(Creative Non-Fiction, Fiction, Poetry, Metaphysical Musings, Occasional Humor and B.S.) featuring Guest Musicians, Poets, and Other Creators because variety is the spice of life.
Has anyone else noticed
the media's hyperbolic use of the word "war" to describe
every debate, disagreement, difference of opinion? Its use began as a startling, ear-catching sound bite designed to grab attention. Now there's a war on
religion, on women, on Christmas, on human rights, on reproductive
rights, and so on. It reminds me of my teenager's complaint that I
"yelled" at her if I express a differing opinion. Have
we become so sensitive that we can't even express a differing opinion
without it being deemed a war-like action? I mean, respectfully
speaking (not personal attacks). It's kind of ridiculous to frame
everything from a standpoint of military action.
A dictatorship considers differing opinions subversion, war,
treason. As inflammatory a statement as that is, the concept of
labeling every difference of opinion a war reminds me of how
dictatorships methodically and intentionally program people's way of
thinking. "If you're not for us, you're against us." It tends to normalize what is hopefully NOT a normal mindset. I
realize there are wars and rumors of war, etc., until the end of
time. I understand that sports are pseudo-wars, and so on. But
perhaps it is time - or past time - to set aside a blanket acceptance
of persisting in a warlike state? When a culture throws around a word
so casually, its meaning is weakened. "War" needs to
conjure death and destruction, something undesirable, to be avoided,
averted, and so on -- not "Oh well, we don't like that so let's
call it a war." And now some people suggest we intentionally place uniformed
military personnel in our schools in order to make them safer? Half
the world has uniformed military personnel all over the place, and
that presence unequivocally fails to stop car bombings, shootings,
drones, and other violence.
We need to normalize, not escalate.
Winter and December/January in particular are difficult for many, many people. The gravitas of the holidays combine with shorter days, longer nights, in the Northern hemisphere colder temperatures. Winter is a time of reflection, of endings, of assessment. We weigh our lives and it is easy to find ourselves wanting. We are not perfect. Should we be surprised? Did we truly expect to obtain perfection in this lifetime? Is that a reasonable expectation? To all of us who struggle, who feel consumed with darkness, who suffer from the weight of our own internal critic, I wrote this as a gentle reminder to you. All it takes is the barest glimmer of Light, and darkness is overcome. It's as simple, and profound, as that. Keep your chin up, don't give up the ship. Have hope. I love you.~~Ginger
I choose to honor this memory in a positive light.
This photo was taken at the
house on Crest Drive, April or May 1979, fairly soon after we got it
(as you can tell). We'd just torn down the wall between the family
room and the kitchen. The old copper appliances soon made way for
modern black ones. See how the tile was PINK with black trim? LOL We had already started to fill in the door to the hall and had cut a new doorway between the family room leading directly across the hall facing the bathroom door. That way you didn't have to walk all the way into the kitchen practically to get to the private living spaces.
The dust all over
was from Sheetrock having been cut. OMG it was everywhere. We rewired
the whole house, replumbed it, installed heating and air conditioning
(lowering that huge unit through a hole in the floor we had to create
because the unit was too large to fit in the crawl space opening),
poured concrete, built stone walls, roofed, tiled, shingled, painted,
sheetrocked, installed tongue-in-groove flooring (tap, tap, tap,
nudge), sanded old flooring, installed wall-to-wall carpet with those
dreadful tack strips – ouch – and kick stretcher thingy, linoleum
in the kitchen -- there was NOTHING we did not do to this house. I
could have built a home by myself when this project was completedThose were some of the best years of my life.
We bought a black Ford Econoline van with the 351 Cleveland engine, standard utility
van bought with straight-out cash. Went into the showroom after
working on the house and the sales people wouldn't even talk to us.
Thought we were bums. We cut that diamond-shaped window in the back
door, did the tuck-and-roll interior (it was GORGEOUS – gave me a
new appreciation for what a chalk line can do), built the bed, covered the bed in faux fur (LOL), installed the captain's chairs, put in the carpet, and so on.
We
Z-bricked the kitchen walls halfway up, painted them the rest of the
way to the ceiling. We installed the appliances ourselves -- all
black. Replaced the kitchen sink. The countertop was custom black
slate, I'm thinking - or granite but I'm pretty sure it was slate.
Hard to recall now.
You'd think those memories would last forever.
