Recently in Family Category

Andi left this morning with a barrage of backpacks and carry-ons in tow. She's headed back to that wooded little crevice in the Ozark hills, the tiny little town that time forgot, with its one stop sign, small restaurant, and alcohol problem, back to where the majority of my family lives. Her school starts in a little over a week and she'll resume her varsity volleyball duties. In the meantime, her album will go into the hands of music executives. While I hate for her to return to that town where opportunities are few and so many become trapped by alcohol and drugs, it's still the hub of her adolescent life.
She'll finish her senior year in January and then she's moving back to St. Louis permanently.

I will miss having another girl in the house for completely selfish reasons; it's much easier to get your way against a man when you have another female on your side because generally, men are too terrified to take on more than one female at once. I'll miss the way that she noticed when I wore eyeliner on my upper lid, or how she appreciated the difference in the many heel heights. I will not miss how her dead car has been in our driveway for five weeks and her parents have not moved it and I'm going to scream. I will EMPHATICALLY NOT MISS the way the boys! THE BOYS called at all hours of the night to talk to her, nor will I miss how her brains seeped out of her ears anytime she was in close proximity of another 17-year-old male. I will not miss how she likes the hoosier-looking, mullet-esque bad boys instead of guys like Scott here (foreground). Seriously, who would not like Scott? Oh, that's right, ANDI WOULDN'T. Because she wants to kill me.

I will not miss the interesting dichotomy created by her virtually rule-free world and our parenting style. Uh, yeah, no you can't go to such-and-such party with this 23-year-old guy who has a girlfriend where I seriously doubt that you will not drink any beer, do I look stupid to you? Seriously. Do I? Do you think that I was NEVER 17 once? And 23-year-old guy: Hi! You don't know who my family is because if you did you'd be running for the hills, where they'd all most likely be waiting for you anyway, swinging ball bats that they keep in their cars. Those are just THE WOMEN. I've already told you to tread lightly because some of us own pig farms.

The town where she comes from, where my family is, is such an odd little country town. It's not sleepy; it just looks the other way. During her two-month stay here we tried to expose her to as much of the city as possible, to show her that cool things lay beyond the reach and shadow of those Ozark hills. I also laid it on thick about how she should not get knocked up and stay away from this fellow she's been talking to, a boy with a bowl haircut, who looks as though Moe from the "Stooges" cut his hair. Chinstrap, we call him, because Chris always makes himself laugh hysterically by asking if the fellow's hair came with one.

She'll be back in January. Lots of things will be happening by that time.

How to Make Spawn, the Image Comics hero.

This is ridiculous. Do not look at this while you are eating anything. Because dang, Gina. I'm a really good cook and an even better baker, but last night, GAH. So:

Begin by making beef stew.

Allow your toddler, who's drawing on the storm door with a blue window marker, to distract you by rubbing his drawing off with his face.

You holler "EWAN. Stop it!" and when he turns around he looks like Baby Smurf.

Spend an inordinate amount of time wiping off The Baby.

Return to the stove, lift the lid to the pot, and scream. Congratulations! You've succeeded in scaring the holy crap out of yourself with your own cooking!

The stew is supposed to have the appearance of burnt flesh. Or George Hamilton. It should be taut. If it is not, go and occupy your time with something because it is no where near burnt enough.

Remind yourself "This is food, this is food" over and over as you set the table, bent on not wasting five dollars of beef.

Laugh inside as your five-year-old starts to cry when he sees what's for dinner.

As you play chicken with your five-year-old to see who will take the first bite, decide that it really is awful and end up making grilled hot ham and cheese sandwiches.

Be sure to tell your mother that you're taking her OUT to eat Saturday for her birthday.

Happy birthday Nana.

(And I Cook For CHILDREN Part 1)

A couple of weeks ago I had my Big Fat Southern Family Reunion. I think we're losing our touch, because not only was there no beer, Hank Williams, or the few family members stumbling around the buffet in a state of perpetual semi-sobriety, there was no drama. NO DRAMA. I drove two hours for NOTHING.

The fire-starters in the family boycotted the gathering, except for my very tall aunt, who strolled up the sidewalk to watch the event from across the street on a neighbor's front porch. I did what any rational full-blood Scaggs would do, which was to take photos of her:

I seeeeee you.

The above, and one of my favorite aunts telling me how she kept a collection of baseball bats in the trunks of each of her cars for when she meets our crazy Cousin Meth, kept it interesting. To imagine my aunt angry is to imagine the reaction of an opossum which you've unsuccessfully tried to fricassee. Opossum's eyes glow like the devil, as do my aunt's.

So the younger cousins played,

a great uncle showed me how just a flick of his wrist gets his pin-up to shake it,

Audrey looked cute,

and Nana let Liam have more sweets than he was allowed.

[more family reunion shots.]