Independent cabbage soup

On this patriotic holiday, Lil' OB is away, working for the first time at a summer camp as part of the "dish crew," which is a prerequisite for becoming a full-fledged counselor in the future. The Goat is also working all day. Hence, I have the run of the joint. You might even call me Commander in Chief.

With such unprecedented freedom, I began the day with an yoga session whilst clad only in my undies. I found it liberating to say the least.

Got namaste? Hell yes!

The rest of the day stretched before me like an inviting field of amber waves of grain. 'Twas the perfect opportunity to do some cooking.

Humble hostess's attempt to recreate Hungarian Cajun cabbage soup

What you see there is a bunch of garlic, onion, tomato and cabbage that will simmer on a very low heat for a few hours. I sauteed the garlic and onion in a bit of olive oil first. I also threw in some dry mustard, cumin and salt. I have no idea how it will turn out. I sure hope it's good. As you can see, I made enough to fill Uncle Sam's hat twice over.

That vat o' goodness was inspired by yesterday's field trip: a pursuit of happiness during which the Goat and I took a seven-mile jaunt through the Summit County Metroparks (a round-trip between Botsum and Big Bend trailheads, which included not one, but two passes by a renewable energy facility that was [ahem] perfumed by 100 percent Made in the U.S.A contributions to Summit County's sewage system). Fellow countrymen, consider that to be a cautionary parenthetical.

That portion of the proceedings is not what moved me to brew up this cabbage stew.

We weary pilgrims were understandably famished after such a hike. That's when the Valley Cafe appeared before us, a veritable sanctuary. Inside, my splendid king and I were treated to an extraordinary lunch that included proprietor BJ Mikoda's mouthwatering Hungarian Cajun Cabbage Soup, which this Irish Hungarian declares to be thoroughly American and possibly within her culinary expertise.

Got certain unalienable right? Hell yes!

*  *  * 

Who needs Oprah? Here are Erin's favorite things:

The Devil's in the cards: ornaments from Hixsons

Hixsons is an old-timey place on Detroit Avenue in Lakewood (if you live in northeast Ohio and you do not go there once in a while, you are dumb). I used to walk to Hixson's as a kid and sit at the (now defunct) soda fountain, marvel over the psychedelic black light posters (hey, this was the 70's) and buy a piece of maple candy on my way out.

Today, the backroom still comes alive for the holidays, complete with vintage animatronic characters from the old Halle's downtown department store windows and the best selection of European glass ornaments around, many of which were designed by Bill Hixson. If you're lucky, Mr. Hixson will be in the store and will gladly sign and date  yours.

Fondue pot of humble hostess

I really love my cast iron fondue pot. There are plenty on the market. This one will put you back about $80. But what the hell do I care about that? I bought mine at Unique Thrift for $6, which is WHY I SHOULD BE IN CHARGE OF EVERYTHING.

You can't beat this faux fur throw; you also can't wash it. But you can buy a trio of wonderful handmade lavendar sachets from zJayne and toss them in the dryer with the furry blankie on the air setting. The throw comes out fluffy and fresh. I love these sachets so much that I keep one in a glass jar on my desk and breathe in the scent of it whenever I need a little pick-me-up.

Liberty Puzzle under construction

The most beautiful wood puzzles you have ever seen come from Liberty Puzzles. Can't afford a Liberty? Springbok is a high-quality cardboard puzzle with great images and fun shaped pieces. And a tip o' the hat to RedisCover for their easy and funky two-sided odes to Rock 'n' Roll.

For a distinct crispy salty crunch that you have to experience to believe, Tell City Pretzel makes the best hard pretzels in all the land.

And to those gifters out there who are still on the fence over this high-dollar decision, I absolutely love love love my iPad.

You want the perfect stocking stuffer? This mini tripod goes anywhere (it fits in my purse) and has greatly improved my low light photographic endeavors.

Photo by humble hostess courtesy of point and shoot cam and mini tripod

Now dig this: Turns out his mother still keeps his foreskin in formaldehyde and he now is an expert at reading Tarot cards. It also turns out that you can get a whole book of sentences that fine: Gears by Alex Pruteanu.

