First I need to break it to you that the stuff you are making and calling chili is actually bean soup.  I can hear you all saying, “It’s not bean soup!” but it is dear hearts.  It just is.

You see real Chili absolutely does not have beans cooked in it, or bell peppers, or tomato soup, and it is not served over rice.  Now stay with me here ’cause what I’m gonna’ tell you might seem like splittin’ hairs but it’s not.

If you want beans in your Chili you must cook a pot of pintos (not navy or kidney or any other kind of bean, it has to be pintos) separate from the pot of Chili.  When both the Chili and the pintos are done it is acceptable to add a spoonful or so of the cooked pintos to your bowl of Chili — absolutely no one will think worse of you for it.

Technically beans are a condiment to Chili and are not part of the Chili itself.  Other condiments to sprinkle on top of your Chili are shredded cheddar (yellow not white,) coarsely chopped onions, a little hot sauce, some chopped or sliced jalapenos, and crumbled crackers, and a buttered corn tortilla to sop up the last little bit of Chili can’t hurt.

I hate to admit it but some chain restaurants in Texas also serve sour cream with their Chili but most Texans know better than to order Chili there.  For the best Chili you have to go to a neighborhood hole-in-the-wall owned and run by a family of Mexican Americans who’ve been serving up Chili for the last upteen years.  And, it’s also probably the best place in town to get breakfast tacos.  My mouth is watering so bad I can hardly stand it.

What I have to tell you next is truly heartbreaking but you will never be able to make real Chili here because, unless you grind it yourself, you can’t get chili meat.  Chili meat looks like very coarsely ground hamburger meat.  But things aren’t completely bleek, the good news is that you can make do with just plain old ground meat and it will still taste the same – won’t be the right texture but the taste will be fine.  Vegetarians can also use ground protein crumbles. They won’t taste the same but you do what ya gotta do.

Okay now for a few recipe options.  If you want to go the quicker than quick route and are willing to lie and say you made it yourself you can buy Wick Fowler’s chili mix.  It’s actually Wick Fowler’s 2 Alarm Chili which makes this next part redundant but unless you like it really hot you should make the “mild” option and omit the red pepper.  If you’re brave and were raised in Mexico or eat wasabi as a snack go ahead and go for the whole enchilada.

If you’re really pressed for time and can tell a whopper with a straight face you can get a can of Woolf Brand chili.  It’s not quite the Tex-Mex equivalent of Spaghettios  but it’s getting close.  That said it’s not bad if you’re craving chili on a Sunday afternoon and the game is about to start.

Now for some authentic Tex-Mex Chili recipes I found online – it was just too much trouble to type my favorite recipe out for ya but these two sound close and all I had to do is add a link.  The first is Tex-Mex Chili Authentic San Antonio and the other one is Will Rogers Chili.  I’m not sure why it’s named after legendary folk humorist Will Rogers when it says is Ma Fergeson’s recipe.  I’ve heard tell that men have been known to take credit for a woman’s hard work now and then, but maybe that’s harsh — I mean he could have help stir the pot, or chopped onions, or maybe even eat some of it.

Anyway, you know I always want the best for you, bless your hearts, so I’m urging you to take a risk and make yourself a big ole pot of Texas Chili.  It’ll grow hair on your chest and you won’t have to eat that bean soup any more — not that there’s anything wrong with that!

I think it’s the fact that this is so appalling and disgusting that makes me want to share it – I mean you just can’t keep things like this all to yourself, especially when it has the potential to make you, dear reader, feel so much better about your own house and how clean or unclean you keep it.

So last week I’m walking through my dining room and I spot something furry on the floor – I mean it’s really furry like one of those little fake mice that people who have cats buy at the pet food store.  So I step a little closer and sure enough it’s got a tail.  My first thought is that it belongs to my neighbor Jeffrey’s cat although that’s completely illogical because Jeffrey’s cat never comes to visit – she’s a house cat and well, I have a dog and it just wouldn’t work.

Anyway I lean down and pick it up by the tail and there are maggots crawling out of its stomach!  I know, I know, makes you just want to scream and do a little “don’t-let-it-get-on-me dance” doesn’t it?

