show-offs.

Crazy Crap Item #158: The part where Eamon hits the nails square on the head.

eamondaly1110: i just discovered a new anagram for my name: "A Manly Ode".

Crazy Crap Item #156: The part where I finally document the holidays

Here it is, more than halfway through January, and I'm finally taking time out of my busy schedule to document the Daly/Peterson yuletide.

Pleasant, it was. Low-key. Hence the lack of documentation. And yet, there are still details to record. To whit:

* Eamon and flew out of O'Hare and into Long Beach airport, just a stone's throw from my brother's house. It was thus that my brother had the enviable privilege of picking us up and transporting us to his house for the night. And thus he did.

* We overnighted at Mike's, where we indulged in a brownies and the ear-scratchings so desired by Mike's and Kathy's cats, and enjoyed a pleasant lounge before retiring.

* The following day, the eve of Christmas Eve, we arose in a leisurely fashion, and were treated to a sumptuous brunch at Hof's Hut, Mike's and Kathy's favorite diner. We've eaten there before, and delighted in its full menu complemented by a full bar.

* Mike graciously took us over to Mom and Dad's in glorious Banning, where we settled in for a five-day-long sleep-and-eat-athon. Things started auspiciously enough, as we grazed on See's candy (my most favorite of dipped chocolates. Suck it, Fanny May!) and sweet, sweet beer, straight from my dad's kegerator (located, as it is, in my dad's private, in-house pub. I am not kidding).

* I savored my mother's flair for holiday decor, which tends to involve a number of animal representations. Hence, my favorite Peterson household decoration, newly clad in yuletide splendor, and mom's artful enhancement of the dining-area chandelier. It as also an opportunity to walk down memory lane via some of our long-cherished decorations, including:
- Mike's proprietary ornament (Santa in his sleigh), a gift from him in his early years from our Aunt Doris. All through my childhood, it was made pressingly clear to me that this was MIKE'S ornament. Don't touch it. Don't even look at it.
- My favorite ornament. It was a retaliatory favorite. Mike gets an ornament? I get an ornament. So I took this one over. It's very fancy.
- Mike's reindeer. Virtually unidentifiable now, it was once a quite credible reindeer, with antlers and all. Mike made it in kindergarten. It has a certain understated poetry, I believe.

* The next day was Christmas eve, which we celebrated with much laying about, eating of aforementioned See's candy, sipping of aforementioned beer, and watching of holiday-themed television. I ventured out at one point for a refreshing walk, but was turned back by bone-chilling, gale-force winds. Thus it was that I was forced to lounge abed and acouch the whole day long.

* For our Christmas Eve supper, we were treated to my dad's homemade lasagna. The one bitter moment in an otherwise delightful evening was the sad loss of the garlic toast, which failed to emerge intact from the oven.

* Christmas Day. Mike and Kathy arrived mid-day for chit chat, merriment, and the joy of opening presents, presents and more presents. Then we tucked into a delightful honey-baked ham with all the trimmings, followed up by Dad's world-famous tortoni.

* The next high point came a few days after Christmas, when we headed over the home of my Aunt, Doris. She is the much vaunted matriarch of the now-famous Potts family. The occasion was Baby Rick's 50th birthday, compounded by general holiday merriment and a most rare chance for a quasi-family reunion. It was a grand opportunity to mix it up with cousins I seldom see, including the charming Fordham gals, Mountain-man Tom, Rick and his lovely wife Kryttre. Cousin Rick spoke of his work peddling rare jazz recordingas an L.A.-based vinyl superstore, and supplied me with some images of his artwork (described in an earlier post), which shall receive full treatment at a later date. Tom regaled us with tales of life in the wilds of Montana, including intriguing anecdotes about the goings-on at a local polygamous compound and an annual frisbee golf tournament. (I can only assume these two things are unconnected.) The Fordham ladies (chiefly Aunt Donna and Sue) compared notes about the various attributes and comparative odds at several local casinos. It was an entertaining and informative evening.

* At the end of the week, it was home again, home again, jiggedy jig. Against all odds, Eamon and I had a remarkably smooth trip home. All flights were delayed, which gave us the rare opportunity to hop on an earlier flight. We arrived home a full 4 hours earlier than scheduled, the perfect capper to a lovely holiday season!

Crazy Crap Item #155: The part where Amazon.com reveals something about myself I'd rather not know

Today, I was greeted by this email message from Amazon.com:

Dear Amazon.com Customer,
As someone who has bought teen comedies on DVD, we thought you'd like to know that the teen comedy Bring It On: In It to Win It is airing Sunday, January 20th at 8/7c on ABC Family Channel.

So now I've been identified as someone who needs to know that Bring It On: In It to Win It will soon be aired. Who are you to judge me, Amazon.com???

