My Wacky Life: September 2010

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was groggy. I had a three month old baby who I was nursing every two hours and a SIDS obsession that wouldn't go away, even though I slept with my hand on his chest so I could feel his little chest raise up and down, up and down. I woke up (but as any new mother knows, you never really wake up all the way because you never fall asleep all the way). Propped up my pillows, ran to fill up my water bottle because again, as any woman who has ever nursed, you get insanely thirsty. Gently picked up my son, who had just woken up and began nursing him. As soon as he was going strong, I flipped on the television...and saw it.

As my husband and I watched the news in silence, we turned to each other. I said, "what happened to New York??? Do you think it was an earthquake??". He looked at me and in a very even tone simply said, "no. This was Osama Bin Laden and we have been attacked." I didn't even know who Osama Bin Laden was....I had just spent the last year absorbing anything pregnancy, baby or breast feeding related. None of those topics discuss the unrest in the middle east or the fact this man was quite powerful...and hated us. Like trying to shove a square peg in a round hole, it didn't work in my mind. I just didn't, couldn't, wouldn't accept that a group of people could knowingly plan, execute and murder thousands of people. Here. In America. My America. These people had children, friends, spouses, parents. They were loved and needed...and for those who didn't die instantly, they spent the last moments of their life terrified. It just didn't compute.

As someone who has always tried to believe the best in people, I have always had an incredibly difficult time understanding how people are able to intentionally hurt others, especially people with whom they have no history. I can understand passionate anger and vigilante justice in that there is a basis for the repercussion. I am sure we have all done the theoretical "I'd kill someone if they *fill in the blank* my child". But the people in those towers, in the pentagon and in those planes did nothing to deserve their death. I simply could not understand it.

I looked down at my baby. The most amazing, wonderful thing my eyes had ever taken in. I felt such a combination of anger, sadness and helplessness. I knew then this would forever change America. He simply would not have the same experience here as I did. He wouldn't have the sense of security that came from two oceans. I had spent months preparing for his arrival...before he could even hold his head up, everything with a sharp corner was covered. Cabinet doors had safety latches installed. I got a life insurance policy. I washed his clothes in Dreft. I had a pot of water boiling continuously to sterilize anything he might possibly need to put in his mouth...pacifiers, teething rings, etc. Post c-section, I didn't take even one pain killer because I didn't want it to get in my breast milk. I waited until he was sleeping before I tried to trim his nails. To think there were mothers who had done all of those things for their babies and were now at home, watching the news and realizing the planes smashing into the building where their children were haunted me. It still does.

I remember the days and weeks after that, we all flew our flags. People started talking to each other more. Country singers wrote a few songs about 9/11 that could arise passion and tears at the
same time. I remember President Bush telling the crowd in New York that the people who had knocked down those buildings were going to "hear from all of us." I remember his speech where he talked about one of the men on the flight who's famous last words were "Let's roll." I remember a lot. What I don't remember is when we stopped flying our flags so much. When we stopped talking to each other. When the flags weren't at half mast and when seeing one no longer meant 9/11, it meant another soldier died far, far away. I don't remember when I stopped wanting to donate blood. I don't remember when I lost respect for our president. But all those things happened. Slowly. But they did.

When my son was in preschool, he asked me what 9/11 was. I told him there were a small group of people who had hurt a lot of people. He asked why. I told him, truthfully, that I didn't know. I'd like to say that after this happened, I researched the whys and the history of this group of people. I haven't. I still don't know why they did it because understanding that kind of hatred isn't something I want to do. I have no interest in money trails, what country funded another country in order to buy weapons, who's religion is 'better', who stood to profit off a war, or how long it will take America to 'recuperate'. The bottom line is as I told my son 5 years ago. A small group of people hurt a lot of people. The whys and hows don't matter. It happened....and the wound will take a very, very long time to heal and it will leave an enormous scar.

The memory of that day is like having an inoperable, benign tumor. We wish like hell it just didn't exist.

Every year, for the past 4 years, I have entered the chili contest at the fair. Every year, it gets a little bit more competitive. Last year, some wisenheimer had celery on her list of ingredients. Celery. Humph. Anyway, I have consistently placed in the top three, so of course, my confidence was booming this year...things did not go exactly as expected....so I give you my guide....

How to Make Ass Burning Chili & Allow Your Masterpiece to be Judged.

First, start thinking of catchy names for the bowl of fire you are about to create. Judges might be impressed by your wit if not your chili. Give up when the only thing you can think of is either Bowl of Fire or Ass Burner. Decide that if there is a lady judge this name might make her uncomfortable...then what if she deducted points because she's a snoot who can't take a little humor?

