food

The Twilight Zone of Censorship

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Imagine if you will, an upscale, suburban school district embroiled in conflict over three books on a middle school suggested reading list. One: Narrative of the Life of Fredrick Douglass, An American Slave by Fredrick Douglass. Two: A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry. Three: Summer of the Mariposas by Guadalupe G. McCall. Oh, and the fourth. A picture book: On the Top of the World–Climbing Mount Everest by not reading sections about harm or death on Mount Everest. According to some members of its school board, these aforementioned selections violate instructional protocols for the prohibition of DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion.)

As a former high school and college English teacher, and as an adjunct professor in American Educational History, I am not a fan of banning books, unless they’re pornographic trash. Allow me to digress and make an analogy. I grew up in an ethnically-diverse city in a WASP (White Anglo Saxon Protestant) family, and by virtue of birth, qualified for membership in the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution.) I was a monolingual, minority in a vast melting pot of Italians, Greeks, Czechoslovakians, Hungarians, and Irish, who could all converse with their grandparents in another language. Of course, there were Blacks and Hispanics too.

Our elementary school had no cafeteria; it was just a lunch room where everyone brought a lunch box and a thermos. And it was there that my eyes and my taste buds were forever changed! I tasted pizza, Mexican wedding cookies, strudel, kolachi, cabbage rolls, and wiener schnitzel. I ate baklava, pierogi, tacos, and chow mein. Foods that my mother certainly couldn’t cook; foods that my grandmothers found objectionable. As a college student, I worked at a resident Camp Fire Girls camp, where the Black cook taught me to barbeque chicken and ribs on a wood fire. I became such an expert my grandmother insisted I take over the Sunday menu when it called for barbeque. Indeed, I would have grown up with a limited, insular palate had it not been for my experience.

For politicians to force the removal of books and other educational materials from schools based on DEI is not only irresponsible, but ludicrous. In this high-tech age of information, do they not realize students can explore the world from their cell phone or laptop? Are they so naive to think they can rewrite history by just removing Douglass’ autobiography or mention of the Navajo Code Talkers from the history books? Since the current leadership is anti-science, do they think they can ignore and simply erase the harsh realities of scaling Mount Everest?

Your attempts to suppress history and ban Mark Twain, Harper Lee, J.D. Salinger, and Dr. Seuss are unconscionable and ignorant. Now, while you may deny and/or justify your motives as “protecting children,” that’s absurd. You know, without a doubt, who openly mocked a disabled American, who makes disparaging remarks to women news reporters, who has turned the White House into a gilded slum, and who’s in the Epstein Files. And it’s not Edmund Hillary. It’s The Twilight Zone!

I Am a Regular!

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I recently read an article by Mark Alan Burger, entitled: The Lost Art of Being a Regular: Why You Should Become a Regular Fixture at Your Local Restaurant or Bar. Though, I’d lived in Phoenix for over 25 years, when I got divorced, my group of friends changed. No longer was I invited to couples’ events, Happy Hours, or weekend parties; I was hesitant to walk into a restaurant and say, “Table for one.”

About thirteen years ago, in the midst of July heat, I couldn’t bear the thought of cooking dinner or driving through a fast food joint for a greasy taco with tainted lettuce. Even though my youngest kid had warned me an eon ago to never go into El Mar, I was hungry, and I did. Not only was it not the biker, dive bar she’d described, but it was filled with folk who looked like me all enjoying a leisurely meal in a comfortable, yet festive atmosphere.

The food was good, the staff was excellent, and they offered Trivia Tuesdays. Within weeks, I became a regular. My neighbor and I formed a trivia team, and we became “fixtures” at El Mar! Just as Burger addresses in his article, there are advantages to being a regular:

  1. The owners and the staff not only know my name, but bring my beverage choice to the table before I sit down. We exchange meaningful conversation because we’ve shared our life details, i.e. our dogs, our kids, our vacations, and our occasional dirty jokes!
  2. I’ve met so many interesting people who live in my ‘hood that I would have never encountered elsewhere. Among them include: the head of maintenance at the apartment complex on the corner, an attorney at the State Attorney General’s office, two pediatricians, a talented ceramic artist, and numerous owners of diners and other small businesses. I know the lead singer/guitarist in a cool band, the head of supply chain management for a national sportswear company, a retired police officer, a retired Marine, and a veterinarian technician. All of them have enriched my experience, and some of them ended up as characters in my last novel: Justice for Jeremy.
  3. As a byproduct of engaging with all of these neighborhood folk, I learn a lot of neighborhood news–some gossip, but some valuable info.
  4. El Mar is a place of celebration, too, where we all join in to sing Happy Birthday or Country Roads when the USA soccer team wins.
  5. But what I like best about El Mar, its staff, and its customers is their spirit of community and their commitment to giving back–to the neighborhood public schools, to the animal shelters, to the women’s shelters, to the Christmas toy drives, to Veterans’ organizations, and to summer water drives for the unhoused.

