SFO Jungle Kitty

Vaya Con El Diablo, John Allen Muhammed

We lived in fear for 3 weeks. We huddled out of sight at gas stations. High school athletic teams played their games hours away, with no fans to cheer them on. We were told to run in a zig-zag pattern between the car & our destinations to make it more difficult for the sniper to get a bead on us.

John Allen Muhammed & his teenaged accomplice, Lee Boyd Malvo, killed 10 people in the DC area in October 2002. Muhammed, on death row since his conviction in one of the murders, is set to die today by lethal injection.

My kids were 15 and 12 at the time. I came this close to sending them out of state, to live with relatives & to go to school where they didn't have the chance of getting picked off while standing at a neighborhood bus stop.

The DC area is not immune to violence. The first couple of deaths back in 2002, while mysterious, didn't register much of a reaction. Then we learned we harbored a home-grown terrorist, right in our backyard.

First, someone firing out of the woods in suburban Maryland cut down a bus driver. Then, an older DC resident was gunned down. And then gas station murders started to occur & the sniper-he always used just one bullet from an automatic rifle to do his dirty work-started leaving creepy, taunting notes behind.

Ella Numera Una played high school field hockey. The team, obviously, couldn't practice outside. So all the fall sports-field hockey, football, cross country, volleyball-tried to share limited gym space. The trackies made loops in the school's corridors. Indoor practices went until 10, sometimes 11 o'clock at nite.

Ella Numera Dos, a 7th-grader at the time, was just getting used to the freedom of catching the school bus up at the corner. After the local cops, however, established a pattern for the attacks & warned the general populace that a sniper was on the loose, Mommy & Daddy curtailed the child's freedom. We took her to school every morning, pulling up close to the front doors so she could dash in. We picked her up each afternoon, repeating the process in reverse. We couldn't be too careful. One of the victims was a local middle-schooler, shot as he left school. Fortunately, he survived.

Our Humble High School's Homecoming game that year was held 2-and-a-half hours away in Harrisonburg, VA. The only fans in attendance? Parents, who weren't notified of the game's location until hours before kickoff.

Other outdoor sports teams started competing in places like Richmond, about an hour from here. That was, of course, until the sniper went further afield & shot a man in front of a Ponderosa Steakhouse off the Interstate, near the capital city. The school district then moved games to an area Army post, the kids watched closely by soldiers who patrolled the perimeter of each playing field.

Then the DC Sniper shot & killed Linda Franklin at our local Home Depot. She was my age. She worked downtown in a government office. She'd gone to the store with her husband to pick up a rug for the house. She died in the parking garage. No one saw the sniper, the gun, the escape. Everyone saw the flash & Mrs. Franklin, lying on the cold concrete floor.

To say I was afraid after Linda Franklin died is to say that fear consumed my life. I started pumping my gas at the station that had draped its service bay area with a giant tarp, to make customers look less like sitting ducks. I crouched in the back of my SUV while the tank filled, hoping the tinted windows would shade me from the unknown assasin.

My terror came to an end one weekday morning, after dropping Ella Dos off at school. I had been having an internal debate over getting gas. I'd pretty much decided that the smidge left in my tank was going to have to get me to work. I willed it to do so.

The radio crackled with relief a couple of minutes later. The sniper-who turned out to be this man, Muhammed-had been picked up, along with a kid who'd been helping him wreak his terror. I immediately pulled into a local Exxon. I have to say that was the happiest I'd ever been while performing a normally perfunctory errand.

I go back & forth on capital punishment. I don't know if the death penalty is right, if it's moral, if it's the solution to the demons that haunt our souls. But I do know that John Allen Muhammed can't hurt me, or my loved ones, any more.

Here's Pie in Your Eye!

Someone said on the NFL pre-game show yesterday that Green Bay's Aaron Rodgers is the top-rated passer in the league right now. Well, if yesterday's performance is any indication, his 3 interceptions must be part of that ranking. And 6 sacks in one game~for a grand total of 37 this season, also a league-leading number~must count for something, too.

Mrs. Scribe & Mr. Fairway were so depressed over their beloved Packers falling to the heretofore winless Tampa Bay scrubs that I just had to bake. A Banana Cream Pie. Specifically, the recipe from my long-time, old-school standby, The Joy of Cooking.

When I was but a small Scribe, Mi Madre depended on Joy's Irma Rombauer to set a pretty delicious table. Every few years or so, Mom's copy of the cookbook would wear out. So Daddy would step in, always inscribing something cute on the title page. "You're a Good Cook, Mom!" became his standard; it adorned all 5 copies he bought Mom during their 52-year marriage.

When Mr. Fairway & I tied the knot, Daddy got in on the act again, presenting us with our very own copy of The Joy of Cooking for newlywed Christmas. The inscription? "You're a Good Cook! Love, Muv and Atticus." Daddy always made sure to squeeze literary allusions into his own works.

This pie (or P. I. E., as Daddy would say) provides just enough cream, meringue, sugar and butter to keep your arteries flowing, while at the same time duping you into believing that a heart attack could be imminent. Make sure to bake the crust first, or you'll have raw dough underneath all that creamy goodness! And I use a Pillsbury Crust, natch.

Banana Cream Pie, courtesy of The Joy of Cooking

Step 1: Prepare a pie crust, then bake it.

