I say was because he is now dead, killed ever so carefully with a flip flop (managed to save the The Garden of Good and Evil from this task) and he is now flushed down the toilet. You see, I do not believe in putting stinging things in trash cans. I also do not believe in simply letting them sit in my toilet bowl because the completely irrational part of my brain says that he might come back to life. And, if he came back to life, he could sting my ass. Literally. I like to think of myself as a fairly rational person, but flying creatures that sting steal my rational brain and I have to force myself to think, to process, and to act. All of this stems from memories of the extreme size to which stung body parts of mine will painfully swell complements of such creatures placing their stinger in my skin. I do not want that. Not again. Not ever. 

My rational brain is returning and I wonder if this is worth posting. But then, maybe you have something that makes your rational brain disappear and you will enjoy knowing you are not alone. 

Recently I have talked with a handful of people about redheads finding an identity in their red hair. I have talked with people of various hair colors and it seems that red hair is the only hair color around which an identity is formed. (I am not touching hair texture, curls, or straightness.) Renee, a friend and fellow redhead, has a parallel post to this one. We hope you enjoy these and we would love to know your thoughts on the subject.

musings

The other day an office mate asked, “You have red hair?” Ouch. You see, my hair changes color with time and location, but I have red hair. Back in middle school, I was like everyone else in the practice dive pool wearing a neon, multi-colored wetsuit. Only difference between me and everyone else was that I was told that the brightest thing in the pool was my hair. An outside pool, the natural copper strands in my hair reflected sunlight coming down from above and bouncing off the water to shine like a new copper penny. That, or I simply had bright red hair. 

Red hair is this odd beast. As a child, I remember thinking that my hair was not what was called red when describing colors–fire engine red, apple red, or blood red. It was more like a fire–a changing, melding mix of colors–than the one-tone colors of my crayons, colored pencils, or finger paints. To me, it seemed the color of a shinny new penny. And yet, the world called it red. Mentally I reconciled this by  deciding it was easier for the masses to have four simple categories by which to classify hair color: black, brown, blonde, and red. Kind of like how people’s skin tones in this country are called black or white, and yet I rarely see someone who is truly black (though in the winter there are a lot of truly white people). And so, by the world’s standards, I am a redhead. 

When you have red hair, you have to own it. 

“Is that natural?” “You have such beautiful hair.” “So unique.” “It’s bright.” “You will never dye that–will you?” Yes, it is mine, 100% natural, and no I have not yet dyed it. (Yet–but I’ll get to that later.) I’m glad you like it. Thank you. 

Then came the assumptions. “Redheads are fiery.” “Redheads have tumultuous tempers.” “Redheads are wild in bed.” All said in a weird tone that is a mix of humor, admiration, and desire. If fiery can be described by laugh loudly and loving life, I guess that’s right. I have a temper that you don’t want to step in front of, though it has cooled immensely over the years. I simply will not touch that last statement here. And I doubt any of this has to do with my hair color. 

Then came the questions. “Do your parents have red hair?” “Do your siblings have red hair?” and (my favorite–only asked once though I wonder how many others have wondered), “Is your pubic hair also red?” My dad’s mother had red hair (which she dyed red when it went grey). There is not an ounce of red hair on my father’s or brothers’ heads, but their beards are full of it (ok…dad’s was red, but has recently turned white). As the gene for red hair is definitely turned on in this body, yes, my pubic hair is red. Now you don’t have to be embarrassed by asking or die of curiosity. 

See what I mean? You have to own being a redhead. It is not like getting a tattoo on your neck or wearing unique clothing — you are an enigma, you had no choice about it, and so you embrace it. Fully. 

I loved that my hair toned down when inside buildings to just a hint of red, and became bright when it reflected sunlight. A few tried to tell me that my hair was not really red, but rather this ambiguous thing called auburn. I don’t think so. I got over the fact that “red hair” did not mean fire engine red a long time ago, so you should too. You don’t give a girl an identity and then take it away. 

Only problem is that as I have gotten older, my hair has slowly become darker. This is accentuated by the fact that I now spend very little time under the equatorial sun or on the ocean thus preventing it from being bleached to bright red. What am I supposed to do with this piece of my identity (which I did not choose) that seems to be fading (not by my choosing)? 

I have been told that it is just hair. I’m reminded that the color is still beautiful and complex, and it continues to be complemented every time I go to a hairstylist.  But, you’re wrong–it’s not just hair. Red hair is literally written into my DNA. A while back the New York Times published an article on how research shows that redheads might have a higher pain tolerance because of our DNA. A doctor also told me that how redheads metabolize medicine, anesthesia in particular, is not predictable–though it is for people of all other hair colors. So even if I dye my hair black, my DNA says I am a redhead. 

Maybe you think I’m crazy. Just a redhead obsessed with her hair or in the midst of a late-20’s identity crisis. I promise you that it’s not just me. Go ahead–ask your redheaded friends about this. I’ve asked all of mine. They agree. So what do I do now? 

I’ve schemed of ways to lighten my hair to bring out the red–the best, or most imaginative, of which it is to become a mate on a sailing boat in the South Pacific. I’ve also thought that maybe, just maybe, someday, I will dye my hair. I’m not there yet, but maybe. Someday. Today I stand strong in the knowledge that my DNA dictates that I am a redhead. And I hope that no-one asks me what color my hair is because I don’t want to listen to them say I am wrong when I say it is red. I am not a brunette. 

