My black thumb

Mr. G. likes to tell everyone I have a black thumb. Let me tell you something. I'm sick of hearing about my black thumb.

Every year, I proclaim that this is the year. I go to Home Depot or Walmart and load up on seed packets, Miracle Gro and containers. It's like back-to-school shopping when all of your notebooks are clean and awaiting the neat, meticulous notes that will pave your way to groundbreaking career in astronomy. You'll discover new galaxies. You'll discover life in those new galaxies. You'll get Pluto back into standing as a planet. Yeah, how'd that work for you? Same here.

But back to the garden. Every single year, it fails. Every tomato plant just withers and dies. My dreams of watermelon don't even yield a seedling. One year, I watched a cucumber plant bloom and produce tiny cucumbers. I checked on those tiny cucumbers every day. I exalted in those tiny cucumbers. Then the tiny cucumbers died. I had to stay in bed for a week.

What you have to understand is that my granny was an incredible gardener who prided herself on never having visited a plant nursery. She just dug up stuff on the side of the road and replanted it. Or she got "cuttings" from neighbors.  She was magical.

Plus it just seems that gardening should be part of my Southern DNA.

I have planted rose bushes that thrived. My kumquat tree produces bushels of fruit. The rosemary does really well when Mr. G. doesn't throw a heavy potted plant on top of it.

Then there's the casualty list. The Satsuma tree died without giving us a single Satsuma. The yellow rose bush died. The shrimp plant died. Even a tree that had no doubt stood for decades died. The other day, I was pulling brown leaves off the two-headed palm tree, and one head of the tree came off in my hand. It's like I decapitated it. Poor Marie Antoinette.

This year, I planted basil, zucchini, cucumber and green beans. Then I called my green thumb neighbor over to inspect the progress.

Neighbor: That's cucumber?
Me: Yes.
Neighbor: Doesn't look like cucumber.
Me: The packet said it was cucumber.

Then we strolled over to the zucchini.

Neighbor: That's zucchini?
Me: Yes.
Neighbor: Doesn't look like zucchini.

So now the seed companies are actively duping me. They see me coming and give me seeds for something meaningless so I won't destroy countless vegetables.

Then we went to the basil, whereupon my neighbor squatted down to peer at it before carefully straightening up and looking thoughtful.

Neighbor: I have trouble with basil myself.

So I give up. I'm never planting another plant. I'll just plant the Christmas tree out there so Mr. G. can proudly show off the yard with a sweep of his hand and chortle about his wife's black thumb. He really seems to get a kick out of it.

Thanksgiving On The Bayou

Granny, who much preferred cuddling a cute puppy to making a pot roast.

My Granny wasn't the best of cooks - although I always liked her cooking. But, then, I like my meatloaf slightly burned. The only time I turned up my nose at her cooking was the time she made rice from a box to impress her sister, Aunt Pearl. I'm not really into fancy food.

Great Aunt Pearl, who apparently liked her rice fancy.

To this day, I have to have Granny's oyster dressing at least once a year. The directions go something like this: "Rice, oysters, chicken livers, celery and onions (if desired). Cook and mix together." It's fabulous and really, really easy to make, which probably was the attraction.

Cooking wasn't really Granny's thing. She'd rather garden, read or watch her stories. Oh, how she loved her stories (soap operas for those of you without story-loving grandmas).

Granny loved the holidays. 

I like to read as well. I've also inherited her love for the holidays. I'm a sucker for them. I can remember helping set out her tabletop manger and ceramic Christmas tree. Just out of reach in my memory is some sort of ladder that I was fascinated with as a child. I think it had elves on it and they were trying to string lights. On Christmas Eve, we'd walk down the street to Midnight Mass at the little Catholic church in Gibson.

This year, my mom told me the story of her first Thanksgiving. She remembers it because she was 9 at the time.

Granny, my mom and the rest of that side of the family are Cajun. One hundred percent Cajun. No DNA testing needed to figure out that lineage. Their ancestors immigrated to Nova Scotia from France, got the boot by the English, went back to France and eventually set sail for Louisiana. My granny used to tell a story about the voyage from France to Louisiana. The ship sailed in 1785. Granny was born in 1913. And she talked about that voyage like it was a cruise she took as a child. In other words, she was a sixth-generation American with one foot planted firmly back in France. Granny's mother, grandmother, great-grandmother and great-great grandmother may have been born in Louisiana, but she spoke French as her first language. Her life revolved around Cajun French and the Catholic Church, not the Founding Fathers.

