Remember the Duggars?
I can always tell when Michelle Duggar is pregnant. No, she doesn’t have to pee on a stick; I need only check my blog’s top entry pages. When Snape Hearts Michelle Duggar starts creeping up in the ratings, some sort of Duggary Goodness is a-brew; and if you’re a Duggar, goodness = fecundity.
If Shara can be trusted, Number Eighteen is on the way. Should we start the naming pool? J-names only, people. I pick “Jaggers” if it’s a boy, “Jezebel” if it’s a girl.
From Shara’s blog:
Now, I know a lot of people might think that having 18 kids is irresponsible or just plain crazy and I might have even been one of those people once. But, this is one of the happiest most well adjusted families that you will EVER meet. I would like to be one of the Duggars! Really!
How does she know this? How can Shara distinguish happiness from Stepfordian acquiescence? She went to school with Michelle. That’s right — Shara is a firsthand witness to Duggary. I wish she had given us some insight into the teen pre-Duggar Michelle, but sadly she does not.
In a recent comment to this blog, Stefanie writes,
The Duggar family inspires me quite a bit. I mean, yes they have 16 children, but look at how much patience they have with all their children, especially the little ones. More power to them! If the Lord decided that this is the lifestyle for them to live, so be it. It’s not our place to judge each other. Like the bible says “Judge not les ye be judged†and “He without sin casts the first stoneâ€. Let the family live in peace. They are doing God’s work upon Earth. They are truly blessed with a wonderful family and I hope to see more documentaries about them in the future. God Bless Duggar Family!
Ah, where to begin. How about the fact that that particular post, aside from poking a little fun at a poorly worded email (supposedly from Jana Duggar), hardly threw “the first stone,” nor was it the least bit judgmental. But I’m more interested in Stefanie’s assertion that the Duggars are doing God’s work upon Earth.
For the sake of argument, let’s grant that God exists. Either (A) God’s ways and movements are mysterious, or (B) God’s ways and movements are revealed to the likes of Stefanie, Pat Robertson, George W. Bush, etc. If (B) is true, I would like these cognoscenti to explain to me the horror of evil, particularly evil inflicted upon the innocent and defenseless. And if they explain it by invoking God’s mysteriousness and ineffability, then (A) is true, in which case I would politely request that these folks shut the eff up about God.
***
‘Kay everyone, I’ve reached my depth for the evening. I had a bad night last night thanks to the horrors of acid reflux; it’s a minor miracle I managed to get some decent writing in today. But I did! Yay me!
One sex scene: down.
Two virgins: deflowered.
Stay tuned for tomorrow, wherein I meet some of Ellora’s cavepeople.
D.
On those days when I get to do cases in Gold Beach, I’m unequivocally happy with my profession. It’s a beautiful drive (photos below), made better by the driver’s tendency to blare Gogol Bordello at cochlea-splitting volume. Gold Beach is a lovely little coastal city with a top notch new/used bookstore. The hospital staff always make me feel welcome, and they take great care of my patients. So — what’s not to love?
I ran out of memory on my camera, unfortunately, and missed what would have been a heartwarming photo op. As I passed through Brookings on my way home, there were two competing political demonstrations: an anti-war group on one corner, and a collection of flag-waving “support our troops” characters on the opposite corner. The anti-war group had the flag-wavers outnumbered 10:1. Yay! And this is one of the more Republican areas of Oregon.
Below the fold: what I did to day, in pictures.
Imagine a necklace, its wooden locket small, flat, lozenge-shaped. It has a seam along its long diagonal, and it is hinged at the center. Twist it, and it changes from lozenge to heart, and what’s more, a new seam appears. Now the wearer may open the heart, revealing a tiny photo of the face of her beloved.
But the locket is a fiction, a special effect, and the metaphorical strings and wires are in plain sight. Seams visible one shot vanish in the next. Someone has done some sleight of hand, and it wasn’t the young girl’s lover, the budding Illusionist. The locket isn’t a magician’s trick; it’s merely the prop of a dishonest filmmaker.