As I reflect on my experience, indeed, it took guts to walk into El Mar alone. Yet, I’m so thankful I did. In this disconnect, insular world of texts, polarization over race and/or economic status, and downright abject hate, it is exhilarating for me to walk into an establishment, where everyone greets one another with a smile or a hug. Yes, I’m a “fixture”–something permanently attached to El Mar, and they will have to scrape me off the wall if they decide to: 8677!

A Woowoo Experience

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I’m not a believer in Karma, Tarot cards, fortune telling, or Ouija Boards, but I had very weird things happen over the last few months. It began with a phone call from my sister who lives in Texas.

“Sue, Cal is going to visit Mount Vermillion next weekend.”

Cal? Her eldest grandson who was born and raised in Houston suburbia was visiting a very small Ohio university in the winter?

“Why?”

“He’s being recruited to play football, and he knows one of the coaches there.”

Granted Mount Vermillion does have an exceptional Division I team, but a big city guy, who’s never lived in winter in a small town, may find the Midwest weather and its culture challenging.

Several months later, Cal phoned. “Aunt Sue, I’ve committed to Mount Vermillion.”

Woowoo! Fifty-six years ago, I graduated from there. Both my brother and my ex-husband went there. “Congratulations, big guy! Perhaps, I’ll come and visit you.”

This week I was dealt the ultimate woowoo. My sister texted: Cal got his room assignment. He’s going to live in Colter Hall.

WTH? Colter Hall? Where I lived as a freshman sixty years ago? Where I watched my brother jumped off the roof a couple years later after a panty raid? Ye, Gods! I texted my college roommate, who resides in Mount Vermillion’s town: Cal is going to live in Colter Hall!

Her response: On our floor?

I responded: No. He’s on the first floor. Do hope the U has remodeled those rooms in 60 years.

The next morning, she called. “Don’t worry, Sue. Our names, cigarette burns, and etchings on the restroom stalls were vanquished years ago.”

“But what about the washer that Hansen threw up in when she couldn’t find the bathroom?”

“Damn it, Sue! Stop with the memories! Have you ever heard of a 60-year-old washing machine? Are you losing it?”

No. Woowoo.

Dirty Myrtle

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Last week was family vacay. We’d originally planned a trip to Bah Mar in Nassau, but given the impending arrival of grandson number 2, we opted to remain stateside–and close to the hospital. As usual, this nervous flyer was sitting at the bar in Charlotte, NC, awaiting her next flight, when the bartender drawled, “Where y’all headed?”

Y’all, I thought. Is she talking to me? “Me? Myrtle Beach.”

“Ah, Dirty Myrtle. That’s a wild place. Y’all staying where the action is?”

OMG! I’m a septuagenarian! Do I look like I could handle action? And what’s this Dirty Myrtle stuff? Granted, I hadn’t been there in fifteen years, but I don’t recall it being dirty. “Where’s the action? I’m staying at Sands.”

“Good for you. You’re a ways away from the action.”

Hmm. Maybe. But maybe, I was missing out on something. Damn, at my age, I can’t afford to waste time; I have FOMO. So I need to research this. Unfortunately, there seems to be no definitive explanation for Dirty Myrtle. Some say there was an old popular beer by the same name. Others suggest it’s due to the Atlantic Ocean’s color on this stretch of the beach, which is murkier than the water to the north or south. Yet, its nickname could have come from the 90’s, when Myrtle Beach was known for its strip joints and nightclubs.

After reading all of this, I was intrigued. I’d have to drink a Dirty Myrtle, gaze at the brown water, and go in a strip joint. Much to my disappointment, I didn’t find Dirty Myrtle Beer, nor did I even see a strip club! Thankfully, though, the Atlantic was clear and blue–probably due to lack of rain. We had great time beaching it; my grandson loved it; the weather cooperated.

I saw no evidence to corroborate the Dirty Myrtle nickname, until I was Ubering toward the beautiful airport:

“There’s NO Such Thing…”

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CLIMATE CHANGE? FAKE NEWS!

As many of you know, I grew up in the city but spent my weekends and summers at my grandparents’ farm. I had the best of both worlds. On one hand, I had the city conveniences of restaurants, movie theaters, shopping malls, and good schools. But on the farm, I received an education! Just like Mark Twain opined: I never let my schooling interfere with my education.

At the farm, I witnessed the stillbirth of a calf, I watched a barn cat deliver ten kittens, I fed the chickens, I helped slop the pigs, I milked a cow, I planted seeds and sapling trees, and I drove the tractor during haying season. I was overwhelmed by the amount of work farmers did: 24-7, 365 days of the year. In fact, I asked my grandmother, “Why don’t you and Grandpa take a vacation?”

“Suzanne! You know why. Cows, chickens, pigs, cats, dogs. Do they ever take a vacation? Plus, there’s crops to grow, gardens to plant, picking, and canning. And then there’s the weather. Will it snow or rain? Will we get enough? Or too little or too much?”

