Duane's World

Last Spring, I was commissioned by The American Interest Magazine in Washington, D.C., to write an article about an extraordinary American. I chose my dad, Duane Abbajay, who has led an amazing and amazingly varied life.

The son of Syrian immigrants, Dad grew up in Toledo, Ohio, where he was a successful businessman, owning one of the most famous night clubs in Ohio, the Peppermint Club and, later the Country Palace.

His life, and ours by association, was weird and wonderful and altogether different from anyone else's. His life is a great, funny, and fun story, and you can read the piece here:

http://www.the-american-interest.com/2014/12/10/duanes-world/

Recipes for Hummus and Brussels Sprouts

OK, OK, here you go: my recipes for authentic Syrian Hummus (truly -- my first generation Syrian Aunt taught me how to make it) and the caramelized Brussels sprouts I take to Thanksgiving every year on the Stumpe farm.

Stephanie Abbajay’s Hummus Bi Tahini

2-3 big cloves garlic, peeled

1/2 cup lemon juice

2 cans chick peas, rinsed in hot water and drained

½ to 1 t salt (or more to taste)

2 T olive oil (or more to taste)

½ to 1 cup of sesame tahini (to taste)

2 - 4 T hot water

In a food processor, blend garlic and lemon juice for about two minutes. Add the chick peas, salt, olive oil, and tahini and blend until very smooth. If too thick, slowly add hot water until you reach the consistency you like. Taste, and add more tahini, lemon juice, olive oil, and/or salt to taste. Process until very smooth.

Stephanie Abbajay's Carmelized Brussels Sprouts

2 T olive oil

2 T butter

2 pounds fresh Brussels sprouts, cleaned, trimmed and halved

Salt

2 T fresh lemon juice (skip this if you don't have fresh lemons)

1/4 cup water

1/2 cup toasted and chopped pecans, almonds, or hazelnuts (optional)

Heat a large cast iron or stainless steel skillet over medium heat. When pan is hot add oil and butter. As soon as the butter melts add the spouts. Spread evenly in a single layer and sprinkle generously with salt. Turn the heat down to medium-low and cook for eight minutes without stirring them. Just leave them alone and let them cook.

Then, stir them, add more butter if necessary, and cook for another five minutes or so until they are nicely browned. Add the water (you may not need all of it) and cook another five minutes or so until the sprouts are completely tender but not mushy and all the water has evaporated. Do not overcook them. Taste, add salt, and serve immediately, or add the nuts and lemon juice and cook another two minutes or so until lemon juice is evaporated and nuts are warmed. Serve.

The kids are all right. A little annoying, but all right.

We are six weeks into summer, and, so far, I have spent 100 percent of my time with at least two children underfoot. In fact, most days I’ve found myself with not just my own two but with an additional one, two, three, even four to six more kids.

Lots of kids. All day every day. Camp Abbajay. Super fun happy time!

And these kids are needy. They eat like NFL players. They need constant hydration. They need applications of this or that sunscreen or lotion. They need software updates and pages refreshed and apps downloaded. They need passwords and USB cords and batteries and chargers. They need colder water, warmer water, ice, or a refill. They need a maid, a counselor, and a Sherpa. They need money or a ride or both. God love `em, but they're a pain in the ass.

Luckily, there is the redemption of their love, their sweet, sweet faces, and their helpful attitudes and generous spirits. I'm kidding. They're horrible. Kidding again! They are awesome, and not at all entitled or picky or precious or too honest.

Well, maybe just a teeny weeny bit. Here are some of the things kids have said to me so far this summer:

• This is all you have? These are my choices?
• I don't eat ice cream if it’s melty.
• You only have cheddar? Well, I prefer Swiss.
• I don't want to use the iPad or either of the laptops. I want to use your iMac; the others are too slow.
• Why does everything terrible happen to me??!! Netflix is taking forever to load and I can't even get on Hulu Plus. This is the worst day ever!
• I only like the kind in a box.
• This bread tastes funny. Is it healthy?
• I like it a little less toasted, like a golden brown. This is too brownie brown.
• I can't eat it if it doesn't have real butter on it.
• You don't have any fresh Parmesan?
• Yes, he apologized, but I don't forgive him. He didn't  sound sincere. I don't think he really meant it.
• Your iTunes library is lame.
• You should consider sleeves.
• Are you supposed to be eating that?

