Bring Your Own Raven

Tea: Chocolate Orange

Music: King Crimson, "Indoor Games"

Time: Night.

Heavyish posts the last couple of days. With the inauguration tomorrow and MLK Day today, the blogosphere is already serious enough.

(Not that that's a bad thing.)

But tonight, I'm in the mood for something lighter. I am in the mood for ...

Edgar Allan Poe. It's his birthday, you know. The big 2-0-0.

So, I'm going to log off and read for a bit. I have a book with all of his stories and poems. You should, too.

But in case you don't, here's a bit of bedtime reading from the master:

MS Found in a Bottle

All Treats, No Tricks

Tea: Vanilla Jasmine

Music: King Crimson, "The Devil's Triangle"

Time: Night.

Mmmm ... jasmine.

Give readers a link to a story, you scare them for a night. Give readers a link to the whole site, you scare them for a lifetime.

So, here you go. Happy Halloweirdness.

Engage Ears, Disengage Thumbs

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Peabo Bryson, "Pretty Women"

Time: Night.

The drama department at the local high school put on Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street tonight. The venue was tiny, the set (which my son helped to build) outstanding and the production thoroughly enjoyable.

Imagine my (insert word conveying baffled, bemused anger) when I noticed that the high school girl in front of me was sending and receiving text messages during the second act.

You wouldn't do that on Broadway or the West End. (You wouldn't do it off-Broadway or even off-off-Broadway. You wouldn't even do it during an overblown, check-out-my-acting-for-Jesus production of, say, The Screwtape -- or, if you will, Ska-Rew-uh-Tay-Puh -- Letters.)

I share the belief that you learn how to play a big house by playing a small one -- and I believe that to be true not only for performers, but for what Robert Fripp would call the audients. Practice courtesy and respect for the company in a community theatre, and it will carry over should you ever score tickets to something big. And trust me, the more people pay for a show, the more they're likely to want you tossed out if you're disrespectful and disruptive.

I hope the young texter gets that message.

Here endeth the rant.

Tonight's story: Lord Dunsany, "The Unhappy Body"

myTunes

Tea: Christmas

Music: Arizona Amp and Alternator, "Bottom of the Barrel"

Time: Night.

My music collection (which is causing my hard drive to sag in the middle) should, by rights, belong to five or six different people.

I have rock, pop, country (most of it alt-), classical, jazz, blues, Celtic, world (whatever that means), folk, funk, old-school hip-hop ... pretty much everything but death metal, polka and gangsta rap.

(That said, anything that combined those last three -- heck yeah, I'd listen at least once.)

A good chunk of the collection came from download.com's music section. For free. And before you howl "Piracy!" ... the artists like having their music on there, because it introduces them to new fans. I know I'd never have heard of Arizona Amp and Alternator -- or Autumn's Grey Solace or Alabaster Theatre, for a sampling of A's -- were it not for that site.

The Internet has been a mixed blessing. It delivers messages from friends ... and gives racist pinheads a worldwide audience for their venom. It lets artisans sell their wares to far-flung markets ... and helps spammer/scammers fleece grandmothers. It links people with something extra to give and those who desperately need that help ... and gives the gullible a way to spread urban legends faster than you can say "Turn me on, dead man."

But on this cold night ... listening to good music and preparing to read Grant Allen's "Wolverton Tower" (Pretty smooth way to introduce tonight's scary story, huh?), I have to say: "You did okay, Al."

I've Just Seen a Place

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang.

Music: SixMileBridge, "Cunningham's Waltz"

Time: Night.

Went to an opening tonight (because it's Friday) at the Greenlease Gallery at Rockhurst University. Got to meet the artist, Clay Deutsch, who was kind enough to discuss his work with me.

On the way out, I noticed something I'd missed on the way in (probably because it took me forever to find the gallery, and I was preoccupied by the search): There's a lovely, almost cloistered space outside the building that houses the Greenlease.

Circular walk, tree in the middle, bench under the tree: It would be a perfect place to sit and read, sit and write, sit and just be.

There's a story, in a book sent to me by a dear friend, about a young man who was fond of going to the woods each day. His father asked why, and he said there was a place in the midst of the trees where he would go to talk to God. The father said, "But God is the same everywhere."

To which the son replied, "Yes, but I am not the same everywhere."

There's not a lot I could add to that, beyond a wish for everyone to have at least one space (I am blessed with several) in which you feel that connection between your innermost self and something -- or some One -- immeasurably great.

