Halloween was my favorite holiday when I was a kid. I loved it more than Christmas. It was that cool time of year when the leaves would fall from the trees on windy evenings and the breeze still had a hint of warmth. I guess it also had to do with the fact that on Halloween night I would get CANDY, CANDY and more CANDY. I loved dressing up and loved creating my perfect costume. When we were little, my Mom would make Halloween costumes for me and Tracy:

“Help, I’ve lost my sheep! And my dignity.”

In later years, Mom would sometimes buy us costumes from the store — probably K-Mart, and most likely a blue-light special. Little girls in the late ’60s and early ’70s had about two costume choices: nurse or witch. I chose the nurse. I liked those little candy pills that came in the little plastic nurse’s box. Hand-me-downs were also a part of Halloween: Coleen and Melissa would be wearing those Little Bo Peep costumes a few years later.

Once I was a lot older (at least 9 or 10), I would pride myself in making my own costume. I wasn’t your typical girly-girl who wanted to be a Princess or Fairy or Bride for Halloween. I was immensely proud of a bum costume I designed once. I used a pair of my Dad’s old pants, an old shirt and tie, and a sailor’s hat. Hmm. Apparently I was a bum from some ’40s Hollywood movie. I rubbed used coffee grounds all over my face to resemble a five-o’clock shadow. “Brother, can you spare a dime? Or a Snickers?”

When I was just starting elementary school, there was a super dry spell in Halloween festivities for children in the San Francisco Bay Area. There was a crazy serial killer named the Zodiac on the loose. During those Zodiac years, no trick-or-treating was allowed in the greater Vallejo area. I hated the Zodiac. I was too young to understand what was going on — all I knew was some crazy person had ruined my favorite holiday and all of us were banned to school cafeterias and community centers to celebrate our Halloween. Trick-or-treating around a cafeteria just isn’t the same once you’ve experienced the real outdoor festivities, especially when that nasty warm corn smell was still lingering in the cafeteria air from lunch time.

We’d parade around the cafeteria in our costumes getting candy and snacks. Oh, and there was bobbing for apples, or as I like to call it, Hello Hepatitis! What were those adults thinking? Hey guys, let’s grab a huge rusty pail from the backyard scrap pile, fill it with water from the hose and throw some apples in it. Then for kicks, let’s have the kids dress up like dorks with crazy makeup all over their face, run around the block begging the neighbors for candy in the cold, then drag them and their runny noses over to the big rusty water pail full of apples and stick their faces in it. Then let’s have them bite at the apples with their candy-corroded teeth long enough so that their spit mixes together in the water. If one of them actually snags an apple in their teeth, they WIN!! They win an APPLE!!

Even as a kid I knew there was something terribly wrong with bobbing for apples. But there were more dangers lurking around in Halloween goodies. My Dad made us well aware of the potential razor blade or cherry bomb or “drug injected by needle” that just might be hiding in our mini Three Musketeers bar. When we got home from trick-or treating during the non-Zodiac years, we had to line up and pass our bags over to Dad for official inspection. Dad would check for pin holes and the like in our candy wrappers. Many times he would have to taste test our candy to be sure they were safe for us. He had to check A LOT of our candy. Well, he didn’t want a cherry bomb to blow our cheek off.

One time I didn’t listen to my Mom and Dad’s lecture about eating candy at night and I snuck lots of candy from my trick-or-treat bag into my room right before bed, and proceeded to eat most of it. That night, I had the dreaded “eating-candy-before-bedtime nightmare.” About werewolves. Dancing werewolves. If you missed that post, click here, or here (I tend to write about those werewolves quite a bit, apparently).

I don’t eat candy before bed any more. And I sleep with a gun loaded with silver bullets.

Gourmet Top Ramen


On a few occasions, most likely a Pay Day Friday, my family would go out for Chinese Food. That was pretty much the only Asian cuisine we knew of around the Vallejo suburbs back then. I specifically remember the Cathay Inn. Not a fan. Not that their food wasn’t good. Of course I wouldn’t know, the only thing I ever ate there were the deep-fried prawns. The only thing my family ever ate was the Sweet and Sour Pork and Chow Mein. However, this wasn’t your Sweet and Sour Pork and Chow Mein of today … I vaguely remember chunks of fat covered in limp, bready stuff with bland red sauce and bean sprouts, maybe with a few noodles mixed in. I’m not sure the waitress ever handed us menus, because this is all we ever ordered. The prawns were a safe bet for my discerning palette, and even though I didn’t like fortune cookies, at least there was the promise of a goofy fortune at the end of the meal.