And, from my own son, 13-year-old Oskar, on my birthday last month:

• Oskar: How old are you Mom?
• Me: I’m 48.
• Oskar: Wow. You're half way dead.

As parents, Dave and I don't do as much talking, primarily because we are constantly cooking, cleaning, schlepping, and refereeing (and by we I mean me). But far and away, here are the top three things we've said to the kids, usually in rapid succession:

• No weapons in the house.
• Close the door.
• Flush the toilet.

Any of this sound familiar?

Happy birthday to me: Bone death be damned!

Yes, today is my birthday. Forty-seven years old. Dear god, 47. Can it be? Fuck me. My father said it best: "Steffie, I cannot believe I have a daughter who is 47 years old!" I hear ya, Dad. I can't believe it either.

If it wasn't for my appalling and rapidly deteriorating physical condition, I'd say I was as happy and fit as ever. That is quite obviously not the case, at least not the fit part: I have glaucoma, Crohn's disease (for which I take infusions of a horrible immuno-suppressant called Remicade), and now a torn meniscus and avascular necrosis. That last diagnosis is as evil as it sounds: BONE DEATH. All the steroids I've taken through the years to combat Crohn's has resulted in improper blood flow to the bones in my joints. The right knee is the first to suffer. If I hadn't torn my meniscus dancing in March (thanks Sharon and Steve!!) the doctor said I might not have caught it until it was "too late."

So, I spent part of my birthday today getting an MRI on my right knee (the second one in six weeks). Results Wednesday. Will it be total knee replacement? Or just pins and scraping and injections and crutches for 6 more weeks? Stay tuned!

How is that I can feel so good and yet be so riddled with physical ailments? I mean it's not cancer or MS, but c'mon--glaucoma, Crohn's disease, and bone death? What gives? What twist of fate dealt me these cards? And can I turn them in for new ones?

When we hit middle age (and let's face it, 47 is actually well beyond middle age; I rounded that bend some time ago), we invariably look down the road. I see lots and lots of obstacles, and very little tennis or jogging. This is what I thought about as the MRI whirred and shook this morning, and I feel better getting it off my chest.

Best birthday gift? My husband bought me a car. A NEW car, mind you, the adorable and fabulous and super-fuel efficient Volkswagon Jetta TDI Sportwagon. Crazy. I've never had a new car, ever, so this is a first and huge treat. He is entirely forgiven for completely forgetting it was my birthday today until 90 minutes after he woke up and checked his datebook. The kids forgot entirely. Willa ran to her room and gave me two notebooks she found in her drawer and a clay dung beetle she made at the art museum. Oskar ran to his room and wrote me a gift certificate for "One hour of mostly whine-free chores of my choice, subject to availability."

I got texts and Facebook posts from all my lovely friends, so this is a good, good day. Avascular necrosis be damned! I hate jogging anyway.

Chris Eigeman on Slate

A great piece by my dear friend Chris Eigeman on Slate.com last week, in which his son learns a painful lesson on the playground at the hands of a dismissive girl:

Trust Me on This: “Abbey Road”

Polls, pundits, and the problem with women

Dear God. It's best 18 months since my last blog post! Pathetic, I know, but in my own defense, in that time I have been fully employed ghost writing and ghost blogging (yes, ghost blogging) for various clients. That phase of my freelance life is drawing to a close, however, as I turn back to my own writing.


This may be a lame reentry into blogging, but I am posting my column from last week's Jersey County Journal (unless you are one of the lucky 10,000 households that gets that paper back in rural Jersey County, there is no where to read it online):


Polls, pundits, and the problem with women
(originally published 4.25.12, The Jersey County Journal)

Political campaigns get boring very quickly. The candidates deliver the same stump speech over and over; reporters parse their words with care, looking for stumbles; and the media pounces on anything it can to keep it interesting.

Of course, sometimes something interesting does happen, and this is usually the result of a gaffe on the part of a politician, pollster, or pundit. Such was the case two weeks ago when Democratic strategist and CNN political contributor Hilary Rosen said that Ann Romney had “never worked a day in her life.”

What followed was a weeks-long thunderstorm of stories, speeches, columns, editorials, Twitter feuds, and blog posts denouncing Rosen for her insensitivity toward women who choose to stay home and raise their children.