We're Granny's first four children. Oui, we speak French. Doesn't everyone?

But back to Thanksgiving in Bayou L'Ourse (outside Morgan City) circa 1960-something. Granny got her first television set the year my mother entered fourth grade. Soon, Granny learned about a publication called "TV Guide" and got herself a subscription to that. It was in "TV Guide" that she read about the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I don't know who Cara Williams is, but this issue of TV Guide brought us Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving morning, Granny woke my Aunt Marilyn and my mom and settled them in front of the television. She told them they were going to watch a parade while she worked in the kitchen.

At some point, my mother wandered into the kitchen and asked what in the world was going on. It wasn't even 10 o'clock, and Granny was festooning a ham with pineapples and cherries. I'd like to imagine she'd already made the oyster dressing.

Granny explained that they were celebrating Thanksigiving. "It's not really our holiday," she said. "But we're celebrating it anyway."

We've been celebrating Thanksgiving ever since. We've even taken the big leap of transitioning to a turkey for the main course.

Granddaddy, chocolate pie and vodka.

My granddaddy wants a chocolate pie.

Let me explain something to you about Granddaddy. He let me watch "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" and "Annie" EVERY weekend when I was a child. Every. Single. Weekend. Can you imagine how absolutely annoying that was? Songs. Dancing. Orphans. Gene Wilder in a purple top hat. If memory serves me well, my sister, cousins and I sang along and danced in front of the television set while Granddaddy sat on the couch reading his "Wall Street Journal" through every viewing. So he's getting his chocolate pie.

Granddaddy had four granddaughters, and I believe he was present for the births of all of us. He may have missed my sister Linda's birth, but it's a 2-hour drive from Houma to Baton Rouge. And it was the middle of the night. So he can be excused for that. He was there in spirit (and who knows, he may have been there. I'm not recording this for the historical record so - while I could call my mother and ask - I'm not going to call my mother and ask).

I used to get up early in the morning and make canned biscuits with my grandfather. And by early, I mean early. He gets up at dawn. My cousin Aimee also learned that getting-up-at-dawn trick for a little quality time with Granddaddy. They'd lace up their sneakers and go running together. I also used to help Granddaddy in the garage when I was little. He had a closet of jumpsuits and he could always be found tinkering with the cars on a Saturday morning.

I don't remember what conversations we had on those Saturday mornings. Quality time is about just being there, and Granddaddy has always been there.

I was my grandfather's first grandchild, and I believe he was all of 42 when I was born. Excuse me while I breathe into a paper bag after processing that fact. OK, I'm back. For the longest time, there was a flock of bird stickers on the sliding glass door at my grandparents' house. They seemed a bit more whimsical then my grandparents are so I finally questioned their origin. Granddaddy explained that he put them there so I would know not to run into the glass door as a small child. After accepting that I must have been the dumbest small child ever, it occurred to me how sweet a gesture that was (Although, really? Did I run into the sliding glass door more than once? Was this a weekly occurrence?)

Recently, my cousin Paula remembered all the times Granddaddy let her style his hair. Apparently rollers were sometimes involved. He also was game for tea parties. Listening to this, my grandmother said, "You know your granddaddy lives for his kids and grandkids." And I did know that. No one worries more about our health, cars, jobs, etc. than Granddaddy.

As I said: He's getting his chocolate pie. Apparently the man's been hinting strongly about wanting a chocolate pie for MONTHS, and no one's done anything about it. OK, it might have been days, but still ... no chocolate pie!

The inspiration for the chocolate pie is my great-grandmother. That woman could cook. Unfortunately, she also liked to give you a recipe and leave out a few key ingredients. Ah, that competitive streak runs deep. So we try to recreate what came out of her kitchen based on my grandfather's descriptions and his cousin Dorothy Jean's help. Dorothy Jean's mother and my great-grandmother used to cook together.

All my grandfather remembers about the chocolate pie is that the crust was made with lard. This is not surprising given that he grew up on a cattle farm. I, on the other hand, do not have cows grazing in my back yard. There's just Ava the cat, and she brings absolutely nothing to the table except a never-quenched longing for kitty treats. Preferably the crunchy kind.