We
hung kitchen wall cabinets (all solid red oak), installed bathroom and kitchen counter
cabinets, countertops in both rooms. We painted, stuccoed the
outside, leveled and gravelled the driveway. We graded the yard,
planted a peach tree (remember that, Patrice?). Kids, trust me when I tell you,
you DO need basic math skills in real life!
Built new stairs
for theback
porch, poured cement stairs out front. Bunch of stuff.
The
last project we did together was the fireplace and insert in the
front room and connected it to the whole house heating system. We
moved doorways -- the original doorway between the front room and the
living room had been in the center of the wall. We moved it to line
up with the front doorway.
Wish I had even a single photo of the finished product or the man
I worked shoulder to shoulder with through this labor of love, but I
don't.
Oh, Dear Reader, if you've read this far I'll give you a treat. On the table in the lower left-hand corner is an ashtray. Full of forbidden green delight. Home-grown. Good stuff. :)
If I still smoked, I'd light one up in your honor on this, your 65th birthday. Salut.
The following is one of my personal favorites. Written Christmas Day 2006 and never edited (ducks various thrown objects), here it is for your raw reading pleasure on this St. Stephen's Day. Remember Good King Winceslaus looking out on the Feast of Stephen?~~GH
I wake on Christmas morning to the children's excited "Good morning, Momma." Dog-breath kisses are exchanged between us along with regards of the day and I stumble to the kitchen to check on my roast. This year I decided to slow-roast it at a low temperature for three times as long. Not good for fuel efficiency but perfect for human efficiency.
It occurs to me we should feed the birds. I read someplace you'll have good luck all year long if you feed the birds on Christmas morn.
"You can't feed the birds," my husband chides. "It's pouring rain down; there are no birds today."
"Still, we should try…"
My youngest pipes in. "We didn't feed the birds, but we gave a hobo a sandwich." It's too early for my brain to process this strange statement. Hobo? Where did she learn the word hobo? And how did she come to give a "hobo" a sandwich?
Our son James is here to spend Christmas with us, fresh from the arms of his live-in girl friend and the walls of his new apartment. "He was standing outside and asked if he could have a sandwich," James explains.
"I made him a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich… and I gave him a cookie," my daughter adds hesitantly, as if I might be angry at her generosity.
"That was sweet, Kelly. I like your heart." The smile on her face tells me she's glad I approve of her decision.
It's a dreary day, a Monday and Christmas too. The soup kitchen across the street doesn't operate today. I expected a line of homeless and elderly to queue up outside but the news spread along the invisible grapevine, and no one shows up to stand miserably in the rain.
All day long I imagine the faceless "hobo" who asked for a sandwich and was given a sandwich… and a cookie. I feel like crying. I wish I could have given him more. He surely smelled the roast cooking. He probably knew I routinely feed the overflow from the soup kitchen. The rain falls, bitterly cold, cold to the bone kind of cold. I'd hate to be standing in the rain, waiting for a sandwich or a soup kitchen to open on a day like this, much less a Christmas morning. Was the man thankful? Did the sandwich/cookie touch his heart? Did he breathe a sigh of relief? Or did he curse the rain and God, and the soup kitchen, and my child?
James tells me Aqualung died. Our city's homeless mascot, Bill Dunn, showed up around town in 1971 pushing a shopping cart with an impossible stack of grocery bags towering above. His wild long hair and beard reminded us teens of Jethro Tull's Aqualung characterization, and the nickname stuck. Bill was never a threat to little girls and as far as I know, he didn't check out their pretty panties. No one I knew was afraid of him.
I sat at a lunch counter having a slice of pecan pie and a chocolate milkshake – disgusting to think of now but manna from heaven for the fifteen-year-old girl I was at the time. Aqualung – I didn't learn Bill's name until years later – moved along the sidewalk and I watched him through the restaurant's window. A man flicked a cigarette into the gutter and Aqualung scurried toward it. Birdlike in his movements, he darted and snatched up the smoldering butt before it went out. He smiled and took a whiff of it, then smoked the remaining tobacco.