Rosen’s comment was idiotic, but what I find even more idiotic is the media’s refusal to place it in the context in which it was delivered, to paint it as a fight between stay-at-home moms vs. work-outside-the-home moms, and, worse, to ignore the real political issues facing women in this election, issues that I think Rosen was trying to (and did) raise but got sidelined by her comment.

Let’s start at the beginning: Rosen was a guest on "Anderson Cooper 360" and they were discussing the conflict between the Romney campaign’s new focus on the economy and his disconnect with women voters. Why is this important? An ABC News/Washington Post poll puts Obama ahead of Romney by a whopping 20 points among registered female voters, who make up 53 percent of the electorate. Women are key. Here is what Rosen said:

“Ultimately I think Mitt Romney is right, that women care more about the economic well being of their family, but he doesn't connect on that issue either. What you have is Mitt Romney running around the country saying, ‘Well, my wife tells me that what women really care about are economic issues, and when I listen to my wife, that’s what I’m hearing.’ Guess what? His wife has never actually worked a day in her life, she has never really dealt with the kind of economic issues that a majority of the women in this country are facing in terms of how do we feed our kids, how do we send them to school, and how do we worry about their future, so I think yes, it's about these positions, and yes there will be a war of words about this position, but there is something much more fundamental about Mitt Romney…in that he doesn't really see us as equal.”

Rosen apologized the next day and applauded Ann Romney’s decision to stay at home and said she meant that Mitt needed a better understanding of the economic issues facing women. This did nothing to assuage the furor over her comments and did absolutely nothing to turn the debate back to where it should be: on the economic issues that face women and how the Romney campaign can better understand those issues and court crucial women voters.

Ann Romney, on Fox News, coolly and calmly said that her career choice was to be a mother and that we need to respect all the choices women make. A judicious and polite response, but again, the debate became working mother vs. stay-at-home mother, traditional-values-hating Democrats vs. respect-traditional-women’s-choices-Republicans, and not on the economic and political issues that face women in this election: the fact that men are being re-hired at a faster rate than women, whether contraception should be mandatorily covered by health insurers, affordable access to health insurance and child care, the wage gap, where women still earn 80 percent of what men do, etc.

Those are the political issues that candidates must address and that the media should be asking about. Rosen’s point, however poorly delivered, was that if you are Mitt Romney and you want to understand the struggles that the average American woman faces, you might do well to look outside the example of your own home. Yes, it was callous to say that Ann Romney had never worked a day in her life, but the point is that it’s a lot easier to make the choice to be a stay-at-home mom and raise your kids when you never have to worry about money, health insurance, tuition, and childcare, let alone cleaning your own house or shopping for groceries.

All women worry about the same things: will my children do well in school? Will they find good jobs? Are they good people? But the vast majority of women—whether they stay home or not—also have to worry about income, health insurance, good schools, and the like. Rosen was not questioning Ann Romney’s life choice; she was questioning whether Mitt Romney is in touch with the issues that face the vast majority of American women, and if he can close that crucial gap by November.

According to US News and World Report, in every presidential election since 1964, more women than men have voted; 10 million more in 2008, alone. Since women make up 53 percent of the voting electorate, courting women voters isn't just politics, it's the key to victory.

The Column They Wouldn't Run! Part II

My column, "Dodge Trucks Are..." made the rounds thanks to the magic of e-mail and good old-fashioned hand outs from friends who copied it and passed it along.


But, more important, the Jersey County Journal (the paper for which I am a columnist and wrote the piece) ran it last week as a letter to the editor!


Here's what happened: the owner wouldn't publish it as a column, so the regional editor suggested that I resubmit it as a letter to the editor, because the paper's policy is to run all letters as long as they aren't slanderous or libelous. So, I resubmitted the column as a letter and they published it last week.

The Column They Wouldn't Run!

In addition to freelance writing, I am a staff columnist for the local paper in Jerseyville, Illinois, and have been for the past four years. As an independent/liberal I often bump up politically against the owner and publisher, who are conservative. For the past few months, the paper has published an steady stream of columns and letters by the local Tea Party and 9/12 groups, with no balance from other parties or interests. So, in response, I wrote the following column. The owner refused to publish it. So, here it is:

Dodge trucks are…

By Stephanie Abbajay

Repeat after me: Obama is a Muslim. Obama is a socialist. Obama is not an American citizen. Say it over and over again. Hmmm. Still not true. Say it again, and louder this time. Still not true. Well, It doesn’t matter, because in many quarters of American politics, truth is beside the point.

