Almost There

I received the final proof for If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny from the publisher this week. Well, actually, it's the final proof before I get to proof a sample copy of the actual book with the cover and everything. Reading all these proofs has proven to me just how human errors are.

When I first wrote all of the material for the book, I thought it was perfect. When I compiled it into the initial form of the book to send to the publisher, I knew it was perfect. Five proofs later, and three red ink pens emptier, I'm still finding mistakes and wording that isn't quite right. I'm amazed at how If Mama Don't Laugh has evolved throughout the process. And I have discovered that true perfection is an elusive goal.

If left to listening to my own self-inflicted, self-critical internal voice that enjoys telling me how my efforts aren't good enough, how I could have tried harder, and how I don't know what I'm doing, I would never have a finished product. Thank heavens for editors and publishers who speak loudly in order to drown out writers' insecurities about their work.

But intuitively, I know that If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny will take my readers on a Space Shot of laughs, as they jump with me from throwing pre-adolescents out of the house, to getting on amusement park rides more suitable for 12 year-old boys than 30-something year-old women, to unclogging the vacuum cleaner hose by blowing in it. And it won't be long now, before we're both there together.

Thank you to my loyal and faithful readers, and to the ones who have recently come on board, for your continuous and genuine support. And thank you, as well, for forgiving me my imperfections.

Grits Cookies

Cooking is not my forte. My kids call my kitchen "Mama's Smokin' Restaurant." And although a real, actual fire (not one I will admit to, anyway) has ever broken out, I have on many occasions stood over the kitchen sink with a butter knife scraping the surface of blackened toast. My husband blames it on ADD (Aimlessly Dawdling Disorder), so he cooks a good deal. Just goes to show how well things work out, in the end.

Nevertheless, I sometimes, against the better judgement of others, make up my mind to whip up an amazing culinary delight. It always excites my ever optimistic children to see what I will desecrate next. Yesterday, it was the all-American chocolate chip cookie; because of course I can make a good thing better.

I decided I could elevate the chocolate chip cookie to a whole new level by giving it a southern twist - grits. In my mind, where everything is as blissful as a Christmas Carol, the fresh baked cookies steamed with the aroma of homemade oatmeal desserts, minus the befoulment by raisins. Completely sucked into my self-delusional fantasy, I stood in the grocery aisle faced with a momentous decision - exactly what type of grits should I use?

Instant or regular? Whole or cracked? White or yellow? Impulsively, I bought every kind displayed. The cashier eyeballed me with a sideways glance, but seeing the feverish focus in my face, made a wise choice not to comment.

At home, whipping up my secret recipe sure to win me the blue ribbon at the state fair, I had a new dilemma. In what form should I add the grits? Cooked or dry? Runny and hot or cold and clumped? I can't tell you exactly what I did, mostly because it was sort of a combo of all of the above and I didn't write it down.

Finally, I pulled a batch from the oven, scraped the black edges off and fed them to my four lab rats, who, oddly enough, feigned joy at receiving my gift. Standing back so as not to pressure the critics, I watched them chew. And chew. And chew. And chew.

At last, the six year old's lips parted. I waited with bated breath. She bent her head into her palm held close to her mouth. Oh no, I thought and grabbed the trashcan. But then she lifted her head, grinned, and held out her hand. "They're a little bit crunchy, Mama," she said, handing me her front tooth.

Back to the mixing bowl.