Tonight's stories, since I promised you two: Charles Dickens, "The Haunted House" and (Why didn't I think of this one before?) Maxwell Struthers Burt, "A Cup of Tea"

I've Been a Distant Cousin ...

Tea: White Leaf Song Yang

Music: Jacky Terrasson, "He Goes on a Trip"

Time: Night.

My high school senior daughter got a dictionary tonight. Big deal, right? Yeah, it was.

Each year, through the Kansas Scholars program, the University of Kansas awards certificates and dictionaries to seniors who are in the top ten percent of their graduating classes. The ceremony for her district, which includes five high schools, was tonight. (For the record, I wasn't in the top ten percent of my class. I had the test scores. But homework? Couldn't be bothered.)

Late in the presentation for the last high school, I saw a young man in a blue shirt hurry into the line. I knew it had to be my cousin's son, who I hadn't seen in more than ten years. I was right. He almost didn't make the ceremony, because his soccer team was playing a makeup game (in a cold rain, I might add).

I think my grandparents would have been proud, to have two great-grandchildren at the same academic awards ceremony. I think it would have saddened them, the way I've lost touch with a lot of my relatives.

My cousin lives 15 minutes from me, and I've seen him only a handful of times since I moved here.

I know ... it's inexcusable. But it's correctable.

As I get older, more and more time goes by between blinks. Kids become fledgling adults. Friends find themselves at the threshold of grandparenthood.

And we have the best of intentions -- to keep in touch, to get together, to keep weeks from turning into months from turning into years. But we fall down.

As long as we have breath, though, we can get up again. We have chances to close the gaps -- or, at the least, to build bridges over them. It isn't easy, but it can be done.

Tonight's scary story: Christopher Blayre, "The Book"

Happy with What I Have to be Happy With II

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: U2, "October"

Time: Night.

It's raining, and I do enjoy a good chilly fall downpour. But that drip you hear isn't just the water from the eaves.

Yes, I'm still stuffy. And my left ear is plugged.

But you know what? I have hot water. I have tea. And even if I didn't have those, I have a roof over my head to keep off the rain.

I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating: When things seem crummy, count your blessings. A dose of perspective -- whether regular or decaf -- is pretty strong medicine.

So is a good ghost story. Tonight's dose: H.F.W. Tatham, "The Travelling-Companion"

No More for Me. I'm Stuffed (Up).

Tea: Blood Orange with Ginger, honey added

Music: The Skids, "The Saints are Coming"

Time: Night.

Another short one tonight, folks. My sinuses are kerfuffled.

How about we all make ourselves something hot and citrusy, drizzle in some honey (see above) and read ourselves off to nightmareland with George MacDonald's "A Ghost Story"?

Night-night ...

Back on the Board

Tea: Chocolate Cherry

Music: David Bowie, "Heroes"

Time: Night

Today, I played Scrabble against my 15-year-old son. Two games, won both. (The king is still the king.) That's only part of the point.

I used to play against my father, whenever I could -- and our games were epic. Scores of 302-301 weren't unheard-of. We scraped and scrapped and challenged for every point, so fiercely that nobody else would play with us.

He always hoarded the "Q" tile. Consequently, I held every "U" I could get my hands on. When he died, a little over a decade ago, I buried the "Q" with him.

And until today, I had played once since he died. But it was time. We've had a new Scrabble set for several years now (my son, if you'll recall, pulled it out of storage earlier this year) and I'd slowly been working up to the idea of playing again. When my son challenged me this morning, I accepted.

He has some of his grandfather's mannerisms. He fidgets. He takes forever to make a play. Even when he's about to score big, he never pounces. He gives the board one last look-see, to make sure he's not missing one or two extra points by playing something else.

And he doesn't want any help, from anyone. If he's going to win, he wants to earn it.

It was odd in ways, comforting in others, to be hunched over the board and the letters again. I have a feeling it won't be long before we're at it again.

Someday he'll beat me ... if I'm lucky. After all, great rivalries need winners on both sides.

Tonight's scary story: Lettice Galbraith, "The Trainer's Ghost"

Those as Can, Do (and Should Teach)

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Gimme Three Steps"

Time: Night.

Third Friday means hanging out with artists, which invariably means good conversation.