This tactic has been used for decades. Why? Because it works. I first learned this back in 1987, when I was fresh out of college and living in Washington, D.C. The presidential primaries were in full swing, and my roommates and I were in the thick of it: I was working for one of the most conservative Republican political consultants in town (he had been Jessie Helms’ foreign policy advisor); one of my roommates worked on the Bush-Quayle campaign; and the other worked for the great Republican political consulting firm Black Manafort Stone and Kelly, which ran all the big Republican campaigns.

To train its young operatives, several of the Republican consultants ran a campaign college. The first day of class, the teacher walked in and said simply, “Dodge trucks are.” Then he waited. He said it again. “Dodge trucks are.” A few people sheepishly replied, “Ram tough?” The instructor smiled broadly and, in an encouraging voice, said, “Dodge trucks are?” and the class responded, “Ram tough!” Again and again the instructor said it and again and again the class responded until people were screaming in unison, “Dodge trucks are ram tough! Dodge trucks are ram tough!”

The instructor quieted the room. He then said in a serious voice, “Are Dodge trucks ram tough? Who knows? Who cares? Doesn’t matter. If you say it enough, it’s true.” Class had begun.

From that starting point, students were taught the consultants’ cardinal rules of campaigns and politics: First, you win by destroying your opponent. Second, appeal to the base, and play on their fears and emotions. Third, if you say it enough times, it becomes true. Fourth, speak in platitudes and don’t worry about details.

Now, this is no secret. These are tried and true tactics. Any student of politics knows that you have to play hardball. Politics is a contact sport, where all’s fair. But right now, the shrill and ignorant rhetoric of several of the parties, candidates and talking heads has reached a deafening crescendo. I have never heard anything like it, and it has gotten to the point where I am actually uncomfortable. For example, when I hear people say that our president is a socialist or a Muslim or not an American citizen, I am just embarrassed for them. Really? You honestly believe that?

As much as I am disturbed by this, I am, at the same time, impressed with how well these political groups know their base and cater to its deepest and darkest fears. These operatives know that in order to win they have to motivate their base. And in order to do that, they have to create a monster so scary, so anathema to their base’s sense of self that they will ignore all reason, all truth, all evidence to the contrary. That monster is a black socialist Kenyan Muslim indoctrinated at an al-Qaeda funded Indonesian madrassa who wants to raise their taxes and reach into their wallets so he can give free health care to the illegal immigrants who are taking all their jobs. 


And the base took the bait, hook, line and sinker. People actually believe this stuff. It’s impressive in a really, really scary way.

But as impressive as it is from a politically operational standpoint, at some point, someone has to stand up and say, come on, enough is enough. Obama himself has repeatedly said enough is enough, but no one listens to him because he’s the president and that’s yesterday’s news. Plus he’s an illegal Muslim socialist immigrant, and who listens to them?

But hark! Suddenly, two sane voices rise above this chorus of insanity to urge calm and civil discourse. Who are they? The country’s most popular comedians, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.

With their Oct. 30 “Rally to Restore Sanity,” Stewart says, “We're looking for the people who think shouting is annoying, counterproductive, and terrible for your throat; who feel that the loudest voices shouldn't be the only ones that get heard; and who believe that the only time it's appropriate to draw a Hitler mustache on someone is when that person is actually Hitler. If we had to sum up the political view of our participants in a single sentence... we couldn't. That's sort of the point.”

It says a lot about the state of a country’s political dialogue when the comedians are the ones calling for measured discourse. They’d never graduate from campaign college with that attitude, that’s for sure.

Stephanie Abbajay is not a socialist or a Muslim. And she was born in Toledo. And that’s Ohio, not Spain.

Oskar and the C-word

Every day when I pick Oskar up from school I meet with his teacher for a debriefing on how he behaved that day. In order to encourage positive behavior, the school has devised a point system whereby if Oskar earns a certain number of points, he receives a reward – screen time at home (his holy grail). If he does not earn enough points, he does not earn screen time (which includes TV, computer and his beloved Nintendo DSi). Oskar carries a clipboard with him from class to class, and each segment of his day (there are 7) is graded independently in 4 different areas (staying attentive, being polite, hands to himself, being quiet) on a scale of zero to 3.