I am a redhead.

Staircases to the row of shops, bars, and restaurants by the riverfront in Savannah. The upper level has some fun antique stores worth browsing.

These wall of tombstones was on the outer edge of a large cemetery in Savannah. If I remember correctly, the last person to be buried here was laid to rest around 200 years ago. That is a long time ago for this country. However, it seems kind of sad that these tombstones have left their owners in unmarked graves. 

Black and white homes. Walking the streets of Savannah.

Door to Fort Pulaski. The fort is a National Monument and is definitely worth visiting. Even learned a bit about the origins of baseball on the tour–back then a home run was a bad thing as it meant search for the ball outside of the fort’s walls.

This door was a lower door to a large house in Charleston; a large porch sat on top of this door. 

Doors and shutters came of all shapes, sizes and shades in Charleston. Most did not have screen doors, and this was the only screen door not completed closed. 

Some homes in Charleston had courtyards or yards. Although simple, this space was made more appealing by the beautiful gate baring me from entering. 

Plants flowed over the walls, gates, and fences of many Charleston homes. 

Tomorrow morning my Christmas Adventure begins.I hope you all have a wonderful time celebrating Jesus’ birth with friends or family.  Stories and pictures from the adventure to come.

So, last weekend my brother and his girlfriend participated in a mac ‘n cheese cook-off party. And they won. 

They brilliantly started with the “Best Mac ‘N Cheese Ever,” the winner of Emeril’s Mac ‘N Cheese search. You can find that recipe plus a whole bunch more here. Then they made a few modifications:

• use extra, extra sharp cheddar (gives more of a cheesy vs just creamy taste- I found my cheeses at trader joes)
• cut up bacon into little bits before you cook it (saves fingers from grease burns when attempting to crumble later)
• we used less gruyere and more cheddar
• we used about 3/4 of the milk suggested
• use Japanese Bread Crumbs called Panko (I think they sell them in most grocery stores) rather than hohum western bread crumbs
• finally, I added cheddar to the topping as well- I like cheddar that much

Ok people…that’s it. Now go and embrace mac ‘n cheese in all of its glory. Don’t laugh–just embrace.

I’m not talking about the temperature outside or what form the water falling from the sky is taking. If that mattered, I would be sorely disappointed by the cold rain falling from the sky or my childhood beach Christmases. Rather, it has everything to do with the atmosphere, the mind, and the heart. 

My tree is up. Yes, it is fake, and I love it. My parents (mom was the key character) got me an ornament every year of my childhood and young adult life. Now these eclectic ornaments decorate my little tree. Last week a friend asked what was at the top of my tree. An angel of course. Only she lacks oversized wings, glitter, red lips, and the general stateliness that characterize angel tree toppers of the country I currently call home. My unassuming angel of plain cloth was created in the part of the Holy Land called Jordan. The white lights on the tree provide beautiful light–and they are on whenever I am both home and awake.

My nativity scenes are out. Scenes. Right now I have four–one of which is at the office. It is my hope to slowly gather nativity scenes from around the world. My childhood has etched into my head what I think the scene might have looked like. This image was developed during my times wandering the streets and markets of such cities as Cairo, Jerusalem and Damascus. I imagine the characters had olive skin tones and wore long dresses. Everyone’s childhood has impacted how they imagine the story of Christ’s birth. And that is why I have no problems having a nativity set with white characters. It will just not be my only set.

What else is there? Christmas music on the radio, the advent wreath and stories at church, preparations for celebrations and feasts to come, and general merriment. It is a good season. It is a merry season. And the temperature has so little to do with it.

origin

A few Thanksgivings ago I was looking for a cheese appetizer and came across the baked brie concept. I checked a number of websites, and have no idea which sites I used to paste together this recipe. Since then it has become a staple appetizer for the family–deceptively easy, and always impresses. This is a hearty appetizer.

ingredients

-1 round of brie (not baby brie)

-1 puff pastry

-1 egg

-insides: match this to your meal. Two combinations I like: crasins with toasted almonds, and apricot jam with pecans.

-Box of crackers–I like the nuttiness of whole wheat crackers matched with the brie.

instructions

Preheat oven as per instructions on puff pastry box. Cut excess rind off the round of brie. (The rind on brie is edible, but sometimes it is extra thick in places.) Using a sharp knife, stand the wheel on its edge and cut the round in half. I find that using a French knife that has been run under cold tap water to be an easy way to do this. 

Lay the puff pastry out, and put one piece of the brie, rind side down, onto the center of the puff pastry. Put a thick layer of the ‘insides’ onto the brie (maybe a 1/2 inch), and then put the top on the brie. Fold the puff pastry around the brie. Cut off excess puff pastry as too many layers (this can easily happen on the top of the baked brie) makes it hard to bake it appropriately. Make sure that you fully seal the puff pastry by getting your finger tips wet. 

Line a small baking sheet with a piece of tin foil, and lightly spray the foil. Place the wrapped brie on the foil. Beat the egg, and then lightly coat the puff pastry with the egg using either a brush or your fingers. Bake the brie until the puff pastry is cooked–it should be golden brown. 

Let the baked brie set for about five minutes, and then serve with crackers.