Fast forward to May, 2026. We regret to inform you that our fruit stand will be closed this summer and fall due to a late frost. We are unable to offer any fruits or vegetables. Years ago, a friend of mine recommended this market, who brings in truck loads of fresh, delicious apricots, tomatoes, red and black raspberries, cherries, blueberries, and peaches from Utah. The Angelo Peaches are undoubtedly the best I’ve ever had! I’m really bummed I won’t get to bake a peach cobbler and smother it with vanilla ice cream.

What can we expect? We shoot more pollutants into the air; we abuse the Earth; we mock Mother Nature and defame science. But what I do know this: Dr. Suze can’t bake a cherry, nor a peach pie. Sorry, Billy Boy, your father was right. I’m not wife material.

WTH? It’s A Scam!

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The other day, my friend received these four pieces of plastic in the mail. No invoice, nor instructions were included. She and two of her neighbors tried to assemble the contraption and reached this conclusion.

WTH? They were clueless. “Look up the company listed on the return address. It’s Gathers Fottys.“

Hmm. Gathers Fottys or Geathers Fottys, 3646 S Wolcott Ave., Chicago, Illinois, 60609 is a scam.In fact, it is called brushing–short for brushing up. The scammer finds its customers by trolling the Dark Web for addresses, particularly online advertisers on social media, like Facebook and Instagram. Then he/she mails his/her target a cheap, useless what-not. The unsuspecting targets are clueless, unless they notice an unauthorized purchase on their credit card, Pay Pal, or Venmo. When they report this to their creditor, the scammer provides proof of delivery. Or in some cases, simply uses the target’s name to brag about the quality of their products online. The same tactic is used in bait and switch schemes, when one orders an electric scooter for the low price of $99 and receives six battery-operated tea lights instead. The scammer has proof of delivery, and the target has little recourse.

Of course, victims can report these incidents to the Postal Service, to the Better Business Bureau, and to law enforcement, which is informative, but offer little prospect of monetary compensation. Additionally, by Federal law, the victim does NOT have to return any unsolicited item. In fact, victims are advised NOT to return items because the scammer is now assured the address of his target is correct. Talk about a waste of intelligence! These perps who set up elaborate scams could make money if they used their talents in legitimate endeavors.

Now if you receive one of these packages with random crap, I repeat you can kept it, recycle it, regift it, or trash, but check your credit card or other methods of payment. You’re welcome.

Thimblerig, AKA the Shell Game

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Most of us have this game; sometimes on a street corner, at a bar, or at a party. Using three cups with a coin, a bottle cap, or a pea, the con artist hides the object under a cup and quickly shuffles the three cups around. Your job is to bet which cup covers the object. Of course, the con snatches up your money, as you have chosen the wrong cup. You are mystified by this two-hundred-year-old trick–and out five bucks!

Me? I discovered this week I, too, was a victim several weeks ago at a garden center, where some sick, deranged fool switched the identifying stakes in the tomato plants. I thought I bought “Better Boy” and “Celebrity” tomato plants, but after five straight days of rain and three weeks of desert sun, the vines were a sea of green small balls. Damn! Cherry tomatoes! What good is a bushel of cherry tomatoes? Megamillions of seeds to lodge in my teeth and wreck havoc in my digestive track. I certainly was in no mood to grind them into salsa, nor cook them down and strain all the seeds.

My only choice was to remove the plants, go buy new ones, hope the weather cooperated, and I’d reap a crop. “Do you think it’s too late to plant these?”

“Not sure, ma’am,” said the guy in the garden center. “Depends on the weather.”

Duh. “The only reason I have to is I got snookered by Thimblerig!”

He looked at me quizzically. “Uh, what?”

“Thimblerig. The Shell Game. Someone switched out the stakes in your plants; I thought I was buying big tomatoes, not cherry tomatoes. I’m not wasting my time and my water bill on dumb little cherries.”

“Ha, I hear ya! I got gut problems, too. Let me tell you a story about my friend who bought his kid a pygmy pig and ended up with a 400-pound sow.”

By the end of his story, I was regaled in laughter. Yes, Suzanne, there’s a lot worse things than buying cherry tomato plants.

Don’t Dictate My Diet

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On my return flight to Phoenix last week, I had a first class seat. Since it was an early flight, allegedly breakfast would be served. What I was handed was a cardboard box labeled: All Day Vegetarian Meal. When I opened the box, I was stunned.

Four grapes and two blueberries in a cup. A sliver of cheese, two crackers, a slice of Lemon Chia bread, a Chia energy bar, and Chia trail mix. (WTH is Chia anyway, and why is it good for me?) Since when did Americans become a nation of vegetarians? Of course, this event sent me on a search, and what I discovered is approximately 4% of Americans are vegetarians. The math is easy–96% of us eat some kind of meat.

I’ve a young friend who is so committed to her vegetarianism she won’t eat cheese if there’s also meat products on the charcuterie board. Another friend is overtly large, but a vegan. How is that possible? I’d starve to death! Now, I certainly don’t choose my friends based on their dietary habits. They can pick and choose what they eat when they’re at my house.

But the numbers speak for themselves. Why does the airline cater to 4% of the population? Why not, at least, provide a Slim Jim for the rest of us?