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By Carol Schott
Martino
Linda and I have been good friends for nearly 25 years. And during that time she must have told me 100 times how wonderful I am.. That's what friends are for, right? Then one day a while back, she confessed that there's something she's never liked about me -- "a great a big character flaw" she called it, saying it's just something she's learned to live with. Okay, lay it on me! "You've never liked my kitties," she said. Wait a minute! It's not that I didn't like the ferocious foes. I just didn't like them in my space -- you know, brushing up against my legs and jumping on my lap. And I assurred her that it wasn't just her cats I didn't like. It was anybody's cats! But Linda didn't understand how I could be like that. Especially since I've handled snakes, raised mice, adopted a Brazillian cockroach at a Chicago zoo, and once had a lime-green tree frog named Mary Lou. And worst of all, I have a gripping fascination with the only living thing she detests -- spiders! As a child, I never had the urge to cuddle a puppy or feel the gentle purr of a cat on my lap. But find me a bug, any kind of bug, and I was uncontrolably delighted. In the 1970s, when Linda and I were country neighbors, my sons had a few cats and as many as a dozen dogs at one time -- much to my dismay. That's when I learned that dogs are different than cats. At least I could understand dogs, which didn't say much for my mental maturity at the time. In passive obedience, dogs will do tricks for a treat, and they're always lapping at your feet. Dogs are forgiving and love you unconditionally. You can slam their noses in the door when carrying in groceries, and they'll wimper right over to you for some love and reassurance. But not so with cats. If you even look like you'd catch a cat's nose in the door, it would lash out at you with claws in the air ready to do battle. Once, while drinking tea in Linda's kitchen, we both began to scream. Her cat, probably Thumper or Snagglepuss, jumped on my lap, and at the same time, Linda saw a spider on the ceiling. She removed the cat from the room, and I took the spider outside. Now, after all these years, she admits she was seething inside because of the way I treated her kitties. And many times she was tempted to give Thumper my tea and make me leave the room. After all these years, Linda decided it was safe to tell me about my "character flaw" because it slowly began to disappear a while back when I married Dan and inherited his old white cat, Wisc. Not only was Wisc a cat. He was a house cat! But much to my surprise, I soon found out that you can't live under the same roof with a critter like Wisc without his elusive charms pawing their way into your heart. I don't know how it happened, but once it did, there was a solid grip. And suddenly I understood Linda's love for her cats. Still, it was hard for her to imagine a cat sitting at me feet without me screaming for its removal. "It's more than I can vision," she told me over the phone. "All I can picture is you getting stiff and sitting on the edge of your chair figiting with a spoon when my cats came into the room," she said. It's true. Her cats had that effect on me. There was just something unnatural about the unfettered liberty of those cats coming into the kitchen when we were drinking our tea in a stream of easy talk. Yes, they were her pets, but they never seemed totally tea-tame to me. They always had this jungle-wild glint in their eyes, and it became a roaring blaze as I watched from the corner of my eye and waited for them to lop onto my lap with titanic force. Today, it's hard for me to fathom that dewy coolness toward cats. Wisc died six years ago this month and I miss coming home to the old cat greeting me at the door. He had a personality all his own -- one that demanded respect. And he wouldn't settle for anything less. He was too intelligent to do tricks, and he was independent with an unflecked confidence, elegant grace and clairvoyant nature that not only amazed me -- it made me appreciate how much I'd grown in my own thinking. Wisc also had a keen insight into our moods. Roaming from room to room, he somehow knew which lap needed him the most. And he had his own moods. Sometimes there was a domesticated hint in his eyes that craved a sroke of love and attention. And other times the wild spirit of his ancestors took over and he left the room to chase his solitary heritage. From the beginning, I knew Wisc was growing old. His movements were slowing down and arthritis had settled in his bones. Still, like Linda's cats, he had that jungle-wild glint in his eyes. And he refused to be submissive about anything. Wisc lived to be nearly 19 years old, and I don't think he was ever domesticated at heart. He always had that wild, confident glint in his eyes. It was his birthright. And he never, ever let anybody take that away from him. Today, I admire that in a cat. And I understand. |
Click
to hear Wisc meow
Order Carol's book, Schott at Sunrise
My Contest
Dreams Went Up In Smoke
By Carol Schott Martino
| For five months I waited
to hear the outcome of the "The Spirit of Betty Crocker" multiethnic
facelift competition. All this time, I've secretly pictured a portion
of my Irish nose or a sliver of my crooked smile printed on the boxes
of cake mixes, muffin mixes, scalloped potato dishes -- and yes, even