I swore I hated Chinese Food until my sister, Coleen, dragged me to the Mandarin House in Napa as an adult and ordered Broccoli Chicken for me. I was in love. This was Chinese food?! What the hell were we eating as kids?! I don’t remember Orange Chicken! Or potstickers! Cashew Shrimp? Food, glorious food!! Take me to a restaurant now, and all I want is Chinese, Japanese or Thai. Make it Asian please. Domo arigato!!

But I digress. When we couldn’t make it to the Cathay Inn, Mom had her version of Asian fare, and believe it or not, I think I actually enjoyed this one.

• 4 packages of Top Ramen or any dried Asian noodles on sale. Alright, Top Ramen probably cost 2-1/2 cents a package then, so I have a feeling my Mom splurged for it.
• Prepare the ramen in pot as directed.
• Don’t bother transferring the noodles to a big fancy serving dish — you don’t have one.

Prepare a few of these optional toppings:

Chopped green onions
Grated carrots
Chopped hard-boiled eggs
Chopped pieces of “Land-o-Frost” Pressed/Cooked Luncheon Meat
Diced tomatoes
Chopped Spam
Canned peas

Place each topping in its own special little bowl (substitute old margarine tubs as needed). Put the pot of Top Ramen in the middle of the table. Make sure to place it on the knitted potholder your youngest made for you in summer school. Space the little bowls equally around the pot (this is quite impressive if your kids’ friends come over for dinner). Put a teaspoon in each dish. Go to the small kitchen canister, dig your hand in past the stale saltine cracker packages and grab a handful of the soy sauce packets you saved from Chinese takeout. Place one at each table setting. Spoon some Top Ramen into each person’s dinner bowl and then let them dig into the toppings. If you want to make it fancy and expose the kids to some Japanese culture while they’re eating, be sure to turn on The Courtship of Eddie’s Father.



blue mooncourtesy of kevin phillips – pixabay


Tonight is a blue moon. It only happens once in a blue moon. (Thank you, I’ll be here all week.) Apparently, a blue moon isn’t a moon that looks blue in the sky, it’s when two full moons occur within the same calendar month – and the second one is called the blue moon.

So what’s the big deal? Well, spiritually you can take advantage of this time to purge, to bring things to a close, to start fresh. If you’re pregnant, you might want to try to take a nap and make sure your hospital bag is ready to go. If you’re a werewolf … sorry, you have two transformations this month. For me, I like to think the energy of this blue moon will bring me extra luck. Or it will simply create low and high tides. Whatever.

When I was a little kid, I remember going outside and just staring at the moon. I remember hearing there was a man in the moon, and that the moon was made of cheese … but mostly I just remember looking for astronauts. I was five when man first landed on the moon. That was a big deal back then. It was all everybody talked about. I was so amazed just thinking that a rocket ship could blast astronauts into space and land them on the moon. I’d squint really hard trying to see those astronauts walking around up there. It’s weird to think back and realize we were experiencing a major part of history. Wow, I must be old.

I’ve always thought the moon was cool. When I was a kid, it was my major source of entertainment when riding in the car at night. I didn’t have a tablet, or Nintendo DS, or a Kindle, or whatever hand-held device is cool these days, so instead of fighting with my sisters in the back seat of the car, I’d just look out the window at the sky. I loved looking at the stars and the moon. That moon would always follow us. Every time we drove home from my grandparent’s house – which was almost every weekend – that moon was there. Even if we exited off the highway, made a turn, whatever … there it was. Magical. It was like my special friend, always making sure I got home safe and lighting up my room so monsters wouldn’t come out of the closet. I still watch the moon when I’m driving at night. Well, I mean I don’t actually stare at the moon when I’m driving, that’s ridiculous, but Jay is always driving so I stare at the moon. There’s just something about it. I’m excited to check out the blue moon tonight. And if it disappoints, I can always have this:

blue moon bottle

Oh yes. I know you guys (my three loyal readers) think I’m a snooty-snob who only loves fancy amber microbrews with Red in the name (like Red Hook ESB), but l found a new brewskie to love. And her name is Blue Moon. We were visiting Jay’s brother and went out that night and there was no Red Hook on the menu. Oh, the humanity. So I opted for a Blue Moon. I’d had it before, as my bro-in-law Brian likes it, but I always thought it was just your average beer. But this time, they threw a few fancy orange wedges in there. Hmm. Interesting. Quite the taste sensation. So I bought some Blue Moon at Costco cuz you can get 3,000 bottles for like $15 dollars. Blue Moon says they brew their beer with coriander and orange peel. More interesting. That’s like two of my favorite flavors; didn’t recognize them in there before. And I’ve amped it up lately. I pour fresh-squeezed orange juice in Blue Moon. (When in Fresno …) Who would’ve thought I’d like something sweet with beer. Now I add like a half-cup of orange juice or more to a beer. De-li-ci-ous. I think I’m on to something here. Well, at least I’m getting some extra vitamin C.

I just went outside and looked at the moon. It looks full already. Kinda creamy-colored, a hint of orange peel. I’m pretty sure I saw an astronaut.

I love cooking shows. I mean, I love cooking, which is likely obvious. Hopefully it’s also obvious I never make any of the disgusting retro recipes I post on here. Except for Big Mac Casserole, which I make for Jay and my Dad. Apparently a lot of other people love Big Mac Casserole, too, cuz according to my blog stats, people are constantly searching for Big Mac Casserole recipes. Shudder.

Part of the fun of cooking is making food for the people you love. At least it is for me. My sisters and I started cooking when we could reach the stove. Not out of love, but because it was on the Chore List. We were actually making stuff like homemade spaghetti sauce at about age 10. I think the first meal we ever made was breakfast in bed for our parents on their wedding anniversary. What kid in the ’70s didn’t try that at least once? I’m sure everyone made the same thing … weak coffee and burnt toast – with the morning newspaper set on the tray to make it fancy.

When it comes to cooking, I have a basic rotation I’m comfortable with, featuring the usual suspects like enchiladas, stir-fries, soups, pastas and what-not. I certainly don’t attempt Beef Wellington or Lobster Thermidor like some Julia Child-wannabe; I just make what Jay and I like. But I do like to watch all the fancy cooking shows for inspiration. I’ve learned how to make a meal in under 30 minutes (thanks “Rachael”), chop onions with oven mitts on (thanks “Cutthroat Kitchen”) and create a delectable appetizer with a box of mystery ingredients featuring dandelion greens, jicama, pickled plums and Rocky Mountain oysters (thanks “Chopped”).

But for this bona fide germaphobe (that’s me), it’s difficult watching a bunch of frantic, perspiring pseudo-chefs on a competition cooking show trying to beat the clock. I mean, some of those people are seriously dripping with sweat. There’s nothing worse than watching a bead of sweat hanging off a chef’s nose when their head is positioned right over the food. I feel like Brian Doyle-Murray’s character during the end scene in “Caddyshack” … watching and waiting for the ball to drop in the hole – only that outcome was a good one.

And it’s not just the piles of bodily fluids pouring off their foreheads, it’s also the other disgusting things the chefs do. They’ll take a sip out of a bottle of some soda or wine or something, and then pour some in their dish. They’ll rub their ear and nose with their fingers and then grab a pinch of salt to add to their masterpiece. And hey, I never see them wash their hands. Well, sometimes I watch a chef who has their own cooking show dissect a chicken and then say, “Gotta wash my hands.” Then they’ll cut to a close-up of the faucet spout (Why??!! Who cares??!!) while the chef rubs their hands under the water for 1.5 seconds. Yes, that certainly killed off all the salmonella.

