My passion for the whale began in the early 1980s when an editor assigned me to write a feature story on the “new” whale watch tours.
Because I own and drive a vehicle, live in a home thick with petroleum-based products, and the miscellaneous impacts of my carbon footprint, I am a part of this ecological nightmare’s cause.
To say that my heart dropped to the lowest ocean depths possible with the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, and to say that my fury with loud mouthed hypocritical politicians and their pundits has raised my blood pressure to blast me out from the lowest ocean depths, is more than a marginal metaphor.
When the same search term shows up on this blog’s statistics, I smell buzz, interest and something’s going on. “Rahm Fama” and variations of his name, keep showing in my search engine terms. So, I’m smelling meat. Really. Meat. As I reported in January https://charmainesmusepallet.wordpress.com/2010/01/06/chef-rahm-fama-vegetarians-be-advised/ vegetarians and PETA advocates, be advised, Chef Fama, “a kid from Santa Fe,” was under consideration for a new Food Channel program, Meat Masters. Rahm slayed the bull and won the position. Chef Rahm Fama is The Meat Master and […]
And that, perhaps, is the purpose of memoirs. Really, who gives three flying pigs about my life? Much more interesting tales have and will be told. But at the same time, the writer in me wishes to connect with her readers and render that commonality we share. You know, ring a bell, strike a chord, hit a nerve.
While I’d love to be her perfect child, my imperfections lead me down the road that erases Mother’s perfection from my memory. Understand I’m not her worse child. Others far exceed my lack of respect, but if I was one of her finest, I’d always practice what I preach.
My first discovery authenticated a sanity-survival technique self-taught during the early days of parenting—shut off what I don’t want to hear. That includes squawking voices. This lingering skill undermined my scientific study, however. Every time the commercial runs aired, my inside ears shut it off and I went about the business of chopping carrots, chatting with spouse, visiting the bathroom, or checking Facebook updates
Cowing’s 2009 Jackrabbit Highways juts along paths of loss, wonder, anger, self-revelation and discovery. Like a quick-moving jackrabbit, Cowing’s precise word movement is as pleasant juicy to read as the first bite into a September-ripened tomato as noted in her poem “Tomato.”
Route 66 traverses my American life. My father bought a canvas radiator water bag for the blue and white 1955 Chevy wagon. We packed fried chicken, buttered white bread, hard-boiled eggs and Oreo cookies in a basket, and left California behind to see the USA in our Chevrolet eastbound on Route 66. When school returned each September, the iconic “What I did Last Summer” essays by classmates told tales about live lions, snake pits, dancing Indians, and buffalo burgers all experienced along the […]
I love shoes about as much as I love chocolate. Ever since ever the hunt for the darling shoe in the perfect color that coordinates with my outfit de’jour rates high in my top ten agenda. Once my peds took heel, this soleful passion kicked off when my grandmother said, “You need red tennis shoes for your new jeans and red shirt.” Red cowboy boots followed, along with black patent leather Mary Janes , white patent leather flats, orange sandals, rainbow-hued flip-flops […]