Hamburger Helper -- from coast to coast. Well, I wasn't among the 75 winners whose faces will be digitally morphed into the new Betty. I did get an honorable mention, though, which I guess is good, considering my notorious track record in the kitchen. I must confess that more than a few eyes rolled when I entered the competition, which was part of Betty Crocker's 75th birthday celebration. And my family and friends weren't at all surprised to learn I didn't win. I don't think it had anything to do with the fact that I burned a frozen pizza while writing the required contest essay. Actually, it was mostly the cardboard on the bottom of the pizza that burned. And I didn't mention the incident in the essay. And I don't think it had anything to do with the fact that I've turned numerous pot roasts into roast pots and have baked marble cakes that only a sculptor could appreciate. I just didn't win, that's all. It would have been a great honor to be part of the new Betty Crocker, because I truly believe that the kitchen is the heart of the home and the home is the heart of society. But I'd be the first to admit that I'm no prize in the kitchen. As a matter of fact, there were several years when my husband, Dan, knew we were having a chef salad for supper the minute he walked in the door. He didn't smell anything burning. My friend Linda is still seething about the five pounds of sugar I wasted one Christmas back in the mid 1970s when sugar was extremely expensive. We decided to pool our sugar that year to make a batch of fudge and some sugar cookies. Unfortunately, she cut out the cookies. I got tired of stirring, and it ended up crystallizing. One thing, though, is that I've learned from my mistakes. I've never made the same one twice. And I've also learned the secret of good cooking is to follow the recipe and not substitute something just because it happens to be the same color. For example, one year, while making frosting for my son Richie's birthday cake, I poured too much milk into the powered sugar frosting. With no more powered sugar and friends and family scheduled to arrive at any minute, I resorted to instant potatoes. Not only would the white flakes thicken the frosting, cleverly thought, they would add nutritional twist to the chocolate cake. It didn't, however, do anything for the flavor. Anyway, the Betty Crocker competition gave me a slim chance to redeem myself. All I had to do was write and essay. I've been told I can write much better than I can cook. In the essay, contestants had to describe how they enjoy cooking and baking, are committed to family and friends, resourceful and creative in handling everyday tasks, and involved in the community. I could do all that with confidence. Also, we each had to include favorite Betty Crocker product or recipe. Evidently it didn't matter what the outcome of that product or recipe was in our kitchens. But maybe it was a mistake to go back 30 years to one of my first kitchen experiences. I was making peanut brittle during a home economics class in high school. After adding way too much baking soda, the treat turned out a little green and was quite bitter. I'll never forget the look on the teacher's face when she tasted my conglomeration. To be fair to myself, I've come a long way from the days when I thought sherbet was a horse that couldn't lose, and on most days, I'm able to show my love for family without burnt offerings. Actually, I have mastered some of my family's favorite recipes, like jambalaya with polish sausage. Unfortunately, that mastery comes at a time in my life when I'm more health conscious. Recently, I've switched to low-fat dishes. That means new cookbooks. New recipes. Trial and error again before scrumptious success. I've been doing okay for the most part, with the exception of a double batch of no-fat fruit cookies I made the other day. They were so bad the squirrels wouldn't even pick the raisins out of them. Even so, my family is appreciative of the meals I continue to put on the table, so appreciative in fact, they pray before each meal. Come to think of it, I've seen them pray before eating just about everything that comes from my kitchen. What a thankful bunch. |
"They came for a late picnic -- the same two cardinals, male and female, ready to feast.
It seemed they made a game each night of pretending I wasn't there watching at the window."
Standing
in for Mother Nature Can Be
a Bit Hard on the Heart
By Carol Schott Martino
Helping
Nature Take its Course
By Carol Schott Martino
Carol Schott Martino, Assoc. Editor
Writer, Photographer
About the writer:
Carol Schott Martino has been
writing feature stories and columns
for various Illinois newspapers since 1982. Her articles have also appeared
in numerous magazines and trade journals including Woman's World, Farm and
Ranch, Live Steam, and Farm Journal. She has two grown sons, Richie and
Jason, and a 5-year-old grandson, Nathan. She lives in
Pontiac Illinois with her husband, Dan.
Carol's poetry has appeared in numerous literary publications.
She is the former co-editor/co-publisher of the literary magazine Pteranodon
and the Pteranodon chapbook series. She has presented talks at various
literary festivals around the United States and has been a guest poetry
reader for state poetry societies in several states. She won an award from
the National Federation of State Poetry Societies for her poem, Catholics
and Publics, which is the title of a book of poetry she co-authored that
was published in 1983.
Order Carol's book, Schott
at Sunrise
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