Anyway, some of these competition cooking shows are starting to get on my nerves. At least the judges are. Plus, the melodrama and music scores of some of the shows are also tough to watch and listen to. If they don’t lighten up a bit, I may have to stop watching cooking shows altogether. But I think the profusion of sweat may make me stop watching first. Then again, if the condescending judges are the only ones that have to eat that perspiration-drenched, contaminated food, I say, “Sweat away, Sweaty.”


If you have to live in Fresno, California, one good thing is you usually have at least some type of citrus tree in your yard. We do. In fact, we have 12. There’s a small orange grove in our yard, which is like an acre and a half. And we have two kumquat trees. And a loquat tree. If you don’t know what that is, you’re missing out. I can’t wait till those ripen. We had a loquat tree when I was growing up in Napa. Those things are delicious. I didn’t think I’d ever find one again, but when we got here, there it was in all its glory. That was my first sign that maybe Fresno wouldn’t suck.

So yeah, I have oranges coming out of my a**. I remember visiting Papa Don in Arizona and seeing his fancy electric citrus juicer. I went back to Oregon and bought one of those bad boys so I could juice oranges. Only I had to buy bags of them to do it. Now I have all the oranges I want … for free. It’s awesome. But I don’t know how much longer they’ll last. We’ve harvested them again and again, so there aren’t that many left now. But the trees keep getting new blossoms (which smell like heaven BTW), though I don’t think oranges have a second harvest. In the meantime I’m looking at a full bag sitting on the kitchen table. I can’t make orange stuff fast enough. I’ve made Orange Muffins, Orange Cupcakes, Orange Sugar Cookies, Orange Chicken, Orange Glazed Salmon … the list goes on and on. And naturally I’ve squeezed a gazillion oranges for juice and zested about a bazillion. My freezer is turning orange. But I’m not complaining; it’s awesome. I went home (to Oregon) last month and checked a huge suitcase full of oranges to take to the family. I can’t get rid of these things fast enough. I hand them out to Jay’s brother, Jay’s co-workers, visiting relatives, the neighbors, the pool guy … yeah, I have a pool guy. Fresno doesn’t suck.

Anyway, when I juice oranges I think of my Grandpa BK. When I was a kid and spent the night at BK and ME’s house, BK would go out to his orange tree in the backyard, pick a bunch, and come into the house and squeeze them (by hand, not with the fancy electric juicer like I have). Me and my sisters were raised on frozen concentrate and Tang, so when BK offered us the fresh-squeezed OJ, we’d wince – so he’d add a little sugar and it was all good. He was so proud of that tree. He’d be thrilled with our little orange grove.

Another thing I think about when I juice oranges is that ’70s kid show H.R. Pufnstuf. I loved that crazy thing. I wanted Freddy the Flute more than Witchiepoo did. And she’s why I can’t get this ridiculous song out of my head when I juice oranges.

Chicken Pot Pie

Mary Ann made Chicken Pot Pie when we were kids. Actually, I think Banquet made it, and Mom baked it. Hurl. I never liked it. Seems like it always ended up burnt on at least one side and half of the top. The only part I liked was the bottom crust … assuming it stayed soft and didn’t get burned also. There was always about one cube of fake carrot and about three fake peas floating around in there. Not a fan. Sorry I don’t have a fancy Chicken Pot Pie recipe for you, because I never make it. The only thing that comes to mind when I hear “Chicken Pot Pie” is this:



But I recently ate a Chicken Pot Pie … and loved it. Actually it was a Chicken Pie – no Pot. I had said pie in Fresno – the armpit of California. Why did I eat a Chicken Pie in Fresno? Because I live there now. I haven’t had a chance to tell many people because it happened quickly and this last month has been a whirlwind. Jay was offered a fantastic career opportunity, thanks to his bro James, and I reluctantly agreed to the move. We hope to be here just a few years, but still. If you asked me to make a list of 100 places I’d like to live, Fresno would not be on it. Fresno wouldn’t even have the chance to be honored to be nominated for the list.

So I left Oregon and my family, kicking and screaming the whole way. Well, I didn’t kick and scream on the drive here; that would’ve made it even more difficult to navigate my truck and trailer on the highway. Though once we hit California, the other drivers were kicking and screaming. Jay said some were even flipping him off as he drove the U-Haul ahead of me. Ah, I remember road rage.