So I did a little internet research, and discovered cooks raving about using lard for their pie crusts. Then I read this comment from Lillian in Maine: "I use vodka instead of water." And I wondered if Lillian is sampling the vodka before she adds it to the pie crust. Lard, I can process (and buy, as it would turn out, on the internet). But vodka?

Then I did a little more internet research and realized Lillian from Maine isn't quite as batty as I thought. Cook's Illustrated has actually researched this. http://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2007/11/cooks-illustrated-foolproof-pie-dough-recipe.html. Vodka is something of a secret ingredient.

I don't imagine that my great-grandmother used vodka. Plus, my grandfather is Baptist and doesn't drink. So I'll probably be leaving out the vodka. But I will be making that chocolate pie. Because Granddaddy - like Willy Wonka - makes the world good.

Memory issues. They're a ... Wait, what was I saying?

Memory is a bitch.

As I age, I find that I'm more forgetful. I have to make lists to stay on task. I walk into rooms and stand there trying to remember why I walked into the room. I ponder for far too long someone's name. The other day, it was Sofia Vergara's name that eluded me. Now I can't remember why I was trying to remember it.

My husband is so forgetful that he doesn't remember he's forgetful. He's always been this way. He forgets to lock doors, close doors, pick up his cellphone from a restaurant table, check a hotel closet for clothes, etc. Our front door keys are in the seat pocket of an airplane (Glenn has no memory of this incident - he insists I lost them). The key I gave to a neighbor for when Glenn locks himself out of the house? Glenn locked himself out of the house, borrowed the key and promptly lost it. His original wedding ring is at his parents' former house somewhere. Hundreds of cellphone chargers and power cords are in hotel rooms and press boxes. I now buy replacements in bulk.

Glenn thinks I have an unreasonable hatred of candles. I don't. In my single days, I burned candles and scented my house in lovely, lucious smells. Now I live with a man who toddles off to bed or - even better - out the house and leaves candles burning. He scorched the bathroom wall and ceiling with soot by leaving a candle burning too close to the wall. Glenn's defense: "Anyone could do that. You forgot your cellphone the other day."

Last week, the window salesman came by. Many of our windows are original to the home but not in a historic kind of way. The salesman looked at the bedroom window and said we'd need to put in one that opens as a fire exit. Glenn remembers that conversation as we need to put in one that opens so we can let in fresh air. He loves opening windows, requiring me to go through the house periodically and lock all the windows he's closed but forgotten to lock. I've been fighting his insistence on getting window screens. I just know he's going to drive off and leave three or four windows wide open. Then the dog will push through the screen. Or the cat will push through the screen. Or a burglar will push through the screen. Glenn just thinks I'm anti-fresh air.

Now the memory issues are a sensitive subject. Glenn's mother suffers from dementia as did his aunt and cousin. So I usually just collect his cellphone from the restaurant table and hand it to him when he starts searching for it 20 minutes after we've returned home.

Not that I should be smug. I went grocery shopping the other day for his parents and picked up lunch for them. When I got to their house, I put a pan of cookies in the oven, settled them at the table with their lunch, put away the groceries and left. Then I made a U-turn in the middle of the road and went back to retrieve the cookies from the oven.

Dead trees and wet concrete. Oh, the horror.

A few months ago we did something we didn't want to do. We're frugal and we abhor murder. But the tree outside our kitchen window had to go. Little cracks started appearing in the window. Then they turned into big cracks. Yep, the tree roots were pushing against the foundation.

If you're a homeowner, you know that the mere mention of needing to cut down a tree is enough to draw a waterfall of tears. Cutting down trees is expensive. I always try to convince our handyman that he can tackle this chore himself. He just shakes his head and laughs. He thinks I'm kidding.

Not long ago, my friend Sue and I noticed that a cypress tree around the corner was dead. A few weeks later, the homeowner happened to be sitting outside with a cold beer when Bailey and I strolled past one summer evening. I decided to casually mention the dead tree to her for 2 reasons: 1.) I'm an idiot who didn't realize the sycamore shedding bark like leaves meant the tree in my back yard was dead. The handyman had to tell me. Then he shook his head and laughed when I tried to convince him to run over to Home Depot and rent the equipment to knock it down. 2.) The dead cypress tree is smack next to her garage. It could total the roof or a vehicle.

