I'm Just Sayin'

Part 1: Kitten learns that dog treats may disrupt digestive system, access to bedroom restricted as a result

A kitten who consumed an entire bag of chicken-flavored dog chews has experienced nausea and is now restricted from entering a lower level bedroom and bath, according to an inside source. The adventurous cat reportedly climbed a set of built-in shelves to access the bag of treats, causing a basketful of pet supplies to tumble to the floor. The cat then allegedly consumed the treats, and vomited on a bed.

A source who chose to remain anonymous said a second cat in the household could have joined in the caper, but it was unlikely since “the two are not known to collaborate.” The source said a “devoted pet sitter” noticed the vomit and removed a bed sheet which had been placed on the bed to protect the more valuable quilt.

“Apparently, the laundry lady washed the sheet and put it away somewhere, so there was nothing to cover the bed with,” the source said. As a result, the litter box, toys, food and water bowls were relocated from an adjacent bathroom, and the bedroom and bath were sealed. The bag of cat food in was secured in an upper right-hand cabinet in the lower level kitchen.

“Clearly, if the cat ate the dog treats, you can’t allow him access to a bag of cat food,” the source quoted the sitter.

The kitten has recovered from his gastronomical distress, but is accusing the pet sitter and the laundry lady of conspiring to deny his rights to access the bedroom and bath.

Part 2: Precocious kitten, distressed over being confined indoors, takes to gambling.

An active kitten who reportedly enjoys his outdoor adventures apparently became anxious at being confined to the house during his owner’s absence, and took up gambling, according to the pet sitter. The sitter reports that on two separate visits to the home, she found a single die on the floor. After the first visit, the sitter says she placed the die on a kitchen counter on the lower level, but by the next visit, it was back on the floor.

“It’s obviously an addiction at this point,” she said. “I don’t know where the die came from, but it’s possible that on one of his previous prowls, he came in contact with some neighborhood cats, and they introduced him to some bad habits. Thank God he has not begun abusing catnip.”

The sitter reports that so far, the cat has rolled a three and a four. “He’s not ready for Vegas yet,” she said.

Part 3: Cat counting days until owner’s return

An adventurous kitten confined to portions of his house is reportedly counting the days until his owners return from a trip, and is using the kitchen calendar to do so. A longtime pet sitter reported today that a calendar which normally hangs on the wall above the litter box was found inside the litter box. The sitter admitted that the calendar could have fallen on its own, but said that recent history led her to believe the cat was involved.

Recent reports indicate the cat has been involved in a neighborhood cat gambling ring, and has been accused of stealing dog treats. “He’s really a very sweet cat,” said the sitter. “But he’s anxious because he can’t go outside.”

According to the sitter, the cat’s owners routinely allow him to roam freely outdoors, but decided to confine him indoors due to curfew violations and a fear that he might be kidnapped. “He’s very attractive and outgoing, and has been known to attract all sorts of attention,” she said.

No damage was reported to the calendar, which was securely reattached to the bulletin board.

Summer is over. It’s still hot as hell outside, so I missed some of the clues that a new season is upon us. The pool closed two weeks ago. Our local minor league baseball team has completed its regular season and is in the playoffs. I’ve been to a college football game, and watched more than one on TV. School has started. My mums are budding and my geraniums are limping to the finish line. We’re up to K on the hurricane list. You’d think I would have caught on before now. But no, none of that tipped me off.

What brought it home to me was a trip to the farmer’s market. I go to the small one downtown, which is open on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, and is tucked in an alley near the arts district. The merchants there are truly local farmers and gardeners. Nothing is trucked in from out of state. These are regular people growing stuff, some organically, in their back yards, like my mom and dad did. Like I would do if I had a back yard.

I’ve been a regular there all summer, and I’ve got my routine down. First I take a lap down the row, window shopping so to speak. Then I go back and make my purchases. The first stall is always the lady with gorgeous cut flowers: lilies, hydrangeas, zinnias, gladiolas, sunflowers. I think they place her near the street for marketing. Even if you don’t know about the farmer’s market, and you fail to notice the sidewalk sign, you’d have to be blind to miss the riot of colors. About halfway down is a table full of the most delicious baked goods you’ve ever seen, all made by the two little old black ladies whose smiles are even sweeter than their five-flavor pound cake, blueberry muffins, and lemon chess tarts. I try to resist their goodies most of the time, but they are free with their sunny greetings anyway. I get happy just thinking about those two. And at the far end are the melon men. They don’t bother with a table. They just sell their watermelons and cantaloupes from the back of their pick up. I always ask for their very best cantaloupe, and one of them will take his time to find just the right one. They might be shining me on, but I swear when I cut into that melon, it is just perfect every time.