This is one of the film’s earliest images, and also one of its most emblematic. The filmmaker (director and screenwriter Neil Burger) isn’t content to leave visual deceit to his protagonist, commoner-cum-performer Eisenheim (Edward Norton). He’s willing to fool his audience, too, with misleading reaction shots and uproariously illogical character motivations, whatever is necessary to lead his viewers by their noses to his oh-so-predictable surprise ending.
H for Truly Heinous.
From ABC Distributing, meet the Stoneware Egg Separator:

In case the picture wasn’t clear enough, ABC Distributing provides the following explanation:
Just break an egg into the separator, tilt it 45 degrees, and watch as the egg white drips out of his nose, leaving a perfect yolk inside the dish!
Also from ABC Distributing: for that low-expectations nephew of yours, get him his very own 32″ Stamped Steel Pennzoilâ„¢ & John Deere® Gas Pump!

When your little one asks, Mommy, could I grow up to be President someday? don’t you always throw up a little when you say, Yes, dear, anyone in God’s America can grow up to be President? ‘Tis nothing more bitter than to lie to a child. Better, then, to redirect:
President, dear? Why be President, when you could be a gas jockey?
Oy. My mom’s birthday is approaching. Maybe I’ll just get her this Talking Napoleon Dynamite pen.
D.
An early Thirteen, because somewhere in the world it’s already Thursday*.
Veterans to my Thursday Thirteens know I like to use these occasions to revel in the only subject of which I never tire: me. It’s autobiography as viewed through a variety of lenses. Food, sex, love, are little more than angles and gimmicks. But isn’t that the original idea of the TT, to learn more about the author?
I shall always be faithful to this blog’s subtitle. Besides, if you’re here reading this, you haven’t tired of me, either. Or perhaps you’re just hoping for more recipes.
Follow me below the fold: my life in movies.
Did you ask for it? No! Are you getting it? Yes!
My oxtail stew recipe* . . .
Why oxtail stew, you ask? Assuming you don’t object to red meat (sorry, Shaina), it’s delicious. Unlike beef, oxtails retain their flavor even after long cooking, so it’s an ideal crockpot or overnight stew. Indeed, you can’t rush oxtail stew.
It’s a cheaper version of ossobuco and every bit as good. Since I can’t often find veal shanks in our grocery store, this is the closest I can get to ossobuco.
You’ll want two good-sized oxtail pieces for each adult. Look for large-diameter, meaty, close-to-the-butthole pieces (because that’s where it’s most flavorful!) You’ll use the little pieces, too; not so much for the meat, but they do add flavor to the stew.
Preheat oven — anywhere from 275F to 350F, depending on how long you plan on letting it cook. Low heat/slow cook is best. Typically, I’ll set it up in the early afternoon and cook it at least four hours, maybe five, at 300 to 325F. At 350F, I suspect it would still take at least 3 hours for the oxtails to become tender.
Sprinkle the oxtail pieces with salt and pepper, then lightly dust with flour. In a Dutch oven, brown the pieces in olive oil on all sides. If you do this over medium to medium-high heat, the flour and oil will form a little roux at the bottom of the Dutch oven. Save this. If the heat gets too high, the roux will burn. Don’t save this. So: great if you can manage to get that little bit of roux, but don’t stress out if it burns. Just throw it away and use fresh vegetable oil for your vegies.
That’s the next step. Once you’ve browned the oxtails, set them aside and saute some vegies. I like a traditional mirepoix of yellow onions, carrots, and celery, but I also add chopped button mushrooms or portabellas. Dice them all quite fine. Chop up some garlic cloves while you’re at it, but add them only after you’ve sauteed the vegies. Continue sauteeing until fragrant. In other words, don’t burn the damned garlic.
Add a cup of a full-bodied red wine. Boil off the alcohol. Add the browned oxtails. In honor of George W. Bush’s all-time-low approval rating, add a 28-ounce can of crushed tomatoes (I like S&W) on top of the oxtails. Add a bit of salt and pepper (you can always add more later) and shove a few bay leaves down, down, down deep into the stew. I also add about a half-teaspoon of dry thyme and a good pinch of oregano.