Crazy Crap Item #154: The part where James registers emotion

Yesterday, I received a lovely invitation from Ann to lunch with her and her 3-year-old son James. I indicated that such a thing would be delightful, and we made plans for a Friday outing. Then, this report from Ann:

We'll probably go on the early side Friday - maybe 11:30? I told James about it and he said "Oh boy, I'm so ga-cited". I'm ga-cited too.

I second that emotion.

Crazy Crap Item #153: The part where I find that, once again, poop and Christmas are inexorably linked

Considering the title of this blog, it should not be surprising that poop is recurring theme. This was not intentional. And yet, as the months have passed, and my scribal duties have continued, I've actually found it necessary to include a tag for aggregating all poop-related entries. It's frankly a little alarming.

But with this entry, I may need to designate a new tag, something along the lines of "poop/Christmas." The last entry of this designation involved a particularly apt gift I supplied to the Casey boys.

This time, I'm reporting of an oddly similar poop/Christmas decoration, this with a century's old European heritage: The Caganer. I heard of it via email from my good friend and generally non-poop-story-telling associate Christine Gaiden. Learn more about this fun holiday tradition here!

And if you're still planning to send me a late holiday gift, add it to your list!

Crazy Crap Item #152: The part where my neighbors redefine the nativity

I just returned from a five-day Yuletide sojourn in sunny SoCal, followed by a cozy overnight in Grafton, Wisconsin, with many tales of amusement and photos to upload. But since that will take awhile to process, I will, in the meantime, regale one and all with an account of a Casey Nativity.

The Caseys, as you will recall, are our splendid neighbors. Besides providing endless hours of entertainment via their two sons, Jack and James, they are the source of plentiful other benefits, including occasional gratis snowshovelings, helpings of smoked pork, out-of-town plant waterings, and general neighborly conversation. We try to reciprocate with remarkable Halloween displays, cookie parties, and the like, but I fear we are always in arrears, neighborly gesture-wise.

Upon my return from the land of my birth this holiday season, I received a cheery email from Ann, noting that I had several packages on my back porch that I should be aware of, as well as some lovely photos of this year's Casey Nativity Scene.

The CNS (as it shall henceforth be known) is an extravagant affair. I conjecture that it entails somewhere in the neighborhood of 4,768 separate figures. Lovingly crafted angels. Porcelain renditions of sheep so lifelike you can almost hear them bleat. And the capper, a beautifully Italianate sculpture of the holy family, flanked by camels and asses. Each year, Jim Casey oh-so-carefully arranges these figurines to accurately capture of wonder of the season. Jack and James gaze in awe.

Until this year. This year, it seems, small hands have meddled. New figures have been introduced. While James may have had a hand in things, I suspect, considering Jack's ruling obsession, that the elder Casey may have played the larger role in this year's enhancement of the CNS.

So it was that I received from Ann an email with several photos, with the following explanation:

"I'm attaching some pictures that I took of our nativity scene. I have not yet photographed the civil war soldiers or Yoda (from star wars) but you get the idea."

Enjoy the full splendor here.

Crazy Crap Item #151: The part where I start a new holiday tradition

During the long, cold winters, I see very little of my small neighbors. Which is too bad, because they are remarkably entertaining.

So, I thought recently, how could I entice the teenies to my very doorstep? Perhaps, I thought, a sort of small shindig. A holiday gathering, in which we decorate sugar cookies. Thus it was that Cookie Party was born.

This past Friday saw the First Annual Cookie Party. To prep, I cleaned the house, made a messload of sugar cookies in fanciful holiday shapes, then bought an obscene amount of white frosting, tubes of colored gel frosting, and many wee jars of sprinkles, jimmies, decorating candies and the like.

The wee folk, with moms, began arriving around 3pm. Here are some highlights:

* Emmett succeeding in hiding his frosted cookie in a huge pile of sprinkles.

* Calvin rapidly producing a massive number of artfully decorated, neatly executed cookies, using only colored gel.

* Jack repeatedly discovering that the little red hot candies are REALLY HOT, eating some more to confirm, then scaring the bejeezus out of Ruth and myself by seeming to choke.

* Opening the front door to discover James, who shouts "PRESENT" and thrusts a wrapped package into my hands.

* A brief respite watching videos and lounging on our lush couches.

* Fiona performing a leaping, skipping dance for me, and announcing that she is not a ballerina, but a princess ballerina.

* Looking upward to find some strange lumps stuck to my livingroom ceiling, and realizing from this that small boys had found my dish of "spaghetti and eyeballs" (a leftover from Halloween), pried out the eyeballs, and launched them thitherward. It was the only act of desecration in the household, so I guess I got of lightly.

To sample more of Cookie Party, check out these terribly blurry photos.