Friday, June 14, 2013

The Truth


(from Twisted But Half True Lore’s And Tales)
Robin Hilsinger-Christensen

Pig Brother One, studied his blueprints.
The wire and mortar enough for a new fence.
Surround the home, humble, but strong as an ox,
Safety assured, more than Fort Knox.

Pig Brother Two, he patted his snout,
Pig Brother Three, said, “One; what a lout!”
Fumbling, peculiar, tapping his ear,
Was Brother One serious?  Was there something to fear?

It happened one Tuesday when lounging around,
That Samuel B. Wolf, came ambling, no sound.
Sam sleeked ‘round corners and slunk to and fro,
His stomach was growling and churning like dough.
The only solution kept haunting his mind,
Pig Brothers, all four, what a marvelous find.

With one chomp on Four, he drug him away,
And never again, would Four’s voice have a say.
Brothers' Three, all we’ve heard and only we've known,
Since Four, he was murdered, with nary a groan.
His hide it was skinned, and his bones were fried deep,
Wolf basted and barbequed the boar. What a creep.

Brother One, he kept working while his siblings kept play,
No worries of Four, he’d be back some day…
One, shouted with warning, with each brick he kept score,
“You better start building lest you want Sam B. Wolf at your door!

Days had gone by and brick turned to walls.
One's home proved quite strong, and ready for calls.
But his brothers, Two and Three, kept dancing their jigs,
There homes slapped together made for weak and wobbly digs.

What stupid little pigs.
One’s fireplace was stoked, the Dutch oven, it hung
His home, unpretentious, decorated fung-shung.
Pig Two and Pig Three unable to jostle,
Danced and jigged, until they grew docile.

But around the bend, upon the hill, north,
Samuel B. Wolf made his move steady forth.
With chops now all gone, and licking of lips,
Samuel B. Wolf was ready for nips.

To knock on Two’s door was only polite,
But making his point, showed teeth to bring fright.
“Pig Two, my man, kind soul, thoughtful friend,
Open your door and let me come in!”

Two, now worried