Disgusted, dismayed and yet fascinated, I watched him finish the stranger's cigarette. I couldn't eat my food. I left a small tip for the waitress and with my legs trembling so hard I feared I'd collapse on the sidewalk, I walked up to Aqualung and shoved two brand-new cigarettes into his grimy hand. "Here you go," was all I could manage to squeak out. His eyes twinkled with such life and light that I was surprised. Everything else about him was dingy and smelly and dark. But those eyes…
The years passed and Aqualung remained a fixture in our town. At one time he was a hero, helping to solve a murder. He went missing one winter and the police tracked him down to someplace in North Carolina. He'd gone to a warmer area to wait out the winter. It amused me, a homeless man taking a vacation.
Our paths crossed numerous times over the next thirty years. Sometimes I'd be eating out and see him tucked into a booth in the back of the restaurant sipping coffee and eating dinner. Aqualung was never poor. In fact, he was rumored to be a millionaire and have countless bags of money in his shopping cart. I'd ask if he needed anything. Sometimes I sat with him, asking how he was and making small talk. It was important to me that he knew I saw him as human. He was always polite, rational if not always completely tuned into the moment.
Last year a reporter did a feature story on Aqualung for the newspaper. I didn't learn anything new but felt gratified that younger generations would know a little about our Aqualung.
Now it is Christmas day and Aqualung is dead. My son said Bill "Aqualung" Dunn left his fortune to a son. My first thought was what woman had lain with Aqualung… I felt ashamed. At some time he had been some woman's son, another woman's lover. He hadn't always been Aqualung. The world felt a little smaller just then as I thought about my own son and his woman. Some tragedy could befall James that would drive him to live on the streets. I thought about the birds, the soup kitchen, and the hobo who'd asked for a sandwich. And I cried, not for the hobo, or the birds, or even for the rain. I cried for Bill Dunn's mother, and myself.
I do Eliot no favors, using so many of his quotes in one place, expecting you, Dear Reader, to savor and digest such profound thought in vast quantity. For that I am deeply sorry. Just do your best, and let your eye fall on what attracts you. There, you may find your bliss. ~~GH
Only those who will risk going too far
can possibly find out how far one can go.
~~T.S.Eliot
Sometimes things become possible if we want them bad enough. ~~T.S. Eliot
“We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.” ~~T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party
[I have such a very real sense of this "death" of which Eliot speaks.~GH]
“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”
~~ T.S. Eliot
“What is hell? Hell is oneself. Hell is alone, the other figures in it Merely projections. There is nothing to escape from And nothing to escape to. One is always alone.” ~~ T.S. Eliot
“Humankind cannot bear very much reality.” ~~T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets
“I can connect
Nothing with nothing”
~~T.S. Eliot
“I learn a great deal by merely observing you, and letting you talk as long as you please, and taking note of what you do not say.” ~~T.S. Eliot
“Humor is also a way of saying something serious.” ~~ T.S. Eliot
“Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?”
― T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and Other Poems
[Ginger's note: Always. Always dare to eat a peach. Or perhaps a nectarine. Some people have an aversion to furry fruit.]
Maybe you're tired of Christmas carols, sick of tinsel, and if you hear another Salvation Army bell ringing you'll scream. The ornaments are still in a box somewhere in the basement; you're out of wrapping paper; and you don't want to spend $1300 on Resident Evil 6 Special Edition for your teenager (even if it IS the only thing s/he wants this year).
These Christmas carols are for you, dear soul. Grab a bag of potato chips, put some rum in that nog, crank up Led Zeppelin and enjoy. When you're finished giggling, get those Christmas cards addressed. Heck, there's only one day till Christmas! ~~GH
CHRISTMAS CAROLS FOR THE DISTURBED [Author Unknown]
1. Schizophrenia --- Do You Hear What I Hear?
2. Multiple Personality Disorder --- We Three Kings Disoriented Are
3. Dementia --- I Think I'll be Home for Christmas
4. Narcissistic --- Hark the Herald Angels Sing About Me
5. Manic --- Deck the Halls and Walls and House and Lawn and Streets and Stores and Office and Town and Cars and Buses and Trucks and Trees and ... .
6. Paranoid --- Santa Claus is Coming to Town to Get Me 7. Borderline Personality Disorder --- Thoughts of Roasting on an Open Fire 8. Personality Disorder --- You Better Watch Out, I'm Gonna Cry, I'm Gonna Pout, Maybe I'll Tell You Why 9. Attention Deficit Disorder --- Silent night, Holy oooh look at the froggy - can I have a chocolate, why is France so far away? 10. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder --Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle,Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells
Scenario... I'm a divorced mom, it's Christmas Eve, my child is nearly two, it's late, I'm exhausted. All I want to do is finish assembling her giant gift, a red tricycle. My eyelids weigh a ton. My back aches. I'm bound and determined to get this thing done.
