Posted in Creations, Memes & Miscellanea

Salami Mommy

It started like so many other creative endeavors before it, with a seemingly innocuous and unsuspecting seed: my depleted iPod battery. But in all actuality, that dead iPod battery was the sapling of a seed planted before my dead battery. Scott, my loving yet sometimes spacey hubby, had previously borrowed my iPod cable (without my permission, mind you). So, I can safely say that this particular creative endeavor started not because of my dead iPod battery, but because of Scott’s dead iPod battery, and my inability to reconstruct his cryptic thinking patterns in order to determine where he would “return” my iPod cable to, because he definitely did not return it to where he got it from, that being my desk. To him, this was not a big deal because his iPod is not his lifeline to sanity on his morning commute, but to me this was an immensely ginormous deal because sans iPod, my morning commute is a hellish blur of overly loud radio commercials interspersed with the occasional song that I, most likely, don’t care to hear in the first place.

And so it came to pass last week that I found myself prisoner in my own car, with a very dead iPod, on the verge of hysteria, frantically flipping through radio stations. I suppose one could ask why I don’t simply drive in silence, and I would, except every time I use the radio I hold out a small nugget of naive hope that I might actually hear something new that’s worth hearing. This is invariably not the case. Either I hear the same old song over and over, or I hear mind-numbing pop ditties that rely on overly simplistic melody structures and vapid lyrics.

To prove the first case, radio producers believe that every group in the history of music has written only two songs. For instance, in the annals of radio history, CSN only wrote two songs, “Suite:  Judy Blue Eyes” and “Our House.” While I love singing harmony with Crosby during his closing freestyle in the former song, I absolutely can not stand the uber-syrup in the latter song. And if I may be so bold as to make a request to all radio stations across this country, “Helpless” and “Helplessly Hoping” are not the same song, and both are far superior in harmony and melody to “Our House.”  Just saying. As a result of radio’s tunnel vision, I never hear a CSN (and sometimes Y) song over the airwaves, aside from the two that radio programmers deem appropriate for mass consumption.

To prove the second case, I present you with “Konichiwa Bitches” by Robyn, which I stumbled upon on that fateful morning commute. It was so bad I couldn’t turn the station. It was like listening to a horrendous train wreck; the aural carnage was so intense that I couldn’t turn away. The lyrics were insipid, shallow, and pointless. Robyn’s voice reminded me of a whiny 6-year-old I once observed throwing a tantrum at Target. The melody had the simplistic feel of a nursery rhyme. I have to say that the song was simply awful. It was so bad that I googled it when I got to my desk at work, because I knew it was blogworthy. How this garbage makes it onto the radio is beyond me.

At any rate, it was on this iPodless commute that I flipped past the classic rock station and heard Grace Slick of Jefferson Airplane reminding me thrice what the dormouse said, “Feed your head. Feed your head. Feed your head.” (Per the aforementioned commercial radio history theory, Jefferson Airplane apparently wrote only two songs, “White Rabbit” and “Somebody to Love.”) This is the exact moment that inspiration began to blossom.

As of late, my fingers have been itching for something to create. I wasn’t sure how these cravings would manifest, but I was leaning toward creating another goddess. My last goddess was a birthday present for my dear friend Joanna, and it had been three months since her birthday. When I heard, “Feed your head,” I had an inkling of an idea for an artistic medium that I have never tried before. Why not feed my head, my fingers, my spirit, and my belly? Why not make a goddess from food?”

And thus my newest goddess was created, Salami Mommy. She was finely crafted from salami, pumpkin guts, green onions, pumpkin seeds, garlic, sautéed broccoli, and avocado skin.

I have come to learn that food is not the easiest medium with which to work. It is nuanced and difficult, because it requires accommodating components forged and formed by nature herself, which, of course, is quite fitting given the goddess subject. And may I say that as far as first tries go, Salami Mommy is a successful. Devouring her was also a treat. You can’t beat eating a holy goddess made of delightfully yummy salami. You can’t beat consuming your own artwork either. Truly, goddess food is an art form that works on so many levels. It satiates the drive to create, the search for spiritualism, and the hunger that lurks within the tummy.

And you know how these things go, one domino of creativity tips and a long string of successive dominos follows. Currently, I’m halfway through composing a song to Salami Mommy. The lyrics are all but hammered out and post-edited. The chord progression is coming along rather quickly, too. If there is any demand, I’ll be sure to upload it and post it for your enjoyment.

Now that I’ve dabbled, I can’t wait to attempt other yummy goddesses. I want to attempt some sweet dessert goddesses and some wonderful cheese goddesses. I have to say that food as medium is a multidimensional means of artistic expression. Veggies, fruits, meats, dairy, grains, berries, et cetera, provide so many different options. My eventual grand scheme is to host a dinner party where every dish served, from appetizer through dessert, is goddess food.

And in the end, Salami Mommy can give thanks to Scott’s dead iPod, without which I would not have found myself inspired in this manner.

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**Also, check back here Monday for a special pre-Election Day post.**

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Author:

I've been doing some form of creative writing since 9th grade, and have been a blogger since 2003. Like most bloggers, I've quit blogging multiple times. But the words always come back, asking to be written down, and they pester me if I don't. So here we are. Thanks for reading.

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