In between the flower lady, the smiley sisters and the melon men, there are about six or eight other vendors, most loaded with tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans, eggplant, peppers, peaches, squash, and corn. There’s a lady who sells crocheted pot holders and embroidered dish towels, another with homemade soaps and more varieties of jelly and jam than Smuckers ever dreamed of. One man sets up a cooler full of ice cold bottled water and canned soft drinks. It’s a wonder I ever get away from there with any cash in hand.

I didn’t make it to the farmer’s market last week, which is why it hit me today. Summer has passed, and it left the week I stayed away. There was a noticeable change this week. Tables weren’t quite as crowded. I had my heart set on an eggplant, but had to go all the way to the melon men to find one. They had four, and gave me two of them for the price of one. No peaches this week. No berries, black or blue. Corn was piled on the tabletops, not in bushel baskets below. I know there are still weeks of harvest here in North Carolina. We haven’t seen the end of the zucchini and summer squash. The melons will last until the pumpkins come in. But as I stood there admiring the heirloom tomatoes, it hit me. I haven’t even made my fresh tomato pasta yet! Not once! And soon it would be too late! How could I let summer end without the pasta dish I dream about in February and March, when the seed catalogs arrive, teasing with glossy photographs of gorgeous red ripe tomatoes.

Needless to say, I loaded up. Drove home in a daze, thinking about the gooey mozzarella, tangy tomatoes, and pungent basil. The eggplant can wait! Tonight I’m celebrating summer one last time, with my favorite pasta. And, since I can’t share the food with everyone, I’ll have to settle for sharing the recipe. Better hurry, summer’s gone and the tomatoes are going fast! I'm just sayin ...

Fresh Tomato Pasta

6 cups fresh chopped tomatoes
2 cloves garlic, or to taste
6-8 large leaves fresh basil
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
1 pound bow tie pasta
½ pound fresh mozzarella cheese, cut in ½ inch cubes
Shredded parmesan, optional.

Cook pasta according to package directions. Meanwhile, place 4 cups of tomatoes, garlic, 4 to 6 leaves basil, and olive oil in a blender or food processor and process until smooth. Add salt and pepper to taste. Snip remaining basil into small strips. Drain pasta. Return to pot and add mozzarella. Toss to distribute cheese. Add tomato sauce and toss. Serve immediately, topped with remaining chopped tomatoes, basil, and parmesan. 6 servings.

Variation: Use feta cheese instead of mozzarella, and add a can of sliced ripe olives, drained.

Dear Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf:

We’ve never met, and probably never will. Everything I know about you, I have read in media reports. I’m not a Muslim. I’m not anything, really, when it comes to religion. I’ve referred to myself as a “recovering Catholic” at times. But actually, my spiritual beliefs are best described as very personal, non-denominational, humanist and naturist. I believe you should treat others as you want to be treated, that you should serve those less fortunate, that God is more accessible in a forest than in a chapel, and that when we die, we go to a sort of spiritual compost pile, from which all life is created. I know it’s weird, so if you stop reading now, I understand.

I don’t go to church, and I don’t sing hymns and I don’t read the Bible or any other “sacred text.” But I am an American, and therefore, I stand up for those who do all those things. I don’t care if you’re Baptist, Methodist, Jewish, Muslim, Universalist or whatever. I admit that Pentecostals give me the willies, but I still support their right to worship in whatever way they see fit (as long as they put the snakes back in the cages when they are finished, and make sure the door is closed and locked.)

Anyway Imam Rauf, that’s a long lead in to what I want to say. I want to say I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that your building project has gotten so much negative attention. I think a community center is a splendid idea, and I hope you get to proceed, wherever you choose to do it.

I’m sorry that your faith is so sadly mischaracterized because of the actions of some extremists. I’m sorry that you are stereotyped as a terrorist.

But most of all, I am sorry that you are apparently going to be bullied into meeting with the Right Reverend Terry Jones from Florida’s Dove World Outreach Center. According to news reports, the good pastor is on a plane to New York even as I write this. He’s agreed to postpone his Quran bonfire in exchange for a sit-down with you. The same news reports say that you have not agreed to the meeting. I don’t blame you for not wanting to sit in the same room with a man who has publicly denounced your faith and has urged his followers – all 50 of his congregation – to join him in burning your sacred texts.

By the way, I find it ironic that Pastor Jones presides over the DOVE WORLD OUTREACH CENTER. Dove: a symbol of peace. World: a big collection of diverse cultures and religions. Outreach: an effort to help the community. Center: well, it is located in the middle of Florida.