Asbach confection serving suggestion

While we're on the subject, The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts is funny as hell and God knows we could all use a laugh. So if you want to give a little Erin O'Brien to someone on your list, do it by way of my book. It will not disappoint.

Let's end this on a sweet note. Asbach Pralinen Zarte Flaschchem is a very fine (and I daresay tiny) dark chocolate bottle that is lined with a sugar crust and filled with brandy (I am not shitting you). Available locally at Hansa Import Haus. Or go booze free with a Dagoba Chai chocolate bar, which is essentially a spiced chocolate orgasm enhanced with flecks of crystallized ginger.

As you can see, I know what I'm talking about. I just had one:

*  *  *

Rich and smoky and spicy

Behold my original copy of Mom's Lecho recipe:

I still make lecho exactly this way, although I do not use Echrich sausage, but a spicy double smoked garlic sausage I buy at the West Side Market. The other day, I posted briefly on the Evil Overlord Site facebook about how I was making lecho and how the house was filled with a wonderful aroma. A few people asked for the recipe, hence this entry.

My hot peppers didn't seem quite hot enough, so I used Skyline's Hot Sauce instead of Tabasco. That Skyline sauce is hot as hell and I think it made a difference. The lecho was rich and smoky and spicy. It was, indeed, some of the best lecho I've ever made.

I do not take making lecho lightly. It's one of the things I do when nothing makes sense in the world and I don't know how to fix anything or what to do with myself. Making lecho is like going to the Cleveland Museum of Art and ambling through Armor Court or saying hi to The Thinker. It's like eating a falafel sandwich on the balcony of the West Side Market.

Making lecho resets my head. It gives me something to hang onto when I feel like I'm floating away.

The funny thing about The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts is not just that it's funny (and it is), but the whole book is about those sorts of things--things like lecho that keep us in touch with who we are, who we've been and what we'll be in the future. My own full blown recipe for lecho is in the book, complete with all the asides and commentary that fills out a recipe, which (if you do it right) should always be more than a recipe.

Yeah, yeah, here's an excerpt of my expanded lecho recipe from The Irish Hungarian:

*  *  *

When I make Hungarian lecho (pronounced letch-oh, sometimes spelled lecsó), not only am I a control freak on the hand-dice of the peppers and onion, I get all the ingredients prepared and lined up like some miserable Next Food Network Star wannabe, which is the modern reference. If you're old school, you'll remember how the TV chefs would step onto the kitchen set and all these neat little bowls filled with chopped whatnot would be in front of them ready to go. The Cajun Cook (Justin Wilson) or the Galloping Gourmet (Graham Kerr) would make everything look oh-so-easy while we real Real Housewives knew that backstage, some poor lackey was slicing his fingers to shreds as he carved out interior pepper ribs and cried his eyes out over a pile of minced onions.

Welcome to the real world, sugartits.

*  *  *

The next big thing

My old friend and fellow writer Grant Bailie has tagged me with a meme from some nebulous entity called "The Next Big Thing." While I cannot find the origins of said entity and have no faith in the implication of it's title, here are the questions and my answers as they pertain to my book of humorous nonfiction, The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts. 

What is the one-sentence synopsis of "The Irish Hungarian?"
 

Last week, I bought an entire lamb neck. If there is anything more satisfying then leaning up against a butcher's counter and saying, "Gimme that whole lamb neck," I sure as hell don't know what it is. I made barley soup with it.

Where did the idea for the book come from?

My daddy pulled me from the banks of the Cuyahoga River in the year of our Lord 1965, and raised me on the best sweet corn in the world. As a fifth generation northeast Ohioan, I sweat pure Lake Erie water. Every single person should listen to every thing I say all of the time.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I once read that, in order to thoroughly clean your carpet, you should swipe the ol' Hoover back and forth six times over each patch of floor. Who the hell does that? Who the hell goes around counting their vacuum swipes? No one does that. If anyone does that, they need their ass kicked.

Hey man, you got any KitKat bars around here?

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
 

You can tell a lot about a person by what their toothpaste tube looks like when they throw it out. If it's squeezed and battered and flattened to the thickness of a playing card, this indicates a frugal and relentless personality. You want this guy on your team.

