Single in Sandpoint: Burn Baby Burn

Single in Sandpoint: Scarlette and The Great Guacamole Incident

     Amen. Hallejulah. We finally have summer here in the big city. But with summer comes the heat, and where there is heat there is burn.

     The following is a true story, and before you read this I want you to know that I am completely bypassing any savings for my children's college tuition. Instead I am saving for the therapy that they are going to need as a result of having me for a mother.

     This story starts as so many others: I make an ill advised attempt at being domestic and it ends with the pain and suffering of innocents. 

     We received a care package in the mail a few weeks ago. It was full of avocados. We had so many avocados we just couldn't keep up with them. They have a short life, so I decided to do the right thing with them before they went bad and made guacamole. 

     This was a perfect idea because we had a party to go to that evening and, seriously, who doesn't like fresh guacamole?

     I was full of myself. I had visions of making the best guacamole ever and even using one of our nice bowls; you know, the ones that are still in the box from our wedding. I would show off further by wearing an impressive outfit and all the other ladies at the party would think, "Wow, she's really got it together," rather than, "Oh great, Scarlette brought a bottle of vodka and Ritz crackers again.”

     I'm going to say it right now for the record: I wasn't myself that day. I was aiming too high, looking for love in all the wrong places...

     I added an extra helping of delusion when I thought it would be "fun" for my 9-year-old daughter to help me with my voyage into homemade guacamole making. We looked up the recipe together on the Internet and she wrote down all of the ingredients. It was like something out of a Hallmark commercial. Here I was becoming a good cook and a perfect mother all in one day. I was so full of myself.

     So we took our list of ingredients to the store, and this was where things started to go awry.

     First, the recipe calls for serrano peppers, and here I am looking at this bin full of tiny orange peppers. Something in my mind is telling me that these are those really F-ing hot peppers that people talk about. Hmmm... I always thought serrano peppers where green.

     My daughter is grabbing the mini orange peppers and filling a bag with them. I tried to tell her that I think those peppers are in the wrong spot. My 9-year-old looks at me and says, "Mom, stores don't make mistakes. You do."

     She has exposed my weakness; honestly, what do I really know about peppers, or guacamole for that matter? NOTHING.

     Stick to the recipe. Trust the process. OK.

     We get back home and start chopping up the ingredients. My 8-month-old is crawling around on the floor, dressed only in a diaper, looking for things to get into. He requires constant supervision nowadays because he’ll eat a penny and wash it down with the dog’s water any chance he can get. 

     I’m elbow-deep in over-ripe avocados when my daughter pulls out the orange peppers and asks, "Can I please cut these, Mommy?"

     I was, like, “Sure, but be careful, I'm pretty sure those peppers are REALLY hot."

     In my mind I was wondering if it was a good idea to let her cut the peppers, but I thought to myself, “What can really happen? I'm right here.”

     She’s cutting those peppers like a chef. No really, she watches about 20 hours of the Food Network a week and she is obsessed. My mini-chef tolerates me in her kitchen, but at the end of the day we both know who the better cook is. Maybe that’s why I trusted her on the pepper thing. A mixture of awe and my own insecurity provided the ingredients for the perfect storm that day.

     So I’m finishing up the recipe and adding all the ingredients in the "special bowl." My hands are covered in guacamole and the chef is watching me, judging my technique.

     We both notice that the baby is absurdly quiet.

     That’s when it hits me.

     I smell something foul. It is overpowering the smell of freshly chopped cilantro and permeating the air with a noxious cloud of methane that is so volatile that it makes you want to run but you have to puke first.

     The baby is sitting on the floor bouncing up and down and smiling. Mustard colored cream is oozing out of both sides of his diaper and has splattered all over his bare back.

     I lock eyes with the mini-chef and her face is a mixture of fear and anxiety.

     "I can change him, Mom, please I know how," she says.

     I am once again in awe of her bravery and skill.