I flip the 8x11 instruction booklet (which I have folded over for convenience's sake) to Page 11. At the top of the page, it reads "ERRATA SHEET." The errata sheet was on PAGE ELEVEN. Yes. And it said NOT to insert the cotter pin lock until after inserting a shim between the wheel hub and the foot rest. Too little warning, too late in coming. Sigh. That one wheel never did roll right. A lot of things in Life are like the tricycle assembly instruction book. Sometimes all the information you need is there, just not in the order you need to apply it effectively. Sometimes you discover it after the fact. Sometimes the box comes without any instruction book at all. Assembly required, no guidance available. We do the best we can with what's available. If possible, we undo the damage done. Sometimes, like with the cotter pin lock, it can't be fixed. That's when you put on a smile and make-do every time the back wheel wobbles and squeaks. Which may happen every afternoon for years. It isn't ideal. It doesn't roll like the other trikes, or sound smooth like the ones in the commercials. But that, too, is okay. There's always an up-side. You can hear your child coming from behind the building. If she's playing out of your eyesight, you notice immediately when the squeaking stops and you go check on her. Best of all, you learn the lesson printed on every instruction booklet ever written, which is: "Read all directions thoroughly before assembling."~~GH
Consider the profound folly and
insanity of being a writer, whose work it is to describe abstract and
ineffable concepts using the absurdly limited toolset that is words.
People find math inconceivable, and mathematicians have ten digits
with which to work. The English alphabet contains twenty-six letters.
GHC's Note: This was written 11 years ago. My skills have hopefully improved since then. Am posting it as is.
James
was two and Mena five when we created my favorite Christmas memory. A local funeral home sponsors a nativity display each
year featuring live sheep. I invited Mena's best friend Cerissa along
for the adventure. I thought it'd be a unique experience for the
children. How
right I was.
Despite
asking before we left home, all three children needed to
"go" as soon as we stepped out of the car. We trooped
inside the funeral home to find
the restroom. While I was helping James, the girls wandered off and
entered a viewing room. When I finally found them, they were staring
transfixed at the mortal remains of a very pink, very old lady.
Recognizing a teaching moment, I began to explain the purpose for
viewing.
Just
then the very pink, very old dead lady's only surviving relative
entered the parlor, welcomed us, and thanked us for coming. I
used all my powers of diplomacy to extract us from the situation and
gladly herded my charges back to the parking lot.
Cerissa
marveled at the life-sized manger and commented on how sweet Mary's
expression was. Mena noted how humanlike the sheep's eyes were.
Several other folks sharing the experience murmured in agreement.
It was a truly lovely, peaceful Hallmark moment. Just as I
started congratulating myself on a successful evening, to my horror
a chain
of events worthy of a Saturday Night Live skit began.
James
complained he couldn't see Jesus. I lifted him over
the fence and set him inside the corral. A lone sheep backed into
him. James slapped its behind. Bleating in fear, it lurched away
and dashed for the sanctuary of the crèche. The other
sheep followed.
Each animal leapt over baby Jesus, knocking against Mary and
Joseph. Attached to the top of the stable by wires, the statues spun
wildly as each sheep's generous hindquarters bumped them. I hadn't
realized how many people were there until I heard raucous laughter.
A few witnesses even applauded.
We
now view the live nativity scene each year from the safety of
the car,
even though they're both nearly grown. You just can't count
on sheep.
Fields of Gold. Eva Cassidy. A perfect
bridge between old and new.
"Fields
Of Gold"
You'll
remember me when the west wind moves Upon the fields of
barley You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky As we walk in
the fields of gold
So she took her love For to gaze
awhile Upon the fields of barley In his arms she fell as her
hair came down Among the fields of gold
Will you stay with
me, will you be my love Among the fields of barley We'll forget
the sun in his jealous sky As we lie in the fields of gold
See
the west wind move like a lover so Upon the fields of barley Feel
her body rise when you kiss her mouth Among the fields of gold I
never made promises lightly And there have been some that I've
broken But I swear in the days still left We'll walk in the
fields of gold We'll walk in the fields of gold
Many years
have passed since those summer days Among the fields of barley See
the children run as the sun goes down Among the fields of
gold You'll remember me when the west wind moves Upon the
fields of barley You can tell the sun in his jealous sky When
we walked in the fields of gold When we walked in the fields of
gold When we walked in the fields of gold
This song represents for me a
time of reconciliation, California, a promise of an exquisitely sweet
future, romance, a promise I made to my then-husband when he returned
from five months away. I'm not going into specifics here, but we
re-committed to our marriage – more importantly, to each other.