Conversely, if the tube still contains toothpaste, you're dealing with a different character all together. If the tube is more or less empty. Well … okay, fine. Welcome to the world of utter mediocrity. Now then, if you're looking at a tube that's 1/6 full because its owner decided they'd had enough of the Winter Fresh Clean Mint flavor, you're dealing with a total candy ass.

Anyone throwing away a tube that's more than 1/6 full is, frankly, off my radar.  

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

You want to see something beautiful, buy a pressure cooker. My mom gave me one for Christmas last year. 

Dig this: you brown up some stew meat—what I like to call utility meat—you throw it in the pressure cooker with some broth and herbs and what-the-hell-ever and crank that baby up. Now, I'm leaving a few things out (judging from these questions, buddy, you don't strike me at the type who's ready for thickening and spaetzles and defatting), but the bottom line is that a pressure cooker makes a pot of stew possible in about forty-five minutes.

I shit you not.  

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

I use Sriracha sauce like it's ketchup, make the best cucumber salad you will ever eat and can turn a few potatoes into a feast. I'm pretty good in the sack, cast the most powerful spells, and—given a handful of moonglow—can make a late winter's snow glitter like a sea of diamonds.

Now then, what was the question?

*  *  *

Death Valley trip, vol. one

A slightly edited excerpt from The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts, with photos to prove it's veracity.

* * *

Erin O'Brien and Associate, summer 1996.

It will not surprise the readership to learn that, inclement weather notwithstanding, I almost always drive with all the windows open, the A. C. turned off and of course, music blaring. Although not the most comfortable way to drive, it imparts a certain credibility to transforming I just drove through to, Yeah, I've been there.

These practices are never more important than when a drive becomes a road trip. 

The idea of traveling in a polite temperature controlled box at high speed represents the zenith of affable mediocrity. What's the point? Any good road trip is metaphysical as well as physical, but an Erin O'Brien road trip is a violent tumble through time, space, and life.

Associate on the open range.

In my early thirties, I took such a trip with a friend. It was an extended and beautifully pointless jaunt from Cleveland, Ohio to Death Valley, California.

Humble hostess enjoying prelude to the Purple Mountain Majesty.

When we arrived at our destination, I took a swig from a fresh bottle of Wild Turkey, poured the rest out in order to memorialize my brother who had committed suicide a few years before, and got back in the car to head home. We were as such, en route back to Cleveland on Interstate 80, when we crossed Nebraska and discovered that the Erin O'Brien-style roadtrip, by its very nature, sometimes imparts more than "a certain credibility."

Erin O'Brien in Death Valley.

"Do you smell that?" I yelled over the whirring noise of the road. The speedometer was hovering around 80.

My associate yelled back, "I wasn't going to say anything until you said something." She was smoking, no small task with all that hot humid road air whipping around us.

"Hot balls, that stinks!" I screamed.

"Must be some sort of factory around here," she said. We were Cleveland girls. What else could create a stench such as this?

Associate, who is also shown wearing a leather jacket in this post.

I eyed the flatness of Nebraska that stretched all around us. "No factory out here," I said. "Must be some sort of livestock."

"Cows?" she said.

"This smells different from the cows," I said. We'd had plenty of experience with them through Amarillo on the trip out (we had opted for Interstate 40 westbound).

"Wait!" I yelled. "What about pigs?"

"Like one of those gargantuan pig farm factories," she said.

"Holy shit!" I said after several minutes. "It still stinks."

 "It's like … toxic," she said.

"Keep smoking," I said.

"I will."

On and on we drove as the vile odor lingered, thick and strong enough to nearly qualify as a taste.

Continue reading ...

Authoress and Associate in Las Vegas.

* * *

Slumgullion for Al

This excerpt from The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts (which, incidentally, is brilliant and makes [ahem] a perfect gift) is dedicated to Al the Retired Army Guy, who sometimes needs to remember things old school.

#  #  #

The slumgullion experience of my youth always started off with a pound of raw hamburger on the kitchen counter. My father would pluck a chunk from it as my mother admonished him. 