     She picks up the baby and carries him to his "changing station" and things are quiet for a bit. I wash my hands, grab some disinfectant and start to clean up the carpet. All of a sudden I hear a wail followed by deafening crying that pierces my soul.

     "MOM he's turning all red,” my daughter yells. “Something’s wrong with him!"

     I run into the room. The baby is wearing a new diaper but now he’s covered in red blotches – shaped like perfect hand prints.

     What the…?

     He’s crying so hard he can barely breathe. Then the montage runs through my mind: the peppers, the mini-chef, the bare skin, the hot oil in peppers...

     OH NO.

     I pull off his diaper to reveal the angriest, reddest set of twig and berries you've ever seen.

     The screaming is at a fever pitch. It has caught the attention of my 12-year-old daughter and she saunters into the room while lazily tapping off a text message.

     "What's wrong with him," she asks. Than she sees "it" and panics.

     Then I scream: “I'm going to put him into a cold shower; you look on the Internet for ways to stop serrano pepper burn.”

     The mini-chef has started to cry. She wipes her eyes and then sticks her hand in her mouth.

     MINI-CHEF, NO!

     “Stop touching things, you have pepper oil all over your hands,” I shriek.

     It was too late. She was now on fire as well and, expert that she is, starts drinking milk right out of the jug.

     So at this point I'm standing in my shower holding a naked, red, screaming baby and I’m wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. Mini-chef is on the other side of the door crying and asking, "Will he ever forgive me?" in between gulps of milk. I'm thinking that I'm going to have to drive to the hospital.

     The 12-year-old sashays her way back into the room. She passes on the information that water makes the burn worse as it spreads the oil. Lemon juice neutralizes the oil and a milk compress can provide comfort.

     Awesome.

     I pass her the baby and run into the kitchen topless. The smell of shit and guacamole almost floors me. I cut three lemons in half. I throw one to the mini-chef, pick up the baby and rub his entire body with a lemon half. I place another half on his "parts" and within 10 seconds he’s smiling. Still, I continue the lemon bath and fashion a little baby jock strap – complete with lemon "cup" – out of a dish towel.

     After about 10 minutes the redness has subsided and it appears that the baby has forgiven the mini-chef.

     But will either one forgive me?  Better yet, do I still serve the guacamole?

     I am later informed by my husband that those were Habanera peppers.

     Shit.

     Like I said, saving for therapy makes a lot more sense.

Keep it hot – but not too hot – this summer,

Scarlette Quille

Single in Sandpoint: Summer is a cruel mistress… smoke gets in your [kids’] eyes

Thank the Lord it’s over. Winter is officially out the door wagging its middle fingers at us like an eliminated reality contestant. Spring is going to hang around longer than it should like a rebound relationship that you let go on for way too long. And soon summer will be here for a brief fling, like the hook up you had on spring break 1994, only a bit longer.

     Do I have to mention fall? Fine. Fall is like the high school friend your mom always wanted you to marry but you couldn't bring yourself to date because there was no chemistry.

     And yes, my relationship with the weather is highly dysfunctional. 

     In other regions the passing of seasons is closely tied to calendar months and there is a bit of predictability involved. You know that if you’re going to go to Las Vegas in May to lay out by the pool you’ll be able to fry like a piece of delicious bacon in the sun's mighty rays.

     If you try the same thing in Sandpoint you just have to take your chances; you might get a little bit of sun, or you might get snowed on.

     It's more accurate to gauge Sandpoint seasons by their events. If you want to know when spring starts just start looking around for people driving restored classic cars.

     Lost in the ’50s weekend is the only way to tell whether or not it’s actually spring. You can always wear shorts and a t-shirt to Lost in the ’50s, and regardless of the actual temperature others will be dressed the same.

     There are many reasons for this, but the main one is that Lost in the ’50s is a place where you will be drinking beer outdoors and activities like outdoor beer drinking go hand-in-had with summer attire. Look it up, it's like death and taxes.