I did some research on Fresno before the move. Despite boasting a super high crime rate, horrid air quality and ridiculously hot summers, the city has a cool area called the Tower District. I made Jay take me there last weekend, so I could try to find something to like about Fresno. And, it was pretty cool! Funky shops, antique stores, Sequoia Brewing Company and the art deco Tower Theatre. The theater was closed, so we were peeking through the front doors. An employee saw us and let us in … in fact, they gave us a tour of the whole place and introduced us to the owners. Very cool. And, across the street was the Chicken Pie Shop. I had read about it online, too, and figured it was worth a try. I knew at least Jay would love it.

Jay had to fight me for the Chicken Pie. We only ordered one to share, and one is just not enough. That thing was delicious. I hate gravy, but whatever they put on and in this pie was heaven – like eating Hollandaise. The place is retro – or actually, it hasn’t been updated since it opened that I can tell – and that’s part of its charm. I highly recommend checking it out it you ever make it here. Though I don’t recommend moving to Fresno.


Wow, remember recess in the ’70s? That was crazy. As a kid who hadn’t reached double digits yet, I was dying to get out of my classroom and run around. Thinking back, there sure were lots of hazards out on that playground – a blank canvas of concrete for us to skin our knees and elbows on. In fact, I remember one specific recess in the spring of 1971 when I skinned my elbow righteously (not sure how) and some random school employee led me back to my classroom door where I had to wait, literally dripping blood, until the teacher came back from break. Nobody rushed me to the school nurse, or a hospital, and I certainly don’t remember any ambulances showing up. She just slapped some mercurochrome and a bandage on it and made me go in and finish my spelling lesson.

Sure, nowadays I imagine there are all kinds of safety measures set in place to protect little children from the horrors of the elementary school experience. But when I was a kid? Not so much. Oh, I’m not saying we didn’t look forward to those precious 15 minutes of respite from learning our ABC’s and smelling chalk dust. But there were certainly a million ways for us to maim ourselves out there.

First of all, let’s get this out of the way: Dodge Ball. As a bona fide shrimp of a kid, this was not my favorite recess activity. Not only was I always picked last, but I was also knocked out first … usually catching at least five feet of air in the process.

Next, the monkey bars. It wasn’t so much the monkey bars that were the problem; it was the HARD concrete below them that didn’t necessarily cushion your fall when you missed a rung. Last time I saw monkey bars at a school, I think they had those fancy cushion-y black puzzle-like pads under them. Today, I think they have feather-bed mattresses below them … or spotters from the US Olympic Team.

Let’s move on to that crazy spherical metal-climbing thing. You know the one. Kids would climb all over that thing, and at least one would fall through it, tumble over it, or get strangled in it … usually resulting in a lost front tooth. Or how about the merry-go-round? That was only fun until some kid puked on it … which was always within the first five minutes.

The slides always promised a little excitement, only our slides in the ’70s were glistening steel; on a hot, sunny day, you could get third-degree burns on those things – that was if you actually sled down the thing instead of running down it full speed.

Tetherball was fun. I played that all the time. Well, I stood there all the time while my taller opponent wrapped that ball around the pole again and again, often bopping the side of my head while they did.

If you didn’t care for the fancy playground equipment, you could always get a jump-rope, lasso some kid smaller than you, and make them be your “horse” so you could gallop around like an idiot.

Whatever Hunger Games-type of adventure we decided upon during recess, it was usually fun until the bell rang … signaling you only had about two minutes to get your ass back in your chair in your classroom. So you either had to choose to pee (and if you were a girl, get freaked out by crazy fourth-grade girls staring in the mirror and reciting that “Mary Worth, Mary Worth, I Believe in Mary Worth” creepy game) OR try to get some hydration at the water fountain. Usually I tried to get a drink of water. However, our elementary school drinking fountain had a protocol: it had four spickets, and they were unofficially designated as: Coffee, Tea, Soda Pop and Pee. Oh man, by the time recess was coming to a close, those lines were deep: Coffee had at least three kids – Tea had about four. And the Soda Pop line was a mile long … so, sometimes you went without water.


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