"But that's for the slumgullion!" she'd say.

Undeterred, Dad would sprinkle the meat with salt and pop it into his mouth en route to his downstairs machine shop.

Then Mom would slumgullify the wormy red mass by browning it, draining off the fat and adding terrifying ingredients. In went Monday's spaghetti, the oily onion and green pepper dregs from Tuesday's pepper steak, and the remainder of Wednesday's succotash (which included both lima beans and--god help us--hominy). Throughout the process, my brother and I exchanged looks of unified dread that culminated in silent mastication at the dinner table.

Slumgullion.

The name alone is hard to swallow. It's like a slug in a guillotine in a slum. It's an awful word the way crotch is an awful word. Who says, "Oh baby, I want to dive into your crotch"? No one says that. It's gross. "So baby, howzaboutsome slumgullion?" isn't much better.

Completely unreliable online historians trace slumgullion back to a) the watery refuse resulting from whale blubber processing, b) a dish made from slaughterhouse cast-offs in the slums of England in the late 1800s, or c) a thin stew California miners made from leftovers during the Gold Rush. Who cares which checkered past is accurate? Any one of them beats that candy-ass three-fingered Hamburger Helper glove.

Every slumgullion recipe is different. People add cheese, tomato sauce, bacon, frozen peas, macaroni--name your poison. I've heard of people using (help) canned corned beef. Others use condensed soup to tie it all together. (Admittedly, I practically deify a can of Campbell's cream of mushroom. If you can't turn one of those into dinner in 20 minutes, you're no housewife in my book. But if you transform a can of Campbell's cream of whatever into a platter of Company Chicken Supreme in a wink, you're in).

So what would Eringullion look like? Surely I could do better than that Betty Crocker broad and her boxed Cheeseburger Macaroni. Recreating mom's recipe was no fun. I needed to update and modernize the slumgullion concept while keeping it firmly entrenched in its ground-beef-and-ingredients-on-hand birthright. Even if I didn't have any leftovers, the slumgullion should feel leftovery: refrigerator round-up in a pan.

I chose onion, green pepper, a can of creamed corn, one of RoTel's original tomato concoctions, three old potatoes, (each with a host of gnarly eyes), some Worchester sauce, and a mysterious seasoning called "Rich Brown" that costs 50 cents for a box of eight packets at the discount grocery. This darling concoction of MSG, maltodextrin, onion powder, caramel color, spices, disodium guanylate and disodium inosinate was, according to the package, "a delicious broth and a seasoning that brings out the best in food flavors." I am all over that, I thought.

Unlike the Hamburger Helper experience, as soon as I started making the slumgullion, familiarity washed over me. You're home, assured a soft voice inside my head as I doused the diced onion with Mazola. Why, this was innate. Even the creamed corn that I had included as a mandatory "yuck" ingredient formed a beautiful golden pool when I poured it atop the beef. The slumgullion terrors of my childhood were all but gone, a harmless wisp. By the time I added the canned tomatoes and chiles, I was grinning from ear to ear and singing "Slum-gull-yon. Slum-slum-slum-gull-yon" to the tune of "Girl from Ipanema." I sprinkled a packet of Rich Brown over it all and sighed contentedly.

Ten minutes before dinner, I moved through the house like an old-fashioned hotel page. "Slumgullion minus ten," I lilted. "That's slumgullion minus ten."

If I thought the Hamburger Helper instilled fear in my kid, the slumgullion was sheer terror on a plate. She stared at it wordlessly.

I transformed into my mother. "Eat your slumgullion," I said. She wrinkled her nose and took a bite, swallowing over a gag.

"Oh, come on," I said, "it's delicious!"

"Not bad," said my dearly beloved before taking a sip of Matthew Fox cabernet ($3.29/bottle at the discount grocery). "It's nothing special, but it's not bad."

I let his shocking assessment settle for a moment while blinking at him in disbelief.

"Nothing special?" I said indignantly as I rose to get another helping. "What do you mean 'nothing special'?" I turned from the stove to see my daughter quickly set down her plate, from which she'd dumped three-quarters of her slumgullion onto my husband's dish. "It beats the hell of that miserable Hamburger Helper!" I said.