Every day, Oskar’s teacher meets me at the door and goes over the day, class-by-class, point-by-point. By now, Oskar is done. He is tired and impatient and just wants to know if he earned enough points or not. But every day, his teacher and I go over each class and each point and discuss both where he did well and where he needs improvement. Then she tallies up the points and delivers the score.

This purpose of the protocol is to show Oskar that he is accountable for his behavior and his actions, and that good, acceptable behavior will be rewarded. I feel so fortunate that the school is on board 100 percent with a behavior modification plan, and they have bent over backwards to accommodate us. I mean, what kind of teacher takes this much time and effort for one student? It’s incredible.

Nevertheless, it’s also exhausting and increasingly demoralizing, as Oskar’s behavior is remarkably inconsistent. We can do everything right at home – a great night’s sleep, plenty of exercise, a good healthy breakfast, a nice walk to school – and then when he gets to school, there is no rhyme or reason; he can still have a bad day. You never know.

So, when 3:15 rolls around I start to steel myself for the meeting. What good or bad news will I get today? Will he earn enough points to watch “Modern Family” and play Sims II or will I have to find some way to occupy an angry Oskar for the entire evening? Will he be proud of his ability to control himself or will he be bitter and convinced that everyone is out to get him? Increasingly, I have considered taking a bracing shot of whiskey before I head out the door…

In addition to the daily meetings with his teacher, I also meet with the principal, who informs me of behavioral transgressions in unstructured, non-academic settings, like lunch and recess. This school has high expectations for their students’, and they do not cotton to inappropriate behavior. Two weeks ago, the principal spoke to me about Oskar using more appropriate language, after he reported being “in a pissy mood” and threatening to “kill” another student if he lost his place in a book. Last week, the principal talked to Oskar again when, during recess, Oskar took two basketballs, put them under his shirt and pranced around, pretending to have breasts.

On Monday, the principal had to speak to Oskar again about proper lunchroom behavior and respecting his food when, during lunch, he frosted his sloppy Joe with his strawberry yogurt, stuck a carrot stick in the top and sang happy birthday to a classmate.

Yesterday, when I went to pick Oskar up his teacher said he had a very bad day. Indeed, he earned only a meager 64 points (far short of the 74 needed to earn screen time). At this point, Oskar stormed out of the building, and we could see him through the glass doors as he sulked, teary eyed on the playground. His teacher went class-by-class, point by point, to show me where he had trouble (not keeping his hands to himself in Spanish, being silly in music, etc.).

Worst of all, she said, was that he was used inappropriate language. She leaned in close to me and whispered, “He used the C word.” My jaw dropped. My heart sank. I think I may have even gasped. “He what?” I said, incredulous. She nodded, “Yes, the C word.”

Simultaneously, I started spelling, “c-u-?” while she said, “crap.” She looked at me and I looked at her. I was a little embarrassed that I went there, but I recovered quickly and said, “Yes, that is unacceptable. He can’t say crap in school and we will talk about it tonight.”

He didn’t earn screen time last night, and instead used the time to teach himself how to knit. I have to admit, I almost gave him screen time for NOT saying the c-word. It’s a start.

City Girl

While I am still baking biscotti and writing my columns for the local paper out here in Jersey County, Illinois, I'm not entirely the Country Girl anymore. In August, we rented a house in the tony enclave of Clayton in St. Louis so the kids could go to the terrific public schools here (Spanish starts in first grade!). Last year, I was schlepping Oskar into St. Louis every day to attend a special private school that caters to kids with learning disabilities. Oskar has a weird and challenging cocktail (a "witch's brew" as one of his doctors put it) of neurological and behavioral impairments: Tourette's Syndrome, mild Asperger's, ADHD, and a few other acronyms. It was a brutal commute and every day was stressful. So, for the half the amount of that tuition, we rented a beautiful 3-bedroom duplex in the fantastic DeMun/Captain neighborhood, and now both Oskar (5th grade) and Willa (1st) are at the same school. We go back to the farm on weekends and Dave Stine does his best to make it to the city a few times a week. We're still trying to get into a groove, but so far so good...

One Blue Ain't Bad

Well, the results are in and it was just a so-so showing this year in the culinary competition at the fair for the Country Girl. My carrot cake received a first place/blue ribbon (four years in a row), the peach jam and plum jelly each came in second place (both were beaten my husband's Great Aunt Juanita, 85 years old and the doyenne of all things canned) and my corn muffins and biscotti each came in third. A middling showing in my book, very disappointing.

