My blog buddy, Zoe, is a food nazi. She has more rules than you could ever keep track of in your head concerning food, like it mustn’t touch other foods on the plate. I would probably be over stressed if I had to feed a person like her, although I would do it, because I love her. But I’d still make fun of her.

I determined early on with Ass Burger Boy that some foods, like sugar, are actually drugs in disguise. It really wasn’t easy doing research in a small town library (before the internet) when he was little, but my own observations underlined any information I gleaned about the Feingold diet. I noticed when he was very young that ketchup would make his ears turn red, and his behaviour got really out of whack. Or it was whack. Whatev.

People often wondered how I managed to raise him single-handedly with his different abilities, and really, he was a total treat. With a healthy, non-processed, no sugar diet, he was so happy and adorable that I was truly blessed. And eat? Boy, did that chile love him some grub! Anything I made him, he would chow down on with satisfied, happy noises.

How adorable was he? He’s not eating there, but he looks like he’s reaching for food. Work with me, people.

He had his first soda pop when he was nine, and promptly threw it up. And no, it wasn’t me who gave it to him, although I recognized that as he got older, his body was better able to process food-drugs. My attitude was why mess with success?

His only real food quirk is that he cannot bear to waste it. So the only clue I got that he preferred not to eat some foods is that they would languish in the fridge.

Now that he is almost twenty-five years old, I finally learn that tomatoes and spinach are not his faves. Two foods that I always have in abundance. Heh. You coulda said something, son. I don’t go on strike because you don’t like something.

Pizza and wine with Warrior Woman are not on the agenda for the foreseeable future. She has determined that she is allergy testing herself for gluten and alcohol. And potatoes. Yes, I still have some of the fifty pound bag of potatoes left. We’ve had them baked, mashed, roasted, scalloped, everything but deep-fried. But I figure I can make a meal that she can eat without all her no-nos.

And the pizza? All the more for ABB. He likes my pizza just fine.

Friday wine and pizza gets me spinning yarns to Warrior Woman, and she, in her own enlightened state, enthuses “That is a good story for your blog!” Here’s one.

Back in the day of my irresponsible hawtiliciousness, I received a call from Sleazy Collection Agency, wanting me to pay a bill. When they discovered that I was between jobs, because, seriously, people, all that partying interfered with my work life, they offered me a position in their sales department.

The first thing they did was rip up my delinquent account file.

Yes. A stellar company. I also overheard collection agents offering to do the same for lobster fishermen, in exchange for a good scoff of crustaceans.

I knew I was knee-deep in the sleaze, but I got to travel and take clients out to lunch and that made it more like partying and less like work.

They worked on a diary system, so that I had to diarize each account I contacted, list my expenses, and note when the account would be turned over to collection. I made bonuses in addition to salary, and they made bonuses based on mine.

I had some great accounts lined up, and discovered that the big, big, account was headed by a man I went to junior high school with. I had a huge crush on him at the time, and thought it would be nice to tell him that.

Over lunch, I persuaded him to turn over a quarter of a million dollars of outstanding accounts to me and my company.

That’s a nice bonus no matter how you cut it.

The sleazy manager and his slimy assistant were drooling over that account and couldn’t see me collecting the bonus for it, and they came up with the brilliant idea to fire me and collect my bonus in additon to their own.

It was my birthday.

I called up my former classmate, and the larger accounts that were pending, and explained what Sleazy Collection Agency managers were up to.

I asked them if they cared to do business with people who would steal from their employees. Or make them ex-employees so they could steal from them.

Everyone I called withdrew their pending accounts.

Sleazy Collection Agency? Don’t mess with witchypoo.

Especially on her birthday.

Bet you wish you hadn’t destroyed my delinquent account file, huh?

I was sitting down, gathering my thoughts for a post today, and saw a hookey-playing face at my door.

Seems Warrior Woman has a light work load today, and she buggered off to come over here, since she knew I would be home.

So, it looks like I will have to rethink my menu to not include any dairy products (even the tiny amount in a can of cream of chicken soup) because really? I’m all hospitable and fabulous that way.