Silence.

"Well?" I said, "doesn't it?" My eyes shifted between my husband and daughter. "Beat the Hamburger Helper?"

My kid cowered before my arched eyebrows. "Um ... " she peeped. I glared in disapproval then turned to my splendid king with pursed lips.

"The leftover Hamburger Helper was better the next day," he said in a conciliatory tone. "Maybe the slumgullion will be better tomorrow."

I let "better tomorrow" float in the air for a handful of beats as my chest pumped short angry breaths and I glowered at him.

"Well. You. Miserable. Goat." I finally said, pronouncing each word in a low deliberate voice. Then I stood.

"Honey?" said the Goat. "I didn't mean anything." He paused, waiting. "Honey?"

"Nevermind," I said in a high thin voice, then sniffed and retrieved my shoes from the steps.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Nothing."

"Mom?"

"Forget it." I tied my shoes with force and stood, set my jaw and squared my shoulders. As my family asked after me, I stepped out the front door and began walking the earth, never more alone.

*  *  *

Strolling with an Irish Hungarian

This Friday, I'll be signing copies of The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. at Loganberry Books with Dave Megenhardt, author of Dogs in the Cathedral.

Folks, I am a local author. Both my book and Dave's were published by a local indie press, Red Giant Books, which Dave co-founded. Loganberry is a local indie book store, it's an old-time sprawling place where you can browse and relax and dig on all the cool stuff Harriet has amassed over the years. Loganberry is just one of oodles of indie shops on Larchmere that will be brimming with one-of-a-kind gifts as part of the annual Larchmere Holiday Stroll.

I guarantee that you will not be disappointed, so please spend Black Friday where it counts.

~~more on The Irish Hungarian~~

* * *

An Irish Hungarian tree sock

I took the above photo of a tree sock on Larchmere Boulevard in August 2010. Who wouldn't take a photo of a tree sock? Who wouldn't love the sort of neighborhood that puts socks on their trees?

Your humble hostess will be returning to the eclectic neighborhood tomorrow to join bevy of writers who will make up Author Alley (sponsored by Loganberry Books) as part of the neighborhood's annual street fair, the Larchmere Festival.

Come on by pick up a copy of the Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts, which I will happily sign. Or just come by and say hello, then enjoy a host of wonderful shops, sales and cafes. Art, music and dance? Yup, we've got that.

Whether or not the tree sock will still be there is anyone's guess, but I can promise you this: a fun event in a fun neighborhood with fun people.

*  *  *

A local perspective

The self promotion post with unrelated pictures and a link to actual content

Join me for a Ohio City Writers fundraiser, Every Day I Hype the Book, on Wednesday, May 30, from 7 to 9 p.m. I'll be taking part in a panel of seasoned writers and promoters who really know what it takes to get noticed in the perilous sea that is today's publishing industry. $20 in advance, $25 at the door.

Iffin' you'd like to participate, Cleveland Magazine is accepting ballots for its annual "Best of" issue. Yes, there is a blog category. No, you don't have to live in the region or fill out the entire ballot to vote. You might win a prize. Read the instructions and I love you.

On Saturday, June 23, at 2 p.m., I'll be chatting about The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts at the Beachwood Branch of the Cuyahoga County Public Library. Free.

If you miss that, catch me hanging out all day at Loganberry's annual Author Alley on Saturday, July 7 on Larchmere. You can chat with area authors and browse the most elaborate and unusual indie bookstore in the area. People, Loganberry's is really something to see. Free.

Also, the surrounding neighborhood is full up with top notch dining and shopping (as in local and indie).

Since you'll be starving sometime between then and now, I'll be offering up a workshop, Eat. Love. Write., at the CCPL's Independence branch on Wednesday, August 15, from 7 to 8:30 p.m. I'll be talking all about food memoir and, baby, Erin know how to write about eats. Free.

 Now then, in lieu of actual content from your humble hostess, go dig my stiffest "Best of" Cleveland blog competition and read this adorable bevy of entries from a Cleveland Lady's diary.