Of course you are under no obligation to meet with the Right Reverend. But I hope you will, if only to defuse his inflammatory and un-godlike crusade against Islam. The politicos warn that Jones’ bonfire could spark violence against our troops in Afghanistan, and other Americans in Islamic lands. Unfortunately, you might be the only one who can do anything to prevent that. So, please, take one for the team.

I’m sorry that Pastor Jones’ crusade has garnered so much attention around the world. I hope that the world community won’t judge all Americans by the actions of this mutton-chop mustachioed, gun-toting, Mel Gibson-loving man of “God.” (It’s true: when Iman Muhammad Musri from Orlando arrived at the Dove World Outreach Center to try and talk some sense into Jones, he found the Right Reverend, his wife, son and assistant pastor locked in the “outreach center” sporting handguns. They met across the reverend’s desk, under a poster of Mel Gibson in Braveheart.)

Finally, I’m sorry that in his zealous desire to inflame and incite, Jones apparently does not realize that he has become what he claims to despise. He’s threatened a highly offensive action against a segment of our society. He’s recruited others to aid in the attack. And in effect, Imam Rauf, he is holding you hostage to his self-serving demands.

The Right Reverend Terry Jones is a terrorist. I’m just sayin.

If you know me very well, you are probably not surprised to learn that I subscribe to a website called All Recipes. Yes, I love to cook and it shows. I like cooking partly because I enjoy good food, but mostly because I like to share good food with other people who like good food.

So every day, I get a recipe-of-the-day email. If I follow the link, I can view the entire recipe, along with ratings, comments and revisions from other subscribers. I can save the recipes in my own online recipe file for future reference.

I can also use the website to search for recipes, which I do often, but usually only after consulting one or more of my many cookbooks. Nothing like a cookbook! No online search engine will ever replace for me the simple pleasure of browsing through a glossy book full of recipes, pictures, and hopefully a few stories or anecdotes. My favorite cookbooks are dog-eared, food-stained and broken-spined with notes scribbled in the margins. When I open one, I could swear they whisper “Welcome back. Where you been? Let’s make something good!” It’s a love thing – a chubby girl and her cookbook. You skinny bitches probably have a similar relationship with your treadmills or elliptical trainers. Go for it. Come over to my place when you’re finished working out. I’ll help you put your thighs back on.

Anyway, back to the website. I get these daily emails, and I usually think, “Huh, another recipe for chicken enchilada casserole.” Or “why would I want to make meatloaf in a crockpot?” But every once in a while, probably when breakfast has been oatmeal and lunch a salad, a recipe really grabs my attention. So it was with Martini Chicken.

If you know me well enough to understand my love for cooking, then you probably also know I enjoy a good martini: dry, dirty, shaken, with three olives, please. And gin, preferably Tanqueray. So the email alert, for “Easy Olive Martini Chicken” stopped me in my tracks. You mean I can have a martini for dinner? I mean, AS the entrée, and not IN PLACE of the entrée? I had to check it out. Sure enough, a main dish that contained gin, dry vermouth, and olives! And garlic! And yes, chicken.

I would have cooked some on the spot, if I’d had chicken in the house, and if I hadn’t already thawed a tilapia filet for dinner that night. So I marveled at the recipe, even noted the wonder of it on my Facebook status update. And today, I got myself to the grocery store for some boneless, skinless chicken breasts, which happened to be on sale, buy one package, get two free. Bonus!

A couple of Facebook friends asked me to share. I’m still not sure if you wanted the recipe, or wanted to join me for dinner. But since most of you are out of state, you’ll have to settle for the recipe, this time. But hey, if you are ever in the neighborhood …I’ll be cooking. Just sayin’

Martini Chicken
Adapted by Lauren Whitaker from Easy Olive Martini Chicken by “Jen” at allrecipes.com

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
Salt and pepper to taste
2 tablespoons butter, divided
2 large cloves garlic, minced, or to taste
¼ cup gin
1 tablespoon dry vermouth
2 teaspoons lemon juice
¼ cup chicken broth
½ cup sliced olives stuffed with pimiento

Heat olive oil in skillet over medium high heat. Season chicken with salt and pepper to taste. (Keep in mind that olives will add saltiness to dish.) Brown chicken in olive oil, about 5 minutes per side. Remove chicken and reduce heat to medium low. Add 1 tablespoon butter and garlic to skillet. Saute 1-2 minutes, scraping skillet to loosen brown bits.
Add gin, vermouth, lemon juice and chicken broth and bring to a boil. Return chicken to skillet and add olives. Simmer chicken 5-10 minutes until chicken juice runs clear, occasionally spooning broth over chicken.
Remove chicken to platter and keep warm. Increase heat to medium high, and cook sauce for 2-3 minutes until thick. Stir in remaining tablespoon butter. Stir until butter is melted, and then spoon sauce over chicken.