     True story. Lost in the ’50s is off the hook.

     This year I was enjoying not being pregnant and the good weather during the parade by taking my kids on a stroll through town. I don't allow them to stay downtown later than 7:30 p.m., though. I find that all the people who started drinking at 5 p.m. are primed at that time and also related to us; I like to spare my children that kind of adult attention if you know what I'm saying.

     So therefore I’m the “mean mom” who sends her kids with a babysitter before the "street dance" even starts. I'm not going to apologize. I GAVE THEM LIFE.

     Anywhoo, we’re strolling around and we come up to a major intersection where we’re going to cross the street. There are about 25 people waiting at this intersection and it’s a bit crowded.

     This is where things get a little weird.

     The lady standing next to us is wearing a front-backpack with an infant tucked inside. In her hand is a lit cigarette. She proceeds to smoke it.

     Now I’m not the type to begrudge someone for smoking. I'm not going to preach to a smoker about their habit any more than I’m going to smack a cheeseburger out of a fatty's hands.

     We all choose our own vices, but really? Smoking? With an infant on your chest? 

     I mulled over my feelings: Disgust mixed with fascination over her complete lack of regard for one of society's most ingrained social standards.

     Smoking around infants and other people’s kids is generally frowned upon, right?

     Then she casually dropped her hand and swung that cigarette about three inches from my 9-year-old’s face and right into my 7-month-old son’s stroller. 

     GET YOUR CIGARETTE OUT OF MY SON'S FACE.

     I'm not going to lie to you and tell you I screamed those words, I more or less hissed them through clenched teeth.

     She sort of looked at me paralyzed, then my 9-year-old daughter yelled at the top of her lungs: "MOM, I'm trying so hard not to inhale."

     People all around started chuckling and the smoking mom looked stunned. I guess she didn't need to cross the street that badly because she turned on a dime and walked off.

     I don't know. The whole thing seemed a bit ridiculous. Was I being judgmental?

     I was wearing cargo pant Capris at the time, and this was an atypical outfit for me as I associate that type of pant with people who stock up on boneless chicken breasts and wine at Costco. I like Costco but I'm not really ready to cash in my chips and become a full-time member of that crowd.

     In fact, I've been a smoker before. I just always thought smoking was something you did in the smoking section, dive bar, college road trips or in an off-site shack next to your workplace. NEVER IN A KID INFESTED ZONE.

     Now I was irritated. That smoking mom made me act like an uptight uber-mom Capri cargo pants-wearing bitch – and I even had a tiny little henchwoman with me. One who was so thoroughly trained that she was holding her breath because she'd rather pass out than breathe second-hand smoke.

     Boy oh boy would I like to be a fly on the wall in her therapy sessions one day.

     I tried not to let the irritation ruin my night as I loaded my kids into their grandma's car. You see, I like to do my partying when my kids are at a secure smoke-free location. I don't think that makes me better than anyone else. At least I like to think I don't. Growing up is hard to do. Especially at my age.

     The moral of the story here is that the weather is getting warmer and there will be several more public events throughout the summer. We all need to co-exist in order to fully enjoy the season because, like I said earlier, summer is a real heart-breaker.

     She swoops in quickly, has her way with you and then disappears without so much as a goodbye.

     Prepare yourself for the season. Brazilians and spray tan optional!

Scarlette Quille

Single in Sandpoint: On mayonnaise, lake pagans and summer safety

     As the Grateful Dead once wrote: "every silver lining has a touch of grey." I 'm not sure if they made that up, or if they plagiarized it from some famous philosopher. I'm not sure if that matters. In fact I'm not sure of many, many things.

     Such as: Why does everyone act like they hate mayonnaise? It’s completely, blatantly, obvious that mayo is one of the most beloved condiments, yet people have that uneasy feeling that if they admit to eating (and liking) it, they’re somehow white trash and on the fast-track to Obesity Avenue.

