I’m talking about my period today, men, so either click here for some masculine relief, or get ready to Purell your eyes. You can’t unread it. I’m giving you ample warning about this. Don’t come crying to me about any lost boyhood innocence—it’s not my fault you ditched the family living class in fifth grade. I’ll wait while you pack up your penis and skedaddle. No, really.
Hold on, let me smell if they’re still here. Nope. I don’t detect any beef, cheese or feet. I think we’re good.
Now that we have this post to ourselves, girls, relax. The discussion of my monthly visitor will not be directed by Dario Argento (which is an amazing reference—just ask the four people that got it), but I didn’t want to give those recently-departed assholes the smug satisfaction of being somewhat right. Whenever a woman is standoffish, men always retreat to the tired “it must be that time of the month.” Even though my eyes roll at that, it’s sadly true of me. I pride myself on being a reasonable woman. I try not to run on, react with or feed into emotion. Yet, every month (like clockwork, go figure), I succumb to what I’ve coined my Blackness. This is when all my ovulatory hormones decide to punish me for going unused, and twist me into a bloated ball of stabby goodness. It lasts for a single, don’t-fuck-with-me day, and serves as the precursor to the main event—I’d call it the red carpet ceremony, but that is the main event.
Here’s a story. Shortly after leaving my ex, I took the clown spawn to Pat & Oscar’s (now O’s American Kitchen) for some comfort food; as I sure as hell wasn’t cooking on this particularly Black evening. All the elements were against me—the stress of being newly single, the fragility of kids adjusting, etc.—and the slightest annoyance was going to switch my factory presets to kill. Alas, the restaurant had changed its menu. My favorite whole-roasted chicken meal was no longer there. But it was there last time. And every time before. And was the reason for going. That poor GED hopeful I took it out on. The things I screamed, the places I said he could shove that new menu. I don’t even remember all the details, I just remember waking up. Several years and some soul-searching later… yeah, I can safely say it was my finest moment.
And, shit, now I just want some Pat & Oscar’s.
Spinach Risotto & Italian Sausage
- 1 1/2 cups Arborio rice
- 4 tbsp butter
- 2 tbsp olive oil
- 1 shallot, minced
- 1 medium onion, diced
- 1 tsp garlic, minced
- 4 cups chicken broth (more or less)
- 2 cups fresh spinach, chopped
- 1/2 cup grated parmesan
- 1 tsp dried basil
- salt & pepper
- 5 Italian sausages
Melt butter with olive oil in medium sauce pan. Add shallot, onion and garlic, cooking until just starting to soften. Stir in rice and saute for 1–2 minutes. Add 1 cup chicken broth and simmer over medium-low heat, stirring often, until liquid is absorbed. Add liquid 1/2 cup at a time, stirring until absorbed after each addition. The entire cooking process should take 20–30 minutes. When rice is almost cooked through, add spinach, parmesan, basil and salt and pepper (to taste). While rice is cooking, place sausages in a frying pan, top with 1 cup water, cover and simmer until all the water has evaporated. Continue browning for a few minutes stirring occasionally. Serve risotto topped with sliced sausage.
What prompted such a crass topic? My nine-year-old is developing early, and while The Talk is still a few years away, her hormones are starting to communicate with mine. As such, she gets to share momma’s Blackness and become every bit the rainbow of kitten-giggling sunshine I do. The boys in this house better play nice, lest we clip them at the tip with a broken ashtray. True fact.
TWTG says, “I’m a well-educated drunk.”