I wish I was royalty. Then I could just turn to a servant and say, “Jeeves, have this pressed for me at three.” That would be nice, but the closest I ever got to royalty was a story floated around by some family member that we Tunno’s might be descendants of Albanian Royalty. I thought Albanian Royalty was a fiction, until I looked it up. Apparently, they not…
There wasn’t a lot of excitement at New Brighton Junior High, except when Carolyn Riley arrived breathless after some catastrophe. Usually one of her horses got loose and she had to run, her long thin legs slipping and sliding, to retrieve it. Or the snow-plow had blocked off their driveway with snow, so they had to shovel themselves out, or Margie and Nancy, their lambs (and eventual dinner)…
My brothers were smart, they knew not to bring girls they dated home. The few times they did, Mom would be nice, unless the girl happened to touch them. Holding hands, snuggling, or showing any kind of affection meant she was a puttana and would never do for her sons. She never remembered names, only referring to them as, “datta gal,” as in, “Tella datta gal to eatta…
Unless you’re David Copperfield or Doug Henning, you can’t make split pea soup look beautiful. I must have taken 25 shots of it in every kind of light and it still looked like split pea soup. I almost wrapped a feather boa around the bowl, to dress it up, but decided to go with honesty. Because just like with prospective mates, sometimes you have to look past appearances…
Jesus is in trouble. Ever since my father’s house sold last year, he’s been in limbo. I just found my mother’s treasured 8×10 of him in a corner of my bedroom buried under a pile of partnerless socks. When I moved the sock pile, I discovered my mom’s glow in the dark rosary beads and a St. Anthony plaque laying on top of him. I claimed them all…
Ever experience something you don’t talk about much because you know people will look at you funny? For me, it was the night my mom visited — maybe 7 or 8 years ago. If you’ve been reading this blog for long, you’ll know that’s impossible because my mom died in 1992. However, when she was alive, she always said that after she died she was coming back as…
If you don’t make your own pesto, you should be slapped. * There I said it. That’s probably the most controversial thing you’ll see on this blog, and I mean it. Why? Because you’re passing up your moment of culinary immortality. Years from now, people will forget how you looked, what you said and what you wore, but they’ll never forget the creamy, fresh taste of your pasta…