Heat to a simmer. Put the lid on. Shove it into the oven and cook the crap out of it.
By the way: the liquid in the stew ought to come close to the top surface of the oxtails. Add some stock if necessary — chicken, beef, vegetable, doesn’t matter what kind of stock.
After the stew has been cooking at least three or four hours, take it out of the oven. Taste one of the oxtails: the meat should pull away from the gristle and melt in your mouth. If it’s tough, you haven’t cooked it long enough. This dish tastes better the next day, so you have no excuse to undercook it.
Stir well, flipping the tails. Now taste the stewy part. (You might need to spoon away some of the fat.) Adjust for salt and pepper. You can add some lemon zest, chopped Italian parsley, and chopped fresh garlic if the stew tastes too bland, but that is usually not a problem.
Serve with crusty French bread. Questions? (If you’ve never eaten oxtails, you’ll soon be asking: Now, how the hell do I eat one of these? But it ain’t that tough. The meat should peel away from the gristle with little effort. If it doesn’t, it’s undercooked.)
D.
*Old-timers here knows what it means when I’m posting recipes. Means I’m bone tired, too tired to do anything truly creative. Sorry, Corn Dog, the ant post will have to wait.
Thank you all for participating in the Balls and Walnuts First Annual Ridiculously Easy Recipe Contest. You’re welcome to add more recipes, but the contest is now CLOSED.
Yes, I’ve picked a winner.
Methodology
Contestants’ names were scrawled on a 3×5 card. If the contestant (call her ‘Julia Child’) submitted multiple entries, her entries were labeled “Julia Child 1,” “Julia Child 2,” and so forth. Next, I cut the strips as uniformly as possible, placed them into an empty water bottle, and shook.
I uncapped the bottle and one LARGE slip fell out. They had all stuck together, thanks to the presence of a bit of residual water in the bottle.
Too cheap to buy cookbooks for all of you, I unpeeled the slips and placed them face-down on a table. My son picked the winning name via a process of intuition and an abbreviated form of ‘eeny meeny miny moe.’
And the winner is . . .
Been so long since I wrote a Smart Bitches Day post, I expect Auntie Beth has forgotten all about me. Have you, Beth? Cuz I haven’t forgotten you. And here I am, back again with another, “Sweet Jeebus is he NEVER going to understand the meaning of SBD?” post.
Simple question, really. Genre conventions are important, right? But allowing your characters to do their thing, act ‘in character,’ is important, too. So what happens if convention runs head to head with a character’s, erm, character?
I’m thinking about the “I love you.” Supposed to come at the end of the romance, right? Something like . . .
“I love you.”
“And I love you.”
Exeunt all.
The curtain, that veil of words, closes within a few paragraphs at most. Perhaps a few pages. But a few chapters? Whaaaa?
But that’s what my hero wants to do. Not so much the heroine; she’s content to leave it to the very end. It makes sense for her to keep her mouth shut about her feelings. But the hero is an inexperienced romantic who has never been burned. He’s drowning in that rush of emotion and damn it he wants to share, share, SHARE with the woman he loves! I LOVE YOU! he wants to scream. I WANT TO BE WITH YOU FOREVER ‘N EVER! Because that’s who he is.
As romance readers, how much does this bother you? Do the “I love yous” have to come at the end, or can I break it up like this? Bottom line, I have to break it up like this, because my hero isn’t gonna act out of character. Does that make my novel something other than romance? *shiver* Lad lit, perhaps? Say it ain’t so!
Discuss.
D.
Just finished an 1183-word scene for my romance. It’s the first new scene I’ve written in months — I had bogged down in the editing and had been resisting the inevitable. I needed/need a new ending.
I had a hunch this would happen. That my muse was ready, but she wouldn’t cough it up until I sat down at the computer and STARTED. “Sorry, chum,” she’s saying, “you have to ante to play.”
Best of all, the next scene is a sex scene, and the story demands that it top the previous two sex scenes. I love writing sex scenes. My wife may not be as delighted; I tend to get rather demanding.
Eh. Too bad.
D.