If you've followed my blog and
writings, you know how deeply I connect to the wind and nature. So in
1996, Sting's “Fields of Gold” became an anthem, one of those
songs that defines and represents a notch of time in our lives – a
magic carpet of sorts that carries us away and sweeps us up in a
swirl of emotions and memories, the impact far greater than lyrics
and music alone.
Sting's version is wistful, warm, his honeyed, golden words reflect the sun and the fields. I felt safe and sheltered, yet simultaneously revealed and exposed to the sun when I listened to Sting sing “Fields of Gold.” His version represents the heat of youth, the rhythmic flames of sexual passion, the persistent driving beat, desire that is never quenched.
Moving ahead to 2012, I am
getting to know someone new, and among the many pleasures we share is a
love of music. He introduced me to Eva Cassidy's work. Her voice
slips in and out and swims between the very cells of my DNA, caresses
them, whispers to them, makes them bleed and then heals them. The
wabi sabi effect is amazing. She breaks and then repairs my soul.
And today I discovered her version of
“Fields of Gold.” I putoff listening, recognizing this would forever change its meaning for me. Funny how the simplest acts are often the most difficult to initiate.
When I was ready, I took a deep
breath and pushed the “play” icon.
Cassidy's rendition is powerful, rich,
soulful, crystal clear as a frozen waterfall, pregnant with promise.
Hers is platinum, silvered, a mirror held up to the future while
still reflecting the past, bouncing between the two into infinity.
The broken vows rebound like pinballs, clanging chrome bells,
fracturing the mirrors. Jagged shards of shattered promises tinkle
like wind chimes in a breeze; the past's frozen crust falls away. The flood rushes forward and carries in its wake the tender bud
of a potential silver spring.~~GH
A close (male) friend of mine recently shared the following quote with me, and it got me to thinking:
“A man reserves his true and deepest love not for the species of woman in whose company he finds himself electrified and enkindled, but for that one in whose company he may feel tenderly drowsy.” ~~ George Jean Nathan
When I was a young woman, I felt it important to be that sexy woman that media sold me a bill of goods to be. That concept carried over into later years and caused a good deal of distress. Although I am fortunate to have excellent skin tone and texture, good hair and teeth, etc., (I sound like a horse now), I feel far from that electrifying, enkindling vixen I once was. Men no longer follow me on the street, or make cat calls. It's been ages since a guy stood before me, tongue-tied and stammering, red-faced and ashamed. And I'm so glad of that, I can't tell you! I am ever so much more comfortable in my own skin without those interactions.
I am pleased to be able to look a man straight in the eye and smile a warm, genuine smile, letting him know I care about him as an individual and that I don't feel like prey. I no longer feel subjected to predatory interactions. Nor do I feel embarrassed vicariously because the male is ashamed of his physical response when in close quarters with me. My physical features are no longer the cause of discomfort for either of us. But after my ex left me, I found myself floundering. What did I, an out-of-shape, middle-aged woman have to offer a new beau? Maybe I'm not scary looking yet, I dunno, but I'm definitely not stereotypically sexy either. My friends assured me that mature men were not looking for physical perfection. I felt dubious. Online dating sites seem to place a giant value on photographs. To make a long story shorter, I read the above words and reflected on them. I actually felt a little wistful thinking of how much time, effort, and energy I wasted trying to be that "electrified and enkindled" woman I believed would capture the imagination and love of a special man, when all these years men have fallen in love with me because they felt relaxed and comforted with me. Yes, the truth apparently is to just be who you are, and the rest falls into place naturally. I know this because, looking back over a lifetime of -- well, this comes off sounding egotistical, but it's true -- more than my fair share of men having fallen in love with me, I now realize it was not because of my beauty, but because of my spirit. Maybe the beauty was the initial attraction, but it was the spirit that cinched the deal. I wish I'd been ready to read those words thirty years ago. But I'm ever so thankful I am ready for them today. It will take a bit of adjustment to reconcile, but I do believe the basic truth of what Mr. Nathan said. How much of our lives are wasted because we looked at something from a skewed point of view? Staggers the mind, it does. ~~GH
What Friday's tragic events have done more than anything as far as "we" are concerned is hold a mirror up and force us to examine ourselves and our world in a new light.