Tonight, I was at a reception, talking with an artist acquaintance who teaches at an area high school. He was bemoaning the fact that too many times, people who teach art at that level aren't producing artists themselves.

A writer friend has said the same thing for years, under another paw. He contends that to teach writing in high school, one should be a producing writer.

Granted, that is the case sometimes. There are artists who teach, writers who teach, directors and actors and techs who teach. And when that happens, it's a good thing.

But that should be the norm. Education should be a minor, not a major, in every case. Focus on expertise in the core subject, and it will be easier to teach it. And if someone knows the material-- has lived the material -- and can communicate it, why keep him or her from teaching?

In too many cases, though, the education degree is paramount -- and it shouldn't be. Would you rather have your kids learning from people who know how to do the work, or from people who have spent most of their undergraduate lives learning educational theory (much of which seems dedicated to the modern-day cult of self esteem)?

I'd better stop here. That last parenthetical could lead to a much longer rant, and it's late.

Tonight's scary story: Lafcadio Hearn, "The Corpse-Demon"

Mount Argyle

Tea: Jasmine Vanilla

Music: Beaver Nelson, "Minute Man"

Time: Night.

I don't always wear matched socks. Sometimes, I deliberately choose not to match. I do like to have the option, though.

And for several weeks ... okay, months ... my choices have been shrinking for no apparent reason. I put socks in the laundry. Sometimes I do the laundry -- and it still happens. My dryer is like the Thunderdome: Two socks enter, one sock leaves.

Today, I'd had enough. I rounded up every bag of unmatched socks I could find. (There were, for the record, five. There are five people in the house, but the unmatched socks were not divided by member. That would have been way too efficient.)

It started while the kids were at school and Mrs. Steep was at work. I made a pile in the living room and started pairing. As the others arrived home, they joined in.

I didn't count how many pairs we managed to get together. All I know is that I still have dozens of unmatched socks in what's now "my" sock bag.

Maybe I'm not meant to get them all paired off. Maybe my sock pile is some sort of cosmic trigger, a textile version of the monks' quest in Arthur C. Clarke's "The Nine Billion Names of God."

Then again, maybe the whole sock thing was just a cheesy way to set up giving you two stories tonight. No ghosties or monsters in the Clarke, I know. But the story is its own (albeit peaceful) brand of spooky, wouldn't you say?

You didn't read it? Go back and finish it. Right now. Or no literary dessert for you.

All done? Good job. Now you can move on to A.M. Burrage and "The Green Bungalow."

The Last Drop (or Not)

Tea: Yunnan Gold (morning)/ Oolong Pouchong (night)

Music: Yes, "City of Love"

Time: Night, as I type.

I finished a small bag of loose tea this morning. It was lovely, as passings go -- golden, warm, rich, Indian summer in a cup.

I got two steepings out of the leaves. They, in turn, got me through a cold, rainy morning.

Tonight, I pulled out another bag whose gauge is nearing "E." But the more I looked, the more I thought, "You know, I can probably make this last one more time past tonight, if I steep in a small cup."

It's not easy for me to do that. You know my predilection for veritable kegs o'tea. But sometimes, having just a bit of something excellent really is enough.

And I think I can get one more steeping out of tonight's portion ...

Scary story du nuit: Bernard Capes, "The Marble Hands"

Drizzlicious

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Asia, "Without You"

Time: Night.

Ah ... wet, cool fall weather. My time is upon the world, and none too soon. I can only take so many beautiful Indian summer days before I get cranky.

Were I scripting the night, I'd have a bowl of beef and Guinness in front of me and see myself off to bed with something malty and peaty. (I have the latter, but I also have a bit of a sniffle and scratch -- which isn't a Dickensian law firm but certainly sounds like one, doesn't it?)

So I think I'll steep myself one last cup, stir in some honey and contemplate some old-school spookiness. As promised, I'm catching up and giving you three stories:

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell, "The Devil Stone"

William Hope Hodgson, "The Weed Men"

Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, "Narrative of the Ghost of a Hand"

Single-Region Courtesy

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: Norah Jones, "Come Away with Me"

Time: Night.

Being a freelance writer, just building a career, I am bound by a state law requiring me to be broke at nearly all times. So when arts events with free food and drink surface on my calendar, as they do nearly every Friday, I count them as gratitudes. It does get me wondering, though ... what do I bring to the table, besides a pen, a notebook and the hope of being written about?