Okay, Shephard’s Pie it is. I bought 50 lbs of potatoes on sale, and need to use those puppies up. The sack of basmati rice can wait, because it has a longer shelf life.

She brought wine. I’m signing out to avoid that pesky blunk drogging.

And how was your day?

Warrior Woman pimped for me yesterday, bless her heart. She brought me a friend of hers who was very reluctant for a reading, but who came away from it very peaceful and glad she had decided to face her fears.

She brought another friend, who I had met previously, and while I did the reading in my office, the two others concocted food plans for the day. Her food buddy, Red, is a professional cook, and never cooks for Warrior Woman. Instead, she buys a load of food and schleps it over to WW’s apartment, and entrusts it to her excellent care.

Warrior Woman has a fetish for cookbooks, and by that I mean, get your mind out of the gutter, Knudsey. She collects them. She is a most excellent cook. I always look forward to her needing my techy help because she prefaces the request with an invite to dinner. Yum. It gives a whole new delicious meaning to “Will work for food.”

She hasn’t yet been able to replicate my most excellent homemade pizzas though, and it causes her pizza envy, Oh, be quiet, Knudsey.

So whenever she asks me if I have a hankering for my favourite red wine, I start a batch of pizza dough, because I know that’s what she wants for supper. She doesn’t ask directly for anything, rather she offers something first. It’s a funny little dance we do. The dance is funnier with the larger bottle of wine.

There is an art to making cheeseless pizza. (We both have issues). First, the crust must be thin. I use a rolling pin. And multigrain flour. I’m quirky that way. I also throw a few herbs into the dough.

The sauce is nothing special, just your everyday pasta sauce. I saute my onions and garlic before I put them on. I make sure I add herbs and spices to the mixture while it is frying. I use a mixture of ground pork and ground lean beef, suitably fried and spiced, and the thing that makes it so yummy is the sausage. Oh, the sausage. Sun-dried tomato sausage, fried and sliced up ahead of time. A few raw sliced mushrooms, and Bob’s your uncle.

It’s a lot of work to make pizza at casa witchypoo, but I cook a lot of the ingredients ahead of time and freeze them into pizza-sized portions.

It’s practically a tradition now. We only eat pizza when WW visits. If someone else came for pizza, it would feel like we were cheating on her. I guess you could say about me “Will cook for wine.”

For any of you still in school, and under parental care, just cover your eyes now. This information will only lead you on a slippery slope of deception and mayhem.

Backstory: Over appetizers and wine with Warrior Woman, we were telling stories to one another about our younger days. WW interjected frequently about each topic being blog material, but when I told her this one, I ran and wrote it down. I knew I would use it.

I was always a good student. My marks and class participation were good, I enjoyed reading, and I had insight that allowed me to giggle at the naughty bits in some of Shakespeare’s plays. The principal, who also taught senior English, answered my giggles with a huge twinkle in his eye. We were the only two that got it. He also gave me a 100% mark on my senior essay exam, which I think was to discuss imagery and some other stuff in MacBeth.

My mildly amusing but OCD stepmother hated writing excuses to cover absences from school, so I devised a system that made it easier for her. I would write the body of the note, and have her read and sign it.

What she didn’t know was that I never submitted those excuses. Instead, I wrote in my own handwriting my note and forged her signature. Then, when I wanted to jig* school, I could word my own excuse and forge the signature so all submitted excuses looked similar. My handwriting in body of note, forged stepmother’s signature.

Genius.

My brother, Mr.Trick? Not so genius. Or maybe just lazy. He would only forge the note and signature when he was up to no good. I think his girlfriend had introduced him to pot, and maybe he didn’t think things through.

Eventually, the principal noticed the discrepancies in signatures on his notes. Because he only forged when he had to. Doofus. What did my formerly favourite brother do?

He ratted me out.

The principal examined all of my notes, which matched. He didn’t believe rat boy. I wasn’t even called to the office.

Rat boy was so mad that he couldn’t take me down with him. Ungrateful bugger. Serves him right for stealing my idea and executing it sloppily.

*jigging school was the vernacular for playing hookey.