Now how the hell did it get there?

It was right beside the sewing machine where I’d just finished sewing up a cuter than cute dress for my granddaughter.  I mean what business did it have being anywhere near my granddaughter’s dress?  And it must have just gotten there or I would have seen it before and that means my sweet little Gracie must have dragged it from somewhere, but where?

Now I don’t move my furniture around very often to vacuum but the dining room furniture did get reshuffled about a month ago so that means that the disgusting varmit came from my living room or kitchen, just gets worse and worse doesn’t it.  But then again it couldn’t have been dead for long or the maggots wouldn’t still be feeding so it could have been the dining room.

Maybe it was the back porch.  Yes, yes I’m sure it was the back porch.  Oh my god I don’t know I just know I can’t stop thinking about it so I had to tell someone and now you can’t stop thinking about it either.

I’m so sorry.

My mother, the absolute center of my life, is dying. I am her caregiver.

Her congestive heart failure has finally reached the final stage and she is not going to get better. In fact it feels like she is sinking a little further every day.

A week ago the swelling in her legs and feet became so severe that she collapsed on the back steps when we tried to leave the house to go for a drive.  I ran from neighbor to neighbor and was ready to call the police when a neighbor finally came running to help.

Since then she has been forced to use her wheelchair to get from place to place.  We don’t have a ramp yet so that means she’s stuck in the house – not a pleasant thing when you’re a woman who prizes independence above all.

When they told me she was dying I thought, “well you just don’t know my mom.  She isn’t going to die now – she’ll be 93 in August and we’re all planning on her getting to one hundred.”

My mom did what she always does.  She opened her mouth and spoke her truth – she told them all to just shut up.  She wasn’t interested in talking about dying, she wanted to talk about living.  If they wanted to talk about living they could stay, otherwise she wished they would just leave.  It was a definite room clearer.

Yesterday mom told me that she sees her mother and has been seeing her for several days.  My grandmother doesn’t say anything, she’s just there.  Mom thinks she sees other people too but the go so quickly she can’t identify anyone.

I guess it’s not surprising that my grandmother would want to watch over her daughter and to comfort her.  I hope she’s loving me too and that she’s pleased with the care I’m giving her baby.

It should be fairly obvious that working in bed is one of the advantages of working from home but I swear to god that over the last five years I never once thought of it.

I mean I write my columns and my blog in bed during the wee hours of the morning but that’s not actually work because well, I don’t know why – it just isn’t.

Now the attractions of working in bed are numerous.  There’s my down comforter and it does actually comfort me – it’s warm, soft, airy – it’s just absolutely perfect.  Then there are the down pillows that cradle my back while I read or write.

There’s a bedside table for my drink and since my bed is big there’s the advantage of being able to have like 20 books all within arm’s reach.

Of course the big bonus of working from bed is that I can nap when I get sleepy without having to take responsibility for deciding to take a nap – I can just sort of nod off with no guilt involved.

Now why did I say guilt in the same sentence with sleep?  I’ll tell you why – everyone knows that naps are for lazy people and anyone who naps after age six has some powerful ‘splaining to do.  And the person who gets up at 6:00 has more stars in their crown than the ne’er-do-well who sleeps in until 8:00 or, heaven forbid, 9:00.

I mean for a nation that talks non-stop about taking care of our bodies we can lay on some abuse when they get sleepy.   We slap ‘em, throw cold water on ‘em, pinch ‘em, and if all attempts to stay awake fail we say terrible things to ourselves after we wake up.

Lazy, good-for-nothing day sleeper!  Bad, bad, bad!

So considering the guilt trip we lay on ourselves about sleeping here’s one of the best ideas I’ve heard lately.  My daughter Elizabeth and her husband Emmet declared their house a “guilt-free sleep zone.”  Just think for a minute about the freedom that brings.

I was talking to Elizabeth this afternoon and she said she had to go because they were taking a family nap.  Doesn’t that sound like heaven?  A family nap and they were happy to be able to do it – no guilt, go accusations of laziness, just joy and sleepy heads.