Step 2: Prepare the cream...yum!

2/3-cup sugar

1/4-cup cornstarch

1/4-teaspoon salt

2.5 cups of milk (I used 1%; you may use any kind)

5 egg yolks (reserve the whites for the meringue)

Combine sugar, cornstarch & salt in a medium saucepan. Stiring constantly over medium-low heat, gradually add the milk. When all of this starts to thicken, add the egg yolks & stir until the mixture comes to a bare simmer. Remove from the heat, scrape the corners of the saucepan, and whisk until smooth. Return to the heat and, whisking constantly, bring to a simmer and cook for 1 minute. Remove from heat again and add

2-3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

1 tablespoon vanilla

Step 3: Combine the bananas with the cream for the pie filling.

4 ripe bananas, sliced

Spoon one-third of the cream filling into the already-baked pie crust. Sprinkle one-half of the banana slices on top of this. Spoon one-third of the cream filling on top of the bananas and smooth. Add the rest of the banana slices. Top with the remainder of the cream filling and smooth.

Step 4: Prepare the meringe.

1/2-cup egg whites (from the eggs you separated for the filling)

1/4-teaspoon cream of tartar

1/2 cup sugar

Combine these ingredients. Beat on high speed until the peaks are stiff and glossy but not dry. Then, beat in

1/2-teaspoon vanilla

Immediately spread the meringue over the pie filling, anchoring it to the edge of the crust at all points. You need to cover up all that filling! Bake for 20 minutes at 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Enjoy!

Bend, and Snap!

When I saw this photo, it sorta put me in mind of "Legally Blonde." Yes, I realize Paulette was a manicurist, but still...

"The new UPS guy is like walkin' porn!" Best movie ever? Well, let's just say I've grown attached to it, since TBS screens this flick about 752 times every weekend!

Anyway, back to the reason we're here~Mrs. Scribe's Silly Sunday Sweepstakes!

You know what to do, correctamundo? Take a gander at this Superior Silly Snap. Conjure a caption for said snap. Tippy-type your caption, real quick-like, in the comments section of this post.

And that's all there is to it, Scribe Fans! Of course, you'll win nothing tangible for all your toil & trouble. Just the knowledge that you've given us all a good giggle. And what could be better than that?

Army Strong

Photo courtesy of The Killeen Daily Herald

We're all in the Army now.

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this before: Our Humble High School's student population is about 75 percent military kids. As one of the closest schools to the Pentagon in our district, families from all of the Armed Services gravitate here.

So, when my journalistas went into Breaking News Mode yesterday morning, trying to localize the Fort Hood Massacre story, I jumped right in there with them.

A ton of my cherubs were either born on post at Fort Hood or have cycled thru there at least once in their young lives. Some have experienced repeated postings to this barren piece of real estate, northeast of Austin and in the general vicinity of Waco, Texas.

I'm told Fort Hood is the largest Army post in the world. I'm not sure if that's accurate, but at Our Humble High School, at least, we're all in the Army now. Our hearts are with y'all down there in Bell County. To the families of the 13 fallen, and those of you who survived...We salute you.

Friday Night Lights

A squeaker of a Homecoming game, I'd say...

Punt, Pass...Or Throw

Today I tackled Mama Kat's Prompt #2: Tell Me Your Most Humorous Wedding Experience.

I was young. I was foolish. I was plastered.

Well, not until midway thru the reception, anyway. But the highlight of that blowout par-TAY at my folks' East Dallas home wasn't the larapin, 3-tiered cake with buttercream icing. Not the cool Western hats Mr. Fairway purchased for his groomsmen at a store in the Fort Worth Stockyards. Nor the luscious Spanish Paella my Aunt whipped up for those who lingered longest.

The centerpiece of the celebration involved the bouquet...or lack thereof.

First off, I need to explain that the union of Mrs. Scribe & Mr. Fairway was planned to the Nth Degree. That's Scribe-speak for a whole heckuva lot of lists, bickering & endless, unnecessary worry.

And what happens when all that organization goes awry? When the best-laid plans slant slightly askew?

You punt. Pass. Or throw.

The church was lovely. Festooned with flowers, crammed with friends & family in a cacophonous array of goodwill & glad tidings. All we could have expected, and, to insert a little ol' cliche here (this is a wedding post, after all), more.

The "homey" reception Mom planned for her 1920's-era abode, however, featured a more impromptu vibe.

The guys Daddy hired to serve champagne didn't show. So Dear Old Dad enlisted my cousin, and, presto! Waiters, who didn't charge by the hour & even had their own tuxes.

The backyard, which Daddy had painstakingly nurtured all Spring (Dallas is not known for lush vegetation), was pretty much a backwater swamp after 2 solid weeks of uncharacteristic rain. So the overflow crowd had to congregate either inside, or on the front lawn.

Well, we made do.

My BIL, at some point, commandeered a bottle of champagne. My Lil' Sis, as I recall, did the same.

And after that, the memory of the best party I ever attended goes a little fuzzy, if you know what I mean...Let's just say the Bride couldn't find her bouquet. So I tried to throw my Maid of Honor, instead.

I do have photographic evidence. Drunk with Happiness? Try Drunk as a Skunk...