*  *  *

John O'Brien on "The Irish Hungarian"

The following review of The Irish Hungarian appears in the April 2012 print edition of Irish American News Ohio. It is authored by John O'Brien, the publication's co-founder, co-publisher and editor.

* * *

I have been reading columnist Erin O'Brien's work for about five years, I think. She is not related to me, though we share a surname, and a belief in respecting other people's opinions when they are well thought out and respectful. Debating ideas is different than arguing, or insulting. Her writing is always thought provoking, and she never takes the easy way out.

Some people can handle opinions different than their own, and they debate; some can't, and instead of using their brain, they just use their mouths, taking the easy way out themselves. It is their right to speak before they think, but it doesn't reflect well on their intelligence. Erin O'Brien is a very intelligent writer.

I knew O'Brien's book would have controversial passages, opinions I don't agree with, but I also know she honestly presents what she believes. I don't have to agree with another's opinion to respect it—people often call that civil debate.

I loved The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts. Honest, straightforward, filled with laugh out loud stories and observations, I read the book in one sitting. O'Brien's humor is dead-on, and comes across in her writing; it is not easy to convey laughs to letters. Frank discussion of life, family traditions and food, the joys and tears of being married, of living with a view wider than just your own self, trademarks much of what 0'Brien writes. She has courage, and a willingness to engage the squirmy topics that you overcome, only by taking them on.

Like life, Erin O'Brien is not for the faint of heart, neither is her writing. You can handle it; get the book. The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts is a Top Shelf selection, highly recommended.

See more on Erin at a book signing on April 25th at Loganberry Books, 13015 Larchmere Boulevard, Shaker Heights, Ohio 44120.

* * *

Your dream date with an Irish Hungarian lobster

* * *

"In short, Erin O’Brien is hilarious and one of the most entertaining writers around." -Cool Cleveland

Since I used a big honking font for that quote, I guess I ought to back it up with an excerpt from The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts:

I had some experience with live lobsters, which had theretofore included going from the grocery's cute little lobster box to pot, sometimes with an interlude in the kitchen sink where the out-of-water lobsters would lie, their antennae weirdly pointing around the kitchen as if trying to tune in to a secret broadcast on an escape route. (If lobsters could depict such a scene on film, would they not, at such a juncture, include an ardent voice-over in the manner of a sweat-sheathed silver-screen hero lashed and writhing beneath a swinging pendulum? Just … need … to find … a way … out … don't … lose … hope … Alas, the lobster's in my sink have never achieved what our onscreen hero always seems to pull off at the last minute.)

If that's not enough, I'm willing to prove it in person. Please join me for a reading and signing event this Saturday, March 24, at 7 p.m. at Mac's Backs, Cleveland's venerable indie book store.

I can't wait to see you.

* * *

An Irish Hungarian that got left behind

The Irish Hungarian (left) and associate, circa 1973

The following is a short bit from The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts that ended up on the cutting room floor. In it, I bemoan growing up Irish--but not Catholic--in a predominately Irish Catholic neighborhood on Cleveland's West Side in the 1970's

* * *

The most injurious and unfair insult I fielded on account of my nearly pagan blood came during the spring months of my sixth, seventh and eighth years when each of my Catholic girlfriends was treated to a mysterious rite. With it came a grand party (to which I was never invited) complete with gifts and cake and a special dress. "First Communion" dresses were always fluffy with lace. I'd peer out of the living room window on those gentle Saturday mornings over a soggy bowl of Count Chocula, watching the little Catholic girls twirling in cartwheels across the green green lawns in their perfect white dresses.

They had bevies of brothers who laughed loud and wore jerseys emblazoned with the words "Notre Dame" along with a cartoon Irishman posed in fisticuffs. They had swarms of sisters who wept over boyfriends and prayer cards. My one sibling brooded over Bob Dylan and was the object of bullies' sneers.

The Shaughnessys had a dewy-eyed Virgin statue in their backyard whose hands were forever upraised. I had a smoky-eyed nude woman called Playmate that lived in my father's nightstand and was replaced every month. Patty and Bridgette and Mary ate fish on Fridays while I sat cross-legged in front of the black-and-white television in my parent's bedroom watching reruns of Love American Style. The Gallagher's' living room featured an oil painting of an androgynous man named Jesus who would love them no matter what.