So here’s some advice.  For god’s sake go to bed.  Take a nap, read, work, snuggle with the dog, play with your toddler, write in your journal, have sex, count your toes.  It’ll do you good and when you’re good – well, the world’s just a better place.

I was 48 years old when I got “the best kiss of my life” and I want to say here and now that I am eternally grateful for it.  I could have gone my entire life without a kiss like that.  Some people do.

Now it wouldn’t be correct to say that I haven’t had any good kisses since “the best kiss,” but I have to tell the truth and the fact is that there’s a butt load of bad kissers out there.

So what makes a kiss, “the best kiss of your life?”  For research I turned to the experts, my girlfriends. You know what they wanted to talk about don’t you?  Yep, the worst kiss of their lives.  And I bet you already know what makes a kiss BAD – too much tongue.

One person described a kiss she got in college that still makes her shudder.  I thought she was going to throw up before she got the whole story out.  The guy came at her like a fish – you know that open mouthed guppy lips thing – and then kept poking his tongue in and out like one of those little chickens you wind up and its head darts back and forth searching for a seed or a worm or something.  What is heaven’s name made a man think that would make a gal swoon for more?

I have to say that it’s tempting to blame men for all that tongue excess, what with their proclivity to rush things from sensual to sexual in 30 seconds flat but my friends who only kiss women also mentioned the tongue thing.  It’s obvious some tutelage is called for and sense I’m pretty sure I know how to do it right I’m taking on the job.  Listen up brothers and sisters.

So how do you make someone’s toes curl and their knees go weak?  My personal opinion is that anticipation is 90% of the kiss.   My experience is that most guys don’t get this.  They’re in too much of a rush.

I want long, slow kisses that have no place to go – they’re not the appetizers you devour so that you can move along to the main course.  They are the main course.  They are exciting and wonderful and incredibly sensual all by themselves.  And yes, sometimes they progress to wet and hot but that’s the thing – it should be a progression.

How I longed for kisses like that.  Through 30 years of marriage I kept hoping I could get my husband to slow down.  Why don’t men understand that a little tease is better than a full-on assault?  All those tantalizing “corner kisses” and little nips on the lips – well, they’re the secret components that are going to get you everything you want.

So here’s my best kiss story – I figure there’s nothing like an example to help you get the picture.

I met Michael at a community function a few months after my divorce.  I had seen him there before and I remember thinking that he was a good-looking guy,  — good-looking but young.

Honest to god, when he invited me to lunch I thought we were just two people who were new in town trying to connect with another human being. When I realized he had a whole different kind of connection in mind I couldn’t get, “I’m 48” out of my mouth fast enough.  He said he was 30.  Oh my.

A few days later Michael drove me out to see his favorite spot on a local lake, a large outcropping of rocks largely hidden by one of those wonderful old Texas oak trees that spread out in every direction.

As we sat in the shade chunking rocks in the water and talking I’m pretty sure that the thought, “there’s a kiss coming” entered my head at the exact same moment it entered Michael’s.

That’s the thought that set everything into slow motion.  Anticipating the kiss, the lightening ran through my body, my breath began to quicken, my face got ten degrees hotter, and just when I thought I couldn’t stand it another second our lips met.

There it was, that long, slow, deliciously soft kiss.  After years in the romantic wasteland of hurried kisses here was manna from heaven in the form of a 30-year-old man with pillow lips.  Oh my indeed.

So Michael and I dated and broke up, made up and split up.  We did the “just friends thing” and the “just sex thing.”  I even broke my absolute unbreakable ethical rule of dating and cheated on a great guy who was funny and amazing in bed because I just couldn’t stop myself – I was addicted to those kisses.

In the years since Michael I’ve gotten some great kisses and a few “step away from my body now” kisses but nothing has ever come close to “the best kiss of my life”

Now I’m smart enough to know that it’s possible to build something up in your mind so much that it becomes bigger than life so I try to keep that kiss in perspective – just divorced, the excitement of thinking I could kiss anybody I damn well wanted to — but in my heart I know that under that big old Texas oak tree there needs to be a plaque that says, “On this spot Sharon & Michael put their lips together and made the best kiss of their lives.”

