Recently the kids and I ate at Red Robin. They were holding a contest where people would send in their ideas for a burger. The winning concept would then be featured on the menu. Since seeing that the kids and I have been experimenting with various burger options at home. We’ve made ham and cheese burgers where cubes of ham and cheese were stuffed into the middle of a patty, a Mexican burger for which I cannot recall the recipe, and Ann's Pizza Burger.
To replicate this, make patties (I use ground turkey, egg, bread crumbs, pasta sauce, and salt and pepper). Cook for a bit. Spread pizza sauce on top, add toppings, (I used diced tomatoes, some sliced ham cut up and fried for a bit, and onions), add a pinch of the Italian herb mix, then top with mozzarella cheese, (soy cheese for William). Broil to melt the cheese. I've never seen the kids eat dinner so fast.
Someone told me that I should write down my thoughts. They said that it was something that would help me organize all the shouting voices in my head. Honestly, I don’t really see the use in that. I like my shouting to be confused. At least then it makes sense. Otherwise it’s like some media-envisioned drill instructor barking orders at you and telling you what scum you are. I think that shouting should be chaotic—a spontaneous outburst of raw emotion. To me, controlled, orderly shouting is scary. There should be no premeditation; just a pure release of the soul. I don’t want to control it. I mean, I tell myself that I want the shouting to find its release and then retreat leaving me stillness to reflect on its words. On the other hand, the shouting has become me and who I am, and I fear the day that it stops. But for now, I’m taking the advice. I just don’t remember from where the advice came. Was it someone’s insight I trust, someone’s insight I don’t trust, or just a random thought? While the world and my life in it spins around corners and hallways, doorways and walls, there are glimpses of rooms dressed in facades where scenes are played out on stages. Sometimes I am an observer while other times I’m an actor. I trust my instincts, though, and right now they are telling me to write.
She stood above me at the top of a long, plush staircase—each stair padded with a thin layer of foam and encased in a red velvet shell—holding the spiritual implement of my death in her sticky, blood-stained hands. Her yellow shirt was paired with white shorts, white knee socks, white shoes, and a white hat. Her smile was matched by the shy innocence reflected in her glassy eyes. Already the look of happy recognition was vanishing from her face as the existence of my memory erased itself from her usually flawless recollection. She saw me not as a friend nor a stranger nor an acquaintance, but as a whisper of wind that touched her cheek and stroked her hair; a cooling breeze on a hot day; a comforting blanket of warmth and understanding on a cold night. She saw my physical being no more and would not miss me because she never knew me. Yet I remembered.
I cried that evening when we parted; she slipping silently into the comforting cloak of darkness while I drove away into the night bound for my empty shell of a home filled with no one and no thing except meaningless material possessions. I could still feel her presence beside me even after she left. She was sitting next to me - curled up - finally wearing the mask of tranquility after an emotional evening. What was she thinking behind those lying eyes?
My name is Karyl F. Stein and this is my website--a place to collect artifacts related to my interests. Family and friends may enjoy the journal entries. Perhaps some will wonder how I prepared a certain meal and look up the recipe here. Searches for technical setup or configuration help may lead to one of my articles. Others may wonder how they got to this site and quickly run away!
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