A little foreword before I launch into my triweekly tirade. I try to integrate links into each post, either to share whatever random crap I’m currently all about or to make a punchline about the given topic. However, WordPress informs me they are (at best) seldom clicked upon. It is, of course, your right to ignore them—even if you are my Subjects. But, today, Her Royal Highness must interject. The following link is so uniformly perfect for the following post that if you don’t follow through with a little click of that mouse, a spider will lay eggs in your brain. True fact.
Click here. Please?
While I would never give one of my kids a goofy name like Kyle, I have sadly been that mom. About a decade ago, I was camping with the little ones near Yosemite. My eldest was pounding away at his Game Boy (to absorb nature, clearly) and his then three-year-old brother wanted a turn. This request was summarily denied. My younger son’s verbatim response? “Yeah, well I don’t give a fuck!” Disparaging sigh. There was no mystery about where he learned that kinda language, because momma’s reaction to him? “Aw shit!” Still, it was the first time I ever truly felt like a failure as a role model.
My own parents tried to raise me better. To this day, my mom only swears as a genuine, involuntary expletive. My dad may be the world’s last true gentleman and refuses to curse around women and children. (Although a little bird told me that his vulgar streak at work is nothing short of blue. Love you, dad. Sorry if I just outed you to mom.) So how did my love of four-letter brushstrokes happen? The same way my love of smoking did: I had something to prove and it was a shortcut to relieving frustration and anxiety.
Unlike my smoking, however, I still stand by my commode mouth. Today’s post, and the drama behind it, is the perfect example of why. It was originally very different (about the killing of defenseless/delicious animals), but had to be pushed back to Wednesday because I grossly overestimated my (in)ability to manage time. When I realized the recipe I tried to prepare for it—the very thought of which still makes me salivate—wouldn’t make Monday’s deadline, what do you think I yelled at Russell from across the room? “Fiddlesticks! Why am I such a silly melon farmer!? Why can’t any handsome thing I do just frying pan work, you groovy biscuit juggler!?”
Sometimes we need to vent as to not explode into a rage of stabby goodness. If your parenting suffers in the process… eh, shit happens. And while today’s recipe may not be the pièce de résistance I intended, it’ll do in a pinch (which is kinda the whole point of this blog). If the name seems cryptic to you, just say it faster in your head.
Sofa King Yummy Navy Bean Soup
- 1 lb navy beans (soaked overnight)
- 5 carrots, chopped
- 5 stalks celery, chopped
- 1 large yellow onion, chopped
- 1 1/2 lbs smoked ham shank (or ham hocks)
- 1 tsp salt
- 1/2 tsp pepper
- 1 tbsp fresh thyme
- 2 quarts water
Place beans in bowl, cover with water, soak overnight. Rinse beans next day. Place everything in crock pot, pour approximately 2 quarts of water over ingredients. Cook on low 8–10 hours (or until beans are tender). Soup’s on!
I was going to get more sanctimonious about foul language by dragging the First Amendment into it. I was going to explain how it mainly applies to government and is not an irrevocable license to be a dick all the time. About how there’s a sizable difference between fighting for a legitimate cause and throwing a hissy fit because the line at Banana Republic is too long for your fragile sensibilities. About how—should you fall into the latter category—you must understand that it isn’t censorship when we advise you on which commonplace object you may fornicate yourself with. Or about how you should have the sides of your head surgically altered into a shape not unlike a Mad magazine fold-in and save us all the guesswork of determining whether or not you are an ass-face.
Glad I chose not to get into all that.
TWTG says, “I fart on you anyway, so what difference does it make?”