Now I could tell a big ‘ole fib and say I’m writing this during the day but you and I both know it’s midnight and I’m sitting here with my computer in my lap.  I’m not technically breaking my resolution though because using my computer to write an actual article doesn’t count – you know, just like eating a Snickers bar doesn’t count if you have a Diet Coke with it.

So before you make your resolutions I wanted to let you know that there are things that count and things that don’t count and, as it turns out, there’s a whole lot of things that don’t count for much.  Here’s my top ten.  Feel free to keep adding to the list.

1. If you’re a knitter you can resolve to not buy any more yarn and still buy cashmere because well, cashmere doesn’t count.
2. If you resolve to lose weight by cutting out snacks you should know that sandwiches don’t count if you eat them over the sink.  Neither does food that you eat out of the pan when you’re cleaning up the dishes.
3. Spreading office gossip absolutely doesn’t count if the person you’re talking about has dated your sister.
4. Two stepping with someone other than your spouse doesn’t count if you don’t tell them your real name.
5. Margaritas don’t count if you drink them alone.
6. This is probably only good in Texas but speeding doesn’t count if there’s a yellow jacket in your car.  When the cop pulls you over just jump out of the car screaming and batting your hair yelling, yellow jacket and any cop worthy of a badge will let you off.  Of course if you’ve been drinking margaritas you should just shut up and pay the fine.
7. Sleeping in when you resolved to get up early and run five miles doesn’t count if you ate a green vegetable the day before or a protein bar wrapped in a picture of a polar bear.
8. Not paying your rent doesn’t count as long as you spent the money on red shoes, even if they hurt your feet, because spending money on red shoes never counts.
9. Stealing valium from your mama doesn’t count if she’s the reason you need it.  Same goes for your child’s Ritalin, your spouse’s muscle relaxant, your dad’s Jack Daniels.
10. Having sex with your ex one more time doesn’t count because everyone does it and it’s never any good anyway.
11. If you resolve to give up television and then spend an entire Saturday watching the Twilight Zone marathon it doesn’t count because some things are just beyond counting.

Okay so that was eleven things instead of ten but it’s totally okay because one of them doesn’t count.

So now that you’ve got a title and maybe even a window you don’t want to trip up and slide back down the ladder even if you do have a mild concussion from bumping your head against that damn glass ceiling.

Now I don’t want to scare you or anything — but, the truth is that it can all fall apart in the splash of a cocktail, the flash of too much cleavage, or asking your boss, “Who’s that doofus in the corner with the comb over?”

That’s right, I’m talking about navigating the minefield called the Company Holiday Party. I’m not saying you shouldn’t go – I mean you have to go – I just want you to know that there are absolutely no do-overs when it comes to making an ass of yourself.

The fact is that the Company notes are written in permanent marker and will remain in the water cooler history book forever. People will pass down the stories of how you drank out of the punchbowl with the ladle, did an imitation of Sarah Palin (well, okay that might be funny,) stood on a chair and sang “I Will Survive,” and how your dress was too damn short and the five-inch heels made you look like a hooker.

I’m telling you careers are ruined over less and girlfriend I really don’t want you to go down in flames or even smoke. I want you to be the amazingly smart, competent, talented, successful, leading-the-way woman that you are. Just remember that when you’re tempted to drink too much and let it all hang out – I mean it’s a good bet that what’s hanging out just shouldn’t be seen in public.

Thank you to the emergency room staff who looked me in the eye when I was the guiltiest and said, “You’ve taken such good care of her.”

Thank you to my friend Courtney who has walked Gracie every afternoon and to Liz, Carl, and Jeffrey who have offered and given so much.  Thank you to my colleagues who are so much more and who offered to make meals and put them in my freezer.  Thank you to my neighbors who surround my mother and me with care.

Thank you to every single person who has sent up a prayer, a wish for health, a meditation, a thought of love.