I have to say, I was pretty miffed at the results, and not just because I think my black chocolate biscotti with cranberries and almonds is outstanding and should have won better than third place, but because I'm not exactly sure the judge was qualified. Usually, the fair has a member of the local University of Illinois Extension or the Homemaker's Education Association or a master canner or a chef or someone with a culinary background judge the competition. This year, they asked four people and everyone said no, so they resorted to the 60-something husband of the fair's supervisor of crafts. His qualifications? He was a cook in the Army. I heard his wife say to the culinary supervisor, "I wonder if his smoking will affect his taste buds and his judging?"

His taste buds weren't the problem.

In the fancy cookie category (in which my biscotti was entered), the judge disqalified someone's pecan tassy entry because he didn't think it was a cookie. An outrage! The pecan tassy is the most elegant of cookies! And so much work to make. Worse yet, the judge didn't know what biscotti was and had never seen it before. Please. I know this is Jersey County, Illinois, and all, but they sell biscotti at the local Wal-Mart for God's sake. They even sell it on the counters of local gas stations.

And so we suffer these little indignities and thank God this is the most important thing we have to worry about.

On top of Jessie James' visit, it was a big week here in Jersey County.

Burned banana bread, 4-H and fair queens

It's Fair Week here in Jersey County, and the community is beside itself with excitement. And rightly so. The 4-H shows wound up yesterday, capped by the annual 4-H barbeque and auction, where the local bankers and businessmen (and they are all men) come out for an evening of pork chop sandwiches, homemade lemonade (made by my mother-in-law and served by yours truly) and no-contest bidding on prized pigs, bunnies, whethers and other livestock.

The organizers set up a ring in front of the grandstand and the kids come out, one-by-one, with their animals. The audience has received the names and entries of all the kids along with the current market prices on livestock. After everyone eats and visits, the audience and the bidders settle in to the grandstand. The bidding (which is led by real auctioneers) follows a traditional and predictable pattern: each bank or business takes turns bidding and buys the animal at either a set price, so the kids can keep it (and take it to the State Fair or breed it), or at market price, if the buyer actually wants it. But that is extremely rare -- bidders know that you are supposed to buy the animal and donate it back. That way, every animal gets sold, the kids and the 4-H program make a little money and every bank and business supports 4-H by buying at least one animal. Mystifying, yes, but it is beyond charming. In fact, it's wonderful. Plus every buyer and seller gets their picture taken with the fair queens.

The 4-H shows and sale always kick off Fair Week, followed by lots of other events: tonight's fair parade, where everyone, and I mean everyone, either lines the 14-blocks of State Street in downtown Jerseyville leading out to the fairgrounds, or marches in the parade. I will march, as usual, with the Rotary Club, passing out little American flags for the kids to wave. The local grocery store always passes out popsicles and everyone else throws candy. Again, beyond charming.

But the real news is that everyone is in a tizzy because the county won a lottery and Jessie James, of West Coast Chopper fame, the star of Celebrity Apprentice and Sandra Bullock's husband, will be here Friday night with his road show. No one can believe that little old out of the way Jersey County got this huge star, let alone the organizers of the fair who don't seem to know who he really is and what a huge crowd he could pull in. He'll be here the same night as the National Tractor Pulls, which is always a mob scene. This will be interesting.

But my real interest in the fair lies in the annual Culinary Competition, where bakers enter our prized baked and canned goods, vying for the top honor of Best in Show, Best in Division, or simply a Blue Ribbon. Three years ago, in 2006, I won a blue ribbon for my carrot cake, a blue ribbon for mu chocolate fudge, a white ribbon (third place) for my peach preserves and a blue ribbon and best in show for my chocolate almond biscotti. That may have been my proudest moment.

I skipped 2007 and entered again last year, but none of my items garnered more than a white ribbon. Different judges, different tastes, or maybe I was off my game. This year, I have vowed revenge and seek the grail, again.

Despite the fact that there is no rule against entering items made from a box, that offends my sensibilities. I am a purist and bake everything from scratch. In fact, I use milk from the family farm, eggs from my chicken and fruit from my trees. I buy the flour and sugar.