So I casually mentioned it after some small talk. She immediately burst into tears. Not quite ... but just about. She's gotten estimates, and she can either feed an entire country or pull down the tree. She's still deciding. Although, hey, if you know a contractor looking for cypress wood who will pull down the tree in exchange for the scrap, let me know.

But back to our tree. It had to go. When you start becoming destructive and bust my windows, you get your walking papers. I didn't watch while it toppled. It's probably a good thing. I can't stand killing a tree and I would have cringed when the tree crew asked if they could take a leak in our back yard. I probably shouldn't have made such a large pitcher of iced tea for the tree crew.

It's a good thing I didn't go all Wizard of Oz and plant a field of poppies.

With the tree down, I had to decide what to do with the empty space. I quickly decided on a flower bed with bird feeders and a bird bath. I worked, sweated, pulled up grass, tilled the soil, planted the flowers and then approached my husband with a bit of distressing news. I needed a water hose within close proximity to the flower bed in order to keep the flowers alive. And, looky, there's a faucet RIGHT NEXT TO the new flower bed.

Let me tell you something about Mr. G. He has a hatred of water hoses because he doesn't like getting concrete wet. Seriously. Joan Crawford hated wire hangers. My husband hates wet concrete. He once scolded me because the water from my pretty flowering pot was draining and getting the front stoop wet. He apparently thought I was going out there and wildly sloshing the water into the pot and all over the concrete with the nifty watering can he bought me so I could avoid using the hose. He didn't realize pots have little holes in the bottom to allow for drainage. He's got issues. Deep, deep, deep and mystifying issues.

Now I'm not exactly certain what is so bad about wet concrete. With mental illness, it's really best not to peel that onion. Trust me on this. I've tried sympathetic looks. I've tried soothing tones. I've tried a little soft music. Mr. G. just isn't willing to crack open his sheer and utter insanity on this issue.

So Mr. G. got a pained look on his face when I mentioned the need for a hose. Have I mentioned the new flower bed is adjacent to the driveway? We're not talking about a wet sidewalk; we're talking about getting a giant slab of concrete wet. Imagine if Mr. G. had to see that every time he roared into the driveway in his little Mazda. So he tried to change the subject. Then he questioned why I couldn't just tote my watering can back and forth. After filling it up in the sink, of course. No need to use any of the existing hoses! The concrete might get wet. I explained that I really didn't feel like making six or seven trips to the kitchen sink to water the flower bed every other day. So Mr. G. made a counteroffer. He would water the flower bed. And he did! All of ZERO times. When I questioned him about it, he looked at me and said: "You didn't really believe me, did you?"

Me and the Pioneer Woman ... It's complicated

The Pioneer Woman

I'm on the fence about the Pioneer Woman. There. I said it.

Years ago, I discovered the Pioneer Woman's website. I loved the step-by-step photos of recipes. I loved the dog stories. How could I not love the dog stories? I loved the cattle pictures and tried not to think about their ultimate fate. I loved that she was a ranch housewife who loved to blog in between soccer games and dog baths.

Then I printed out one of her recipes and gave it a whirl. It was a flop. Then I printed out another one of her recipes and gave it a whirl. It was ... how do I say this ... a flop. But maybe I just don't like Oklahoma cooking. Except for her restaurant style salsa. That recipe is totally brilliant.

I bookmarked her website and continued to visit it every morning. I just like the way she writes. She's funny. She's silly. She's a redhead.

Try to make me not smile. Just try. 

I started watching her TV show. I rolled my eyes at some of the recipes. How can dumping a can of corn into a bowl be called a recipe? I marveled at how enthusiastic and chipper her children seem and wondered how much she bribed them. I did like her sense of humor and the snapshots of ranch life. Mostly, I tried to ignore my husband who seems convinced the Pioneer Woman is some kind of a stepford wife. Mr. G. mimicking the Pioneer Woman: "I like to smile all of the time. Watch me smile while I prepare thoughtful casseroles for my husband's 20-year-old girlfriend."

Then I stumbled across the Pioneer Woman haters on the Internet. Surprise, surprise. The Pioneer Woman isn't just a little old housewife. She's a rich little old housewife. Her husband's a megawealthy cattle rancher. I'm not sure why this was a secret. Only the Pioneer Woman and Teresa Giudici can afford Viking appliances - and Teresa's are about to go up for auction.