Next, take children to Asian market to find stuff for your chili because it's cheaper. Eureka!!! Find GOOD LUCK PEPPER!!!!! Freak out. Exclaim to children this is a sign that you are TAKING THE BLUE RIBBON!!!! Force son to pose with your good luck pepper. Know that INSIDE, he's brimming with just as much enthusiasm as you. Only he is hiding it better.

Get so double rainbowed out about this you fail to notice daughter pawing through "pretty little orange ones"....aka habaneros. Rip it out of her hands and wonder if merely touching it will make her skin peel off. Feel eyes pop out of head when she then rubs eyes. Nothing happens. Wonder if chefs on Food Network who ALWAYS talk about wearing gloves "whenever touching habaneros" are getting kick backs from glove company because this seems to be a warning predicated on bullshit. Anyway.

Prepare your chili...

First, chop....

Season....

Add the heat...all 14 different kinds of hotter than hell peppers...

....instead of gloves, use plastic grocery bags to cover hands. Realize you have actually always used grocery bags on your hands when you chop hot peppers and that you really are a redneck because purchasing food prep gloves has never entered your mind. Once.

But buying Slurpees and Cheetos has. A lot.

Admire your good luck charm, which has been given it's own special paper towel on which to rest because you are not sure if you should keep him and lay him on the top of the bowl you entered in an effort to Jedi mind trick the judges or put him in the chili. Decide he needs to be a part of this, he's not merely for decoration...although he IS cool....

Wha-La! Tell yourself this is one of the best pots you have ever made. Remind yourself you've got your secret weapon floating around there, spreading the magic pepper juices. Dream about your blue ribbon. Think about how great it would be to give chili away for the holidays with a picture of you and your ribbon and a little talking cloud thingie over your head saying "Happy Holidays!".

Head to the fair. Try not to burden children with chili contest obsession. Agree to some rides and the petting zoo. Feign interest in the million different variety of rabbits. Oooo and aahhh over baby chickens. Realize again, you have a petting zoo AT HOME and wouldn't they much rather suck back a Purple Cow??

Take children to rides. See something no mother ever wants to see......

Feel really bad for mom doting on now pacifier less child who is clearly her first. Fight the urge to tell her it's ok to pick the damn thing up, suck off the fair ground cooties and give it back to the kid...don't do this, because you have no time for chit chat. You have a contest to win, Walla Walla burgers to eat and E.Coli to scrub off of your childrens farm animal loving hands.

Stop for deep fried pepsi because you saw Andrew Zimmern eat it on Bizarre Foods. Tell kids it's gross because you don't want to share because IT IS SO DAMN GOOD. Vow to learn how to make this.

Load kids up on cotton candy...be grateful you took this photo because an hour from now she will look you dead in the eye and tell you she never got any cotton candy...but YOU HAVE PROOF!!!

Head to the competition....get a sinking feeling when you realize you are -
a) the only one bringing your entry as is..not in a cooler or insulated lunch box. Just in your hand.
b) there are twice as many judges as previous years and
c) SEVERAL more competitors.

Take in your competition....feel confidence slip away as you observe various entries....

"Oh, hi, I'm going to really set the scene with my sombrero place mat and TYPED ingredient list...I'm SOOO fancy...yeah, you like that? It's a little cilantro garnish."

"Look at me, all decorated with dried peppers and I, too, have my own place mat....and guess what? I have 'strongly brewed coffee' in me. How's that for fancified? Yeah, you're feeling pretty intimidated now, aren't you? "

"That's right, people, this is one of her nice, glass bowls. I also enjoy being showered with scallions and bathed in sour cream, just for shits and giggles....oh, and my special ingredient? Cashews. You heard me."

"You can all suck it because I came with a side dish. That's right. Notice the cornbread? Yeah, and those delicately sliced peppers baked in? Not an accident. I am IN IT TO WIN IT"

"I have blue ribbon written all over me. I'm shabby chic, what with my raffia bows, have the bandanna napkin and red checked place mat to appeal to those cowboy looking judges, my ingredient list is typed in a lovely font and I'm in a damn cute little pot. Just give me the ribbon now."

Take this all in. Swallow pride. Feel eyes slowly pull back to your entry....

"bet you're wishing you had saved that "Good Luck Pepper" to decorate me with now, huh, jackass? Thanks. Why don't you just throw me in a dumpster when this is all over because clearly you don't think I deserve any frills. Just treat me like the ugly stepsister, that's fine...oh, and THANKS for letting your kid help you write out my ingredient list, by the way. That paper is all sticky from whatever the hell was all over her fingers, she drew a picture on it and I'm pretty sure she misspelled CHILI. That's great. Good job. Loser."