"Don't worry," Mrs. Gallagher assured me despite the note of condescension in her voice, "Jesus loves you too."

Every Catholic household had an odorless oppressive guilt about it that I never understood. Whenever I crossed one of their thresholds, it was as if I was awaiting some unseen judgment that would deem me bad or good. Hence, to hear that Jesus loved me evoked a private sigh of relief. The feeling lasted as long as it took for Mrs. Gallagher to stub out her Kool, tap a fresh one from the pack and say, "Jesus died for your sins." Confusion bloomed. Sins? Me?

Since the tender age of eleven, I did have one way to sin all by myself that was worth risking whatever this Jesus guy had to dish out. I told myself that he couldn't possibly know anything about what I did alone. And wasn't he already dead?

Nonetheless, I worried.

* * *

As the readership has probably surmised, I eventually stopped worrying.

For all you boppers out there

~~Note to readership: today's clip and title have little to do with the content of this post, which is instead dedicated to egregious self promotion. Your humble hostess simply felt the time had come to properly credit her numerous "boppers" references to the film The Warriors~~

For all you boppers spread out there across the purple mountain majesty that want a signed copy of The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts, I've finally got some hard copies. Send $20 to the address listed below and I'll send you a book. Please include your address and any special dedication instructions.

Erin O'Brien
PO Box 470167
Broadview Heights, OH 44147

For all you boppers closer to the great North Coast, I'll be signing and reading books at Mac's Backs on Coventry on March 24 at 7 p.m.

For all you boppers who really want to hear me gas on, I'll be conducting two workshops as part of the 21st Annual Western Reserve Spring Writers’ Conference at Lakeland Community College on Saturday, March 31. I'll bestow untold amounts of brilliance in my sessions: "Writing Food Memoir," and "Unleashing the Power of Google Docs."

For those who dare to doubt me, I HAVE unleashed the power of Google Docs and I KNOW how to write food memoir.

This post is done.

* * *

An Irish Hungarian Soundtrack

Listen to the song ("Pass the Hatchet" by Roger and the Gypsies) playing in that absolutely beautiful footage.

The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts plays out in any number of venues, including the über-suburban environs of Cleveland's Southside. Such mundane surroundings tend to dull one's edges, particularly when cruising the aisles of the discount grocery. In order to keep myself from slipping into a Stepfordian daze, I imagine this song playing in the background as I peruse the produce bins, condiment aisle or (heaven help us) the damnable closeout department. Invoking the verbal thrusts and groans à la Roger and the Gypsies straightens my spine and pumps up my swagger. Bring it on, mother effers! I think as I drop a 99 ¢ insulated tumbler festooned with daisies that I absolutely do not need into my gleaming cart.

* * *

That song and associated liner note above was the first thing that came to my mind when David Gutowski asked me to compile an Irish Hungarian soundtrack for his popular site "Largehearted Boy." Hop on over there to enjoy the entire line-up. David's got embedded YouTubes where available and a spotify link for the entire list.

For the record, Davy Jones had not yet taken that (ahem) last train to Clarksville when I submitted this on Monday, so don't go thinking I was trying to milk any dead-guy mileage out of the "Pleasant Valley Sunday" entry.

Peeps, your "likes," google+ votes, retweets and comments are sure appreciated over there.

* * *

Next up

Esteemed readership:

A reminder that I'll be chatting with Dee Perry on the popular lunchtime radio show "Around Noon" about The Irish Hungarian tomorrow at, well, around noon EST. You can listen live in Northeast Ohio on WCPN 90.3 or online. The podcast will be available after the show airs.

And in another strange twist in the road of life, my ol' boss Frank Lewis has enlisted me to be a slam poetry team leader at Love Is a Burning Thing: A Valentine's Day Slam & Jam, which will be at The Happy Dog next Tuesday--Valentine's Day--from 7 to 9 p.m. This event is free and open to the public.

Something you should know about The Happy Dog: herein you can walk up to the bar and hand the nice young man or woman $2 and they will hand you a can of the coldest Carling's Black Label in the world, which is a pure testimony to the beauty of life. They also have world-class hot dogs and coolness oozing from every corner. It is not possible to have a bad time at this bar.