The worst of the haters is the Marlboro Woman. Marlboro Woman loves to hate, and she hates everything about the Pioneer Woman. She hates Pioneer Woman's recipes, white teeth, relatives and billowy blouses. She posts recaps of the Pioneer Woman's TV shows and shreds them. At first I thought the recaps were kind of funny. Then it started bothering me how nasty they were. Then I thought, geez, can you find one thing to like about the Pioneer Woman? Just one thing? Didn't your mama teach you that?

Then Marlboro Woman blocked me. I never made a single comment on her website so I'm not sure how I offended, but offend I apparently did. Out of curiosity, I dropped her an email asking why I was blocked. I got a terse reply back that didn't really answer my question. I can only assume she caught onto the fact that I, like the Pioneer Woman, favor billowy blouses.

So I'm going back to the Pioneer Woman's blog with my tail tucked between my legs. It's friendlier over there. The people are always nice. Plus she gives away prizes.

The flashy, mail-filled life of a political reporter

Life as a political reporter. It's glamorous. It's flashy. It's exciting. It's incredibly abusive. Some of the time.

I read somewhere that reporters get a front seat to history unfolding. It stuck in my mind because that's a pretty good summary. But I realize that we're not exactly invited guests. No one really wants us there. We barge our way in anyway. First Amendment, y'all. Besides, if you can't be there, we're happy to put you there through words, video and photos.

The pay isn't great. I'll never have a condo in Mexico much less Gulf Shores. But it's fun. It's a totally fun, amazing job. I get to write, and someone pays me to do this. I get to interview incredible personalities. And they pay me for something I'd do for free. If I could afford it.

Then there's my mailbag. Some days, that's the downside.

No, I cannot introduce you to Michelle Malkin

Don't get me wrong. I love hearing from readers. They put the food on my table and the gas in my car. I'm in this business because I love people. However, it's never fun when someone attacks you personally or clearly wants to violate you although I have pretty tough skin.

You would have no idea from the stack of mail on my desk that the U.S. Post Office is struggling to survive. The mail just keeps on coming, mainly from prison inmates. In my younger days, I got creepy letters. Sometimes I got really creepy letters meant for Michelle Malkin. For the record: I am not Michelle Malkin, I don't know her and I certainly cannot put you in contact with her. Sorry.

It's not just inmates who write me. I get really nice letters. I get really nice cards. I get really nice emails. I keep a file of them and flip through them from time to time. It makes me smile and energizes me.

Sometimes I get not so nice letters, cards and emails. Every time I get one - good or bad - I want to pump my fist into the air at the thought that someone is reading our copy; someone is buying our product. And they care enough to express an opinion. Thank you!

Sometimes I get letters telling me I'm the worst piece of scum on the face of the earth. My co-worker got a communication the other day suggesting he is a socialist. Really, we're both nice, God-loving, family-oriented people. But fist pump because someone read what we wrote!

Back when a former governor was in office, I got a letter suggesting I was having slumber parties at the Governor's Mansion. I think the implication was that I seemed too cozy with the governor or that I was a liberal (or that I needed a place to sleep). No politician truly loves news reporters. It's like cats and dogs. We tolerate each other but we're not likely to put on our jammies and watch a "Golden Girls" marathon together. Although how much fun would that be? Oh, let's not talk about the state budget, Dorothy's saying something funny. Pass the popcorn. Ooh, and can I see the second floor?

For the record, I cannot convince the governor to get your son out of prison, give you a job or erase your tax dispute. I just can't.

If I had a magic wand, I would wave it and resolve all of the world's problems, starting with giving every dog and cat a good home, of course. Then I'd tackle the people problems. I'd smooth out family disputes, cure addicts of their drug problems and make every child feel loved. No one would ever go hungry or sleep under an interstate. But I don't have a magic wand.

Today I got a letter blasting the subject of my story. I'm never sure how to respond to letters like that although respond I must. My mother brought me up well. Sometimes I write: "Thank you for your opinion" and leave it at that. I'm not going to argue with you. You're entitled to your opinion, after all. It's my co-worker who is the socialist. Not me. Just kidding. So I settled for a smiley face, which was probably the wrong response because I didn't really agree with what the person wrote.

I wonder how Michelle Malkin deals with this situation? Maybe I should have an inmate write and ask her.