Some of you have never considered the possibility of losing your children; for you, this raises issues of fear and potential loss, rage and helplessness.
Others struggle to make sense of something senseless, and attempt to seat blame (as if seating blame will make it somehow better). In the meantime, many of those same people point fingers and blame one another, sparking more discord and disharmony. Meanwhile, Mother grieves for all Her children across the world, not just the ones who resemble her most closely, not just for the ones whose faces are broadcast, not just for the ones who are "innocent."
We all are innocent. Or at least, we all started off that way. I grieve for each and every one of us.
These issues are about more than mental health, more than gun control or knife control, more than safety. These issues go to the root of society's ills, to the failure of Man to connect deeply with one another. Please, in your grief and fear and anger, do not alienate one another. Now is the time to reach out and hold each other. There will be time for examination and autopsy later. Now is the time to console your brothers and sisters. I love you, all of you. And I'm sorry.~~GH
When my older two children were small and I was a divorced working mom, money was incredibly tight. I made a point to always serve colorful meals - each food item a different color for more balanced nutrition (and interest). Well, one time I was down to brass tacks and all I had left were random items: Macaroni and cheese, a jar of applesauce, and a can of corn. So I made it a party and called it
"Yellow Meal Day!"
The children loved it! It was different! So they would request Yellow Meal Day every so often. Tonight, my son told me things were tight in his world, and I asked him if he remembered Yellow Meal Day. "Oh yeah," he said. "I love Yellow Meal Day!"
I told him the story of how Yellow Meal Day came to be. I think it helped :)
P.S. I shared this with my older daughter, who immediately replied that she *loved* Yellow Meal Day! She then added she had a White Meal Day tonight -- pasta, Alfredo sauce, and chicken breast meat. Interesting how family traditions originate.
And now for something different: My egg salad recipe! How's this for unexpected? Perfect hard-boiled eggs without the green skin? Put however many raw eggs in pan (doesn't matter how many or how few - just be sure you can completely cover them with water), cover with room temperature water, bring to roiling boil. Turn off heat, cover tightly. Let sit for 20 minutes. Not a minute longer! **This is the secret step**
Drain hot water, rinse and replace water two or three times to stop cooking. Fill pan back up with tap water and add five or six ice cubes. Let sit for two or three minutes.
Tap eggs on big end to crack. Peel. Should peel fairly easily now.
See how nice and bright yellow they are?
Every time. Guaranteed!
Now that you've admired your pretty hard-boiled eggs,
it's time to chop 'em up. Just mash 'em with a fork, or slice them with a knife and fork, or mush 'em however works best for you.
Mmmm, gerkins! Delicious sweetness. Must eat a few to be sure they are "just right." *wink* Chop up however many you think you want in your egg salad. This is not rocket science, folks. If you insist on a formula, maybe 1/2 teaspoon (that's the smaller spoon) per egg is a good ratio to begin with. I think I used five gerkins, so that is one per egg (but I *really* like gerkins). Pour in a little gerkin juice, too.
Alternatively, you can use sweet relish. Either is fine.
Usually, you'll use mayonnaise to bind your egg salad mixture. Today, I couldn't find the mayo jar -- I know, crazy, right? I grabbed a bottle of ranch salad dressing and tried it out. Amazingly tasty, good substitute! How much to use? Geesh, you ask hard questions. By now, you should be able to tell I don't measure much when I cook. I recommend at first adding less than you think you'll need. I prepared five eggs and probably used 1/4 to 1/3 cup of ranch dressing. My salad was a little on the "wet" side for my taste.
Enjoy! Egg salad is great on plain or toasted bread, in a pita, with celery, sooo many ways I can't begin to list 'em all. Most people add salt and pepper to taste. I used to add a wee bit of minced garlic to mine but I wasn't in the mood for it this time. Chopped onion is good, as well, or onion powder. But this batch is just basic, plain ole egg salad with no frills. Enjoy! ~GH
