Thursday, July 20, 2017

Popcorn Pushing Addict



I am addicted to that villein of snack foods, the white puffy crunchy, the fiber filled phantom--popcorn. It ain't a pretty thing. In recent years, I've managed to cut back, allowing myself one daily bowl. Sundays, a less stress day, I am able to stave away the crave.

I have to be careful of my consumption level. It is the eighteenth leading cause of death among middle-aged writer moms in the Pacific Northwest. Nothing to be laughed off as a fluke.

It gets worse. I force it on my vulnerable family. For gosh sake, our youngest is only sixteen! Not even a high school graduate. How's he expected to get through life with any chance at a pursuit of happiness? What kind of mother am I?

Even now, between sentence writing, I'm munching away. Why, why, why?! You demand of me. I'll confess my inner turmoil. I'm caught between the love of the popped kernel, and the seasoning that I've developed over the years.

Every kernel is unique as a snowflake, a child's temper tantrum, the honesty of a top politician. Who knows what shape that will be bowing it's belly to my harsh teeth? My curiosity grows with every mouthful.

Don't think that I'm your common addict. My taste buds scoff at the microwave version. No, for me it is the specialized popcorn pan, the jolly fat one that takes in a table spoon of olive oil, and half a cup of kernels. With the temperature just so, I rotate the handle and await that sound of pop! pop! pop!

As the last kernel is transformed to greatness, and quiet has been restored to the kitchen, I tip the contents of the pot into the waiting bowl. I must warn you, never leave it longer. Smokey fumes may harm the delicate flavor of our waiting treat.

In the not so distant past, melted butter would now be lovingly poured. But thanks to the son of the addict, we have switched to warm coconut oil. I shouldn't be pushing this, but you have to try it. Tastes better than the dairy drizzle.

Next comes the seasoning. This has taken years of trial and error to master. Yet, I am still open to trying new recipes. I'm just big like that. There is no pre-making of the seasoning. Every member of our family likes it a bit different. As I know the importance of the perfect bowl, each person gets their custom topping.

***Recipe seasoning at end of post. Yey for you!***

My real question is this. If I am arrested for my exploitation of the youngsters in my house, is popcorn served in prison? I suppose they are required by law. The Constitution does mention something about no cruel or unusual punishment for horribly self-destructive prisoners.

The one hope I have when discovered by Johnny Law, is that my boys are given a chance at life through rehab. They shouldn't be forced to join a gang, or become a drug-dealing popcorn pusher. Only I should be the one to suffer. Please, readers, have a heart and pray for my kids. Let me be the martyr, not them.

Another option I see for them, is to market my popcorn seasoning. Funds from sales could send them to some obscure South American country. Keep them out of harms way from their addicted, wayward mother. I just hope they remember the happy times we had--before my addiction loomed so huge it took over our lives.

Another addiction of mine? Writing oh so funny books about the boy with the elephant living in his back yard. I've written more than even I can remember (six, actually). Please, I beg of you, check them out. Facing the dragon of addiction with another will help in my healing process:



Heather Leigh,
Popping the addiction curse.

Popcorn seasoning recipe: 
half a packet of taco seasoning
1/4 cup of Italian seasoning
1/2 teaspoon of salt.
Mix and sprinkle some over popped corn. Amount of everything varies with taste. 
We have also enjoyed: red pepper seasoning, Tajin, a bit of lemon pepper. Make it your own. But don't hold me responsible when you, too, become an addict.  

Monday, July 10, 2017

Little Frog, Big Slippers



There is a frog the size of my fingernail in our front yard garden. His existence was discovered by a human, that would be me, this afternoon while weed pulling. At first, I was not sure if it was a frog, or a shiny, froggy shaped rock. Never can tell about these things.

After I stared motionless for a plethora of moments, his stillness won out over my curiosity. Ever so gently, I brushed his back side. And then, HOP, he did the motion they are known for. So damned cute I forgot to cry in surprise.

I also missed where he jumped to. Somewhere deep into the jungles of lawn and pulled weeds, I imagine.

I was left to wonder many things. Mainly, was he a baby tree frog, a size-impaired creature, or a creation of the garden gnomes, similar to the banzai tree?

If he was a baby, where were the neglectful parents? Don't they know the dangers of the garden? That at any moment a middle-aged mom could come along and rip away the weed that had been his cover.

How about a size-impaired creature? Did the other tree frogs make fun of him? Was he left out of leap frog and nightly chorus sing-a-longs by his peers? Or perhaps he was the envy of the pack. We don't know if tree frogs aspire to littler stature.

The garden gnome theory is the most plausible. It is a fact that our ceramic statues guarding the flowers come to life every evening. Not only do I hear their merry making every night, but they move the hose almost daily. No doubt they have the wisdom and engineering capability to transform the size of frogs. If we can alter a tree, most decidedly, gnomes can whittle down a frog.

In the background of my thoughts, I could hear the dogs inside the house. The foreboding sounds of the fire grate coming down, let me know to be ready for a re-decorated living room. These thoughts, in turn, led me to ponder the mystery of my three pairs of chewed slippers. That is just this year, of course.

How did our St. Bermastiff, Daisy, get to my comfy foot coverings? Ever since her puppyhood years, I have diligently kept my door closed when not in the room. Yet at least once a month, some article of clothing, bag of treats, or a pillow winds up in our back yard.

Okay, before you say no-way-Jose, hear me out. Could her partner in crime be that mini-frog? He is small enough to squeeze through a cracked open window and slide under a door. Yes, how he manages to open the door for Daisy to begin her plunders is a mystery. But the Egyptian pyramids are still a mystery, right? And no one has proven that dragons, unicorns and fairies do not exist. I mean, there are still some people who don't believe that garden gnomes come alive in the evening. Can you imagine such nonsensical views? Being a sensible person, I am hypothesizing a collusion of forces between Daisy and mini-frog.

Really, the bigger mystery is how the dogs know I am coming back inside. When I returned to the house, there they were. Plopped on the couch in the seemingly same slumber position as when I had left, just an hour before. The only thing different, was the fallen fire grate on the floor. Of course, when questioned, both claimed the other one did it. And I am certain Daisy will never reveal her friendship with the fingernail sized tree frog.

Another unusual pair of friends are in one of the stories about the boy and the elephant living in his back yard. If you think my blogs are humorous, check out my children's books. Sure to entice young readers, and bring on the smiles.



Heather Leigh, 
Supporter of Inter-Animal Relationships