A beyond-dear friend of mine is in the same leaky economic boat. Still, she takes good chocolate with her wherever she goes and shares it liberally -- not with the aim of getting anything in return, but because she is a sharer. It makes her happy to treat people to new tastes.

That's not why people are glad to see her, though. They're glad to see her because she treats people as people -- not as parts of the machines they operate, not as cogs in the engines they serve. In today's hurried world, that's a rare thing.

It's a lesson for me. I often have to go empty-handed, physically ... but each of us can offer the gift of interest in other people, the taste of respect and regard. It's both sweet and nourishing -- to everyone involved -- listen, ask questions, cut down on the use of the pronoun "I" unless it's absolutely necessary.

Best of all? No calories.

Tonight's scary story: John Kendrick Bangs, "The Spectre Cook of Bangletop"

Stray Cat Strut

Tea: Christmas

Music: The Archies, "Sugar Sugar"

Time: Night.

I often go on and on about being an animal lover -- if they're properly cooked. But I do have somewhat of a soft spot for living creatures, especially if they're in peril [well, the sort of peril that doesn't involve me hunting them.]

(A friend of mine will dart into traffic to save a stranded animal. I haven't done anything like that ... yet. Never know, though.)

While I was waiting for church activities to start this evening (I'm Baptist. We do Sundays and Wednesdays.), I took a short stroll in the park across the street. Suddenly, a gray-and-white cat pounced from behind a bush and started batting at my bootlaces.

"Okay," I thought. "I'll play." And so I danced around for a bit, and the cat pounced and rolled and seemed to be having all sorts of fun. Even had it not been wearing a collar with a nametag, it was clear this was no hungry feral stray. This cat belonged to someone -- or more likely, someone belonged to this cat.

But where was the owner? Nowhere to be seen, and it would be dark before long. So I finally got the cat to hold still long enough to ascertain that his name was Arnold and that his tag bore a telephone number.

I called it. No answer and no answering machine. I tried again with the same result. I pictured a family, most likely with one or more tearful children, out searching for a beloved pet. I tried again, and a man answered.

"Hi," I said. "Do you have a gray and white cat named Arnold?"

"Yes, we do."

"I found him across from the Baptist Church, by the water park."

"He's kind of a wanderer, but he's only a block from home. See the house with the white car? That's ours."

We exchanged a few more pleasantries, he thanked me for calling, and I hung up and gave Arnold one more scratch behind the ears.

Somehow, I have the feeling I'll be seeing him again.

Tonight's scary story: W.C. Morrow, "The Gloomy Shadow"

Bonjour from a Plongeur

Tea: Marron Glace

Music: Jacob do Bandolim, "Assanhado"

Time: Morning

I can't say there are no words for how I feel about doing dishes -- especially scrubbing pots and pans. There are. They just aren't very nice words.

Mornings? Ditto.

Yet here I am, steeping my first cup of the day after 45 minutes of washing, rinsing, drying (okay, so I dried the heavy pots on the stove) and stacking. And I'm fine with that -- and I'll be even better once the caffeine hits my system.

For one, it's in my jobs column and it needs to be done. But beyond that, I'm trying to move away from a place of doing things grudgingly and out of obligation -- and into a space of doing them because I want to.

Paul exhorted the Ephesians to do everything "as unto the Lord" -- with joy, with love and without complaint. Tall order, for we fallible humans ... but every time we manage it, I believe we will be changed for the better.

Wow ... preach much, Steve?

I'd say it's time to pass the plate, but it's going to be covered with potato pancakes in a bit. Time to break the fast and listen to the rain for a while ...

Today's spooky story: E.F. Benson, "The Horror-Horn"

I should have had it delivered by an African Swallow ...

Tea: Mandarin Orange

Music: Earth, Wind & Fire, "Fantasy"

Time: Night

My youngest daughter doesn't like mushrooms, but I can get her to eat shiitakes if I soak them in vanilla Lapsang tea and include them in spicy stir-fries.

Her older sister doesn't eat coconut ... until tonight.

I made Gobi Foogath (Spicy Fried Cabbage) as a side dish for egg curry, and the recipe (taken from my battered edition of Charmaine Solomon's The Complete Asian Cookbook, which can also be found online here) calls for two tablespoons of dried coconut, stirred in at the end.

It came time to add the coconut. I looked at the futon, where my unsuspecting daughter sat, blithely doing her homework. I looked at the bag of white shreds, back at my daughter ... and poured in a generous handful.