     If I had a dime for every time I heard a person tell me they hate mayo – but will eat it in tuna, pasta salad, deviled eggs and salad dressings – I’d be able to buy stock in Best Foods. These people annoy me so much – I often think of them while thickly spreading mayo on my roast beef sandwich.

     However, I am off topic, and that’s probably no surprise to any of you. If I wrote a book about my life it would probably be titled, Off Topic: The Story of a Lady Who Eats Mayonnaise, Drinks Domestic Beer, and Admits It.

Today's column isn't about mayonnaise or the book I’m supposed to be writing. Today's column is about the epic words of the Grateful Dead. Where is the silver lining? Where is the touch of grey?

     Let’s do this.

     Sandpoint is arguably one of the most beautiful places on earth. Sandpoint in the summer is magical. There are so many things to enjoy about living here in the summer:  the schizophrenic weather, the mountains, The Festival, people who wear swimwear everywhere, the City Beach and above all else, THE LAKE.

     Tourists may come here to enjoy the lake, but locals live in Sandpoint because they worship the lake. Yes, this may come as a surprise to many, but most locals live here because they love Sandpoint, and I mean LOVE it.

     Example: I love my unborn child more that vodka. That’s why I don't drink while I'm knocked up. Locals LOVE Sandpoint more than the big city, that’s why they don't mind taking a ginormous pay cut and living without a mega-mall

     We all make sacrifices for the things we love.

There is a thin line, however, between loving, worshipping and obsession. When it comes to the lake, you’ll see people with all of these afflictions.

     As early as May, you’ll see people – clearly in a trance-like state – standing at the beach, dipping their bare toes into the icy waters of Lake Pend Oreille. The lake is probably about 3 degrees or something at this point, but as a devoted follower, hypothermia is just a minor discomfort – a price that must be paid in order to bathe in the holy waters.

     People take days off of work just to spend time with the lake. I mean, they may not take one single day off for nine months to hang out with their kids or visit their mother, but in the summer they use up all those vacation days for lake worship.

     Is it spiritual? Cultish? Take a good look at yourself: are you a peaceful follower, or a rabid zealot?

     Personally, I feel guilty if I don't spend at least an hour a day, every day, at the lake from June through August. Any time spent on the lake in the off-months is considered a blessing.

     There is a reason people worship the lake, and it’s not just cold weather related insanity. Bottom line: people are happier, more attractive and full of energy when they get to spend time soaking up the summer outdoors. Just the vision of drinking a frosty beverage while sitting on a dock with your feet in the water is so powerful that it can sustain a person for nine months of bullshit weather.

     All of that is the silver lining, now it’s time for that "touch of grey.”

     We have long, cold winters here. When it gets hot, we as a city collectively decide it’s vacation time. There is nothing wrong with this, except that like most deities, the lake needs to be respected as the powerful force that it is.

     We need to take care of it and use caution when enjoying it. Even if we were born here and crawled straight out of the womb and into the water, things can still happen.

     It’s so easy to forget your seatbelt when you drive home from the beach blasting “Jesse's Girl” with all the windows down, so easy. But it's not safe, and there are dogs, and deer and kids on bikes around every corner.

     Do you see what I'm saying? Be careful. We are all guilty of letting our guards down to have a good time; everyone has made a choice or two in the moment that they luckily LIVED to regret

 There have already been two fatal accidents this summer, and accidents can't always be prevented – we don’t necessarily have control over the when, where and who. What we can control is how they impact our lives; whether we knew those involved or they were complete strangers to us.

     Accidents are often the stunning reminders that life is too short. We all need to hug our pets, kids, parents and friends more – and we all need to be that much more careful.

     I'm sorry for the public service announcement, but I just had too.

     (And remember, even mayonnaise has potentially dangerous effects if not properly enjoyed.)

 xoox

Scarlette Quille