My mom, who you all know if only from my stories, fell last week and bumped her head.  Just a little bump.  Two days later she became disoriented and couldn’t quite balance herself.  The CT scan revealed a small amount of blood in her brain.  Doctors say that it will dissipate but it will leave behind damaged brain cells.  At the age of 92 my mother will have to learn to walk again.

She will do it.  There is no doubt in my mind.  She has done things that took far more courage than this.  She stayed firm by my brother’s side while he battled liver failure and cancer and never wavered, not even for a moment.  She buried him, her husband, her sister and so many more.  She saved pennies and quarters and dollars for two years to buy a house where it would be safe for me to play.

When she was 86 she sold her house in Fort Worth and moved half-way across the country to make a new home with me in Vermont.   That summer with absolutely no regard for her safety she got in a kayak with me and paddled in circles on Lake Champlain. Her first winter she rolled down the side of a snow covered hill and couldn’t stop laughing. When the lake froze over she held my hand and walked out on the ice even though the cracking was scary and creepy.

My mom is my compass and my beacon.  She’s stubborn, gritty, salty, and spicy hot like Texas chili.  There are foods that only she can make – chicken & dumplings, cornbread dressing, and peach cobbler.  No one else should even try because she’s the best.

So what I want to say is that I love her absolutely and that she is absolutely the best.

It was the night after the wedding of my beautiful daughter Elizabeth and the equally beautiful Emmet at the Kerrville Folk Festival.  The Festival is a surreal thing in and of itself  – the hill country of Texas, 18 days of amazing music, grace-full people, and a loving glow that just kind of settles on you the moment you walk through the front gate.

I’m sure there were many wonderful performers that particular night but I only remember Judy Collins (the Joan Baez connection) because, what with my baby getting married and all, I was kinda nostalgic for the years I spent lying on my bedroom floor with my head under the stereo and the base turned up.

Now Judy was not my absolute favorite folk singer – Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell and Marianne Faithful all had a little more edge to them – but Judy was at the festival and they weren’t.

Truth be told I loved rocker Neil Diamond more than all of them but Neil’s never gonna play on the side of a hill in Texas when he can sell out 50,000 seat stadiums in Australia.

So here I was under the stars surrounded by my daughters, my new son-in-law, his family and lots of hippies swaying to the music when Judy Collins walks out with her guitar and all that hair.

My god, she’s like 70 and she still has all that glorious hair, which now that I think about it makes me feel better about not getting mine cut this summer -  although I’m thinking I might look more like Loretta Lynn than Judy Collins.

Now Kerrville is a really laid back kind of place with benches in front of the stage – no assigned seating and absolutely no security that would even think of keeping you from moving up closer to the stage.  So I’m inching closer and closer until I’m having a group hug & sway with about 10 other fans right next to the stage when I thought, I bet I could just sit on the stage!

What the hell was I thinking?  I mean I would never even think of sitting on any stage that Neil was occupying, but I don’t know it just kinda seemed like it was okay – not just okay – it seemed right, like I was supposed to be on that stage.

I’m not quite sure but I think I walked up the stairs on the side of the stage and took about 10 steps toward Judy and sat down. I mean I know that’s where I wound up, I’m just not completely sure how I got there!

So I sat there for her whole set and two encores – you do know that encores are planned out ahead of time don’t you?  I worked on the stage crew at another festival and was devastated to find out that all the clapping and glowing lighters don’t mean shit.  If the stage director and the lighting person and the sound person don’t know it’s coming it ain’t happening no matter how much you clap.

After Judy’s set I couldn’t wait to get to my daughters and tell them about how I got to literally sit at her feet – I mean I was almost breathless with the absolute wonder of it.

You know what?  They didn’t even know who she was!  I mean they knew who she was but they didn’t know who she was to me and every other woman who bought Wildflowers and laid on the floor with her head under the stereo – and even when I told them they were like, Yeah . . . that’s nice mom.

I guess every generation knows thing that the generations that came before and will come after just simply don’t know.  I mean I still don’t understand what the big deal was about Kurt Cobain other than he committed suicide.

Then there’s my mama, who when Pete Seeger walked on stage during his birthday bash, turned to me and asked, Well who is that old man?

Sharon