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The readership will note that today's photo features the Goat with a giant stone squirrel. The readership will note that the Goat's life is sometimes complicated with dubious photo shoots that are mandated by the authoress. The readership will note that the authoress does not feel compelled to tie graphic content with literal content on these pages. The readership will note that the readership is the readership. The readership will note that it's time for the authoress to end this post.

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The proper handling of cucumbers

Dear Readership,

Tomorrow's Plain Dealer book section will feature The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts. You can preview the article here. In it, reviewer Donna Marchetti references my description of the alternative use of certain vegetables, then says, "I'll spare you the details."

I won't.

Below is the excerpt to which she refers. It appears in the middle of my incomparable recipe for Hungarian cucumbers.

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We interrupt this recipe to bring you the following public service announcement:

Any consenting adult is duly encouraged to use any vegetable matter as a marital aid. Please carefully consider the following guidelines for a safe, convenient and enjoyable experience. Choose firm, high quality organically grown products. Wash vegetable matter first. Carving/peeling vegetable matter into realistic shapes can make the experience whimsical and more satisfying. Any person who has used the vegetable matter as a marital aid is welcome to consume the vegetable matter after a thorough washing (of vegetable matter). DO NOT, however, serve the vegetable matter in question to parties who are unaware of the vegetable matter's previous employ, no matter how thoroughly they have been washed. Said practice is considered uncool.

We now continue with your regularly scheduled recipe, already in progress. Thank you. 

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Timeless, no?

The world needs more straightforward advice such as this. Why, it's as sensible today as it was for our great-great grandmothers (although "uncool" may have been outside their vernacular).

Thank you Cleveland Plain Dealer. Thank you Ms. Marchetti, and as always, thank you to the readership.

Love,

Erin

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One humbled Irish Hungarian

Last night, friends old and new filled Local Girl Gallery to the rafters to hear me read from The Irish Hungarian. The event sparkled with energy and my publishers report that we sold every book they'd brought to the event.

I have now drafted and re-drafted this post a dozen times, but am still at a loss for words. Suffice it to say that last night has me a bit overwhelmed, more than a little humbled and so so thankful for everyone who attended and helped make the event a success.

All of you give me so much. What would I do without you?

Love, Erin

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Innovative organizational tip and stalking the wild O'Brien

In an effort to streamline operations here at the Offices of Erin O'Brien, I've removed all the sticky notes from my computer face (that date as far back as a year [well ... I think that far, they're not dated]) and adhered them to a notebook page. By doing so, I will clearly be able to complete the tasks so meticulously outlined on each square (I don't know what half of the notes mean and cannot read the other half). Feel free to employ this method in your own administrative life.

In perhaps a more industrious use of my time, I've also created a public calendar listing my readings, signings and events and posted a link to it right over there near the top of the right-hand side bar for reference.

Here are the events so far:

Feb 2: An Irish Hungarian Book Launch, Local Girl Gallery, 7 p.m. with a reading at 8 p.m.

Feb 8: Radio spot, Around Noon with Dee Perry, WCPN 90.3, Northeast Ohio, listen live or online at 12 p.m. EST or download the podcast anytime after the airdate.

March 24: An Irish Hungarian reading and signing, Mac's Backs, 7 p.m.

March 31: Workshops, The 21st Annual Western Reserve Spring Writers’ Conference, Lakeland Community College.

Here is the first bit of feedback I've received from a reader who downloaded the Kindle version from Amazon, read it cover to cover and sat down to send me this.

I couldn't help myself. I just preordered ten copies of your book to give to friends ... Thank you for creating this perfect book so that I can unexpectedly gift them to friends that will enjoy it immensely.

Wow. Stay tuned, boppers.

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Let there be Kindle

Dear Fellow Earthlings,

The Kindle version of The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts, which is authored by your humble hostess--the Irish Hungarian herself--is now available on Amazon. Within it's electronic pages, you will learn the mystifying story behind today's graphic.

The hard copy version should be available shortly. Thank you for your continued support.

Love, Erin

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