I started three days ago, on Saturday. Dave and Willa picked plums from Little Gram's tree and I cooked them down, straining them three times to get as clear a juice as possible (this is very important). The jelly I made was lovely -- clear and bright purple. But it didn't set as tightly as I liked, so I am nervous. The peach preserves turned out all right, if a little dark. Little Gram wasn't sure I had big enough chucks to qualify for preserves, but Big Gram thought it'd be all right. The politics of jams and jellies. Who knew?

On Sunday, I had a tantrum when the pilot light on my gas oven kept going out and would not stay lit (I was doing a test run of baking). I told Dave Stine in no uncertain terms that when it came to be show time that pilot light better stay lit. He changed the thermo coupler and did some other stuff to the oven and promised me it would work.

Entries were due at 5 p.m. yesterday so I got up at 5 a.m to bake. I made carrot cake, corn muffins, plain biscotti, black chocolate biscotti with cranberries and almonds and banana bread. Things were going well until I checked on the banana bread and the pilot light had gone out. Dave fixed it again, and I put the bread back in but something went wrong. Despite the fact that I set the timer for 20 minutes less than than the one-hour bake time, when I checked on the banana bread again it had overcooked and I felt I could not submit it. Too brown.

When I went to the fair office at 5 p.m. to enter my items (they are checked in with so much gravitas you'd be amazed),  the superintendents asked where my banana bread was. I told them the whole story and they expressed genuine concern over the fate of not just my banana bread, but what an untempered and untrustworthy oven could do to my home cooking in general. It was lovely moment, and as I left the fair office to go serve lemonade to 4-H kids, farmers and bankers, I had a spring in my step about this country life.

Wild pigs, dead roosters

Yesterday was a big day for the country girl. I took my kids to the city park in town (Jerseyville, population 4,000 or so) and while we were there a huge, 350-pound hog got loose from a passing trailer. It took 11 high school kids over an hour to corral the beast back into its trailer. When we got home, my rooster, Ruben, was having trouble breathing. Thinking there might be something caught in his throat, I caught him, held him firmly between my knees, stretched out his neck, pried open his beak and looked down his throat. Nothing. He seemed a little better after that. Sadly, I found him dead under the big spruce tree a few hours later, the victim of a mite contagion in his throat, which I couldn't see. This morning, my husband finally caught the skunk that has been debasing our household with his odor. Dave dispatched the creature with a blast of his shotgun. I went out to feed the cats and found one of my hens already helping herself to their bowl of Meow Mix. Never did this in D.C. Just another day in the country here in Dow...

Country Girl, Lonely Liberal

I am now a Country Girl, and somewhat of a Lonely Liberal. I come to you from the corn and bean (as in soy) fields of southwestern Illinois, 30 miles north of St. Louis, near the confluence of the mighty Illinois, Missouri and Mississippi Rivers. This is rural America, baby. God’s country.

I am a city girl, transplanted here 7 years ago from Washington, D.C., where I owned a bar, a nightclub and a restaurant. I went from living in multicultural Mt. Pleasant and arguing about American foreign policy with opinionated Somali cab drivers to living on a 40-acre farm in the middle of nowhere and listening to my husband rant about the overspray from the insecticide truck that killed his peach trees. It was a difficult transition. Very difficult.

This may be a blue state, but many of the sensibilities here are shockingly red, pretty conservative to this former city girl. This blog is about what it’s like to be a progressive in a traditional community, what it’s like to live where you can’t get the New York Times or even the St. Louis Post-Dispatch delivered, where Wal-Mart is master of all it surveys, where foreign languages aren’t taught until high school, where art and music are offered to the elementary school students only once every other week, where few people know or care who Paul Krugman is (which, actually, is sort of a relief).

The Country Girl will also be about the skunks who live under our house; the coyotes that howl in my yard at night; the surprisingly competitive baking competition at the county fair (which, incidentally, I won two years ago with my chocolate almond biscotti); my speckled rooster Ruben and his harem of hens; my pathetic and ignored garden; my children, Willa and Oskar (who has the exciting witches’ brew of Tourette’s syndrome, ADHD, ODD and PDD - fun!); play dates gone bad; my mother-in-law; my manly husband, famed furniture maker Dave Stine of Stine Woodworking; the bar I still co-own in D.C., the Toledo Lounge (15 years and counting!); and all other things – political, social, cultural and personal -- in the world of the Country Girl.

 I hope you’ll stay tuned. This’ll be good.