Big Damn Breadsticks #Food

We had pesketti the other night, so we had to have Big Damn Breadsticks to go with them. Big Damn Breadsticks aren’t actually breadsticks at all; they’re actually biscuits. So I guess I should call them — and this post — Big Damn Biscuitsticks.

ANYWAY, here’s a picture of them.

Big Damn Breadsticks (or Biscuitsticks)

big damn breadsticksI started with Heart Smart Bisquick and skim milk, but stirred in some garlic salt and Italian cheese mix (Parmesan, Asiago, and Romano). I thought about putting some chopped olives in them, too, but I forgotted. Separate the dough into equal portions and bake according to Bisquick package directions.

Delicious! Oh, and pesketti is spaghetti, in case you never had or never knew any kids.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Someone forgets a component of something.

MA

Catsanity

By catsanity, I do not mean anything approaching sanitation. Catsanity, in this instance, is about as far from sanitation as it’s possible to be.

Munchkin. Okay, he whizzes on the hearth. That’s become a given. The hearth is his personal whizzery, and that’s it and that’s all.

He also whizzes on one tiny, precise spot on the living room carpet and all over the basement floor IN ADDITION TO the litter boxes. So it isn’t as though he doesn’t know what a litter box is or what it’s for.

In fact — and this is the part that has me shaking my head, holding my nose, and saying WTF in a voice so high in pitch only dogs can hear me — he not only uses the litter box for its intended use, he lounges in it.

I’ve been like, “Whew, what a pong! Why do you smell like a litter box???” And then I saw him curled up in the high-sided litter box, like it was the best, snuggest, softest bed ever. Yes, he has a bed. He has four beds and a pile of old curtains from which to choose. He chooses the litter box.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. Apart from not letting him on the couch with me until I can clean him up, that is.

Although I hesitate to mention food in the same post as this, I’m posting at Fatal Foodies today about a delicious leftover thing.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Write about a smelly animal. Not a skunk or a polecat.

MA

How Lonnie Growed Through Exercise #amwriting

#4 Daughter and fellow-author, Sara Marian, and I love doing writing exercises. Back when we had time, we would schedule an entire weekend together for a mini-retreat, and do one exercise after another. We ended up with some pretty good stuff from them.

One of our favorite exercises is to grab whatever printed matter is ready to hand, open it at random, plunk a finger down, and use whatever sentence you land on as a prompt.

A sentence we found that way had something to do with someone standing in the driveway looking at the result of a small explosion. I’ve rewritten the sentence, which now reads:

Lonnie and me stood in his driveway, far enough away from the cops to tell the neighbors we weren’t actually under arrest, looking at the remains of Lonnie’s toolshed.

The thing about free-writing is that you just write without filters. But, after I got to the end of copying the sentence prompt, Lonnie spoke:

“It was a private explosion! Can’t a man blow up his own private shed without the law making a Federal case out of it?”

“Not these days,” the short cop explained. “Patriot Act.”

“Oh, right.” Lonnie did that head-bobbing silent chuckle that meant he was being sarcastic. “Like him and me are really terrorists.” He waved at the girls and called, “Hey there, Mrs. Terrorist and Mrs. Other Terrorist.”

Nobody laughed. The wives didn’t do anything but breathe and blink.

Yeah, Lonnie just popped into my head. Kinda scary, really. Lucky for me, his pal, Tiny, popped in, too, and Tiny is as close to a civilizing influence on Lonnie as possible.

WHERE do these people COME from?

I didn’t get a lot farther than that in our five-minute time limit. A lot of back-and-forth with a couple of cops who responded to the explosion which I’ve since pared down. But there was a pull of life to Lonnie and Tiny and their then-nameless wives. And I knew – I knew – Lonnie had blown up his shed trying to raise the devil. And there would be a dog in the story. And “Lonnie, Me and the Hound of Hell” was the eventual result. It’s my mother’s favorite story.

I’ve since written “Lonnie, Me and the Battle of St. Crispen’s Day”, published in the Southern Indiana Writers anthology HOLIDAY BIZARRE. I’ve in the process of writing three new Lonnie and Tiny stories to put with the first two and issue as a small book. I’ve done “Lonnie, Me and the Junkyard of Forbidden Delights” and “Lonnie, Me and the Ugly Dog Contest” (guess who’s entered).

LonnieAnd it began with a writing exercise.

A collection of short stories including the first Lonnie and Tiny story is available for a mere 99 cents for Kindle and Kindle apps and at Smashwords.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Do as Sara and I did, and grab a newspaper or magazine or book and take a random sentence and write with it as a prompt for five minutes.

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