Of course, I told her. But I was restrained about it. I kept my dancing and chanting of "I got you to eat COconut ... I got you to eat COconut," to a meager thirty seconds.

Then she had to ruin the moment by shrugging and saying, "Oh, well. I couldn't taste it."

Sheesh. Waste of a perfectly good gloat.

Tonight's scary story: M.R. James, "Canon Alberic's Scrapbook"

Skippy the Wonder Chicken says Good Night

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Del Amitri, "Always the Last to Know"

Time: Night.

Remember that stretchy (but non-rubber) chicken from the other night?

It's finally gone.

The final roster of meals to which it contributed:

Thursday lunch: Dirty rice for one

Thursday dinner: Roast chicken and vegetables for five

Friday lunch: Leftover roast chicken for two

Friday supper: Sausage and cabbage soup (with the leftover vegetables and a chicken stock base) for four (I was at First Friday.)

Saturday lunch: Soup for four (One of the kids had a scenery-building workday at school.)

Saturday dinner: Spinach salad with chopped chicken for five

Saturday late night snack: Soup (with the leftover chopped chicken added) for one

Sunday supper: Soup for four (One was tired of soup and had a sandwich.)

I'd say it's fitting that the last meal came on a Sunday. Church and thankfulness for blessings and all that. But I'm trying to make every day a day of gratitude, of awareness, of stewardship.

Heh ... guess this lesson tasted like chicken.

I know I slacked last night and didn't post a scary story. So tonight, here are two.

Thomas Peckett Prest, "The Demon of the Hartz"

Horacio Quiroga, "The Feather Pillow"

A Pleasant Reminder

Tea: Lapsang Vanilla

Music: Pink Floyd, "Learning to Fly"

Time: Night.

This will be short. First Friday has worn me out a bit. It was good, though. Got to see some people I hadn't seen in a while, found a few new (to me) spaces ... and as always, the art reminded me just how good Kansas City's creative community is.

The weather was gorgeous, the music (inside and outside) worth hearing ... in short, an affirmation of some wise words I've heard recently:

"I'd rather be poor and healthy than rich and sick."

Amen to that.

Tonight's story: Jessie Middleton, "The Ghost That Grinned"

Stretching a Non-Rubber Chicken

Tea: Blueberry

Music: Beastie Boys, "Sabotage"

Time: Night

So how do you feed five people -- three of them teenagers -- on one non-giant chicken?

Quite well, I'm finding out. And with the economy the way it is, anything that stretches out the food budget is a good thing.

The process started last night. I took out the giblets, butterflied the bird and set aside the backbone. (I know the link says to discard it. I can't afford to discard anything, right now.) Then I peeled back the skin on the breasts and thighs, rubbed some smoked paprika on the exposed meat and put the skin back. A dusting of smoked paprika and kosher salt on the skin, and the bird went into the fridge.

But wait, there's more. I browned the backbone and the neck and put them into a pot of boiling water, to make stock. I put the liver and gizzards into another pan of water and cooked them. After a while, I took out the neck and back (while they still had some flavor in the bits of meat attached to them) and put them in a baggie with the giblets.

The neck and back meat and the giblets were part of my lunch today. I made dirty rice, using the stock to cook the grains. With a few drops of hot sauce completing the assembly, lunch was served -- and enjoyed.

For dinner, I roasted the chicken, along with some vegetables (potatoes, carrots, onions and celery) tossed in olive oil and dusted with poultry seasoning, salt and pepper. On the side, iceberg salad. Now, in the past I've regarded two pieces of chicken as a snack and three as something of a divine right. But tonight, we all made do with slices from the breasts, and nobody complained of being hungry. (My stomach is shrinking, I think.)

I boned out the rest of the chicken, saving some for Mrs. Steep's lunch tomorrow. (I did save out the flat portions and the tips of the wings. Those are going to be my lunch.) The rest of the meat will go on a salad, most likely.

Done? Not yet. I make a stock out of the bones. That will be a base for soup, using the leftover roast veggies, the cabbage in the fridge and three jalapeno bratwursts (bought on sale for 60 cents each). With any luck, there will be leftovers of that, too.

Please don't take this as bragging. Take it, if anything, as an expression of gratitude for Providence and provision, and of regret for past waste -- and a determination not to take a full belly for granted.

Tonight's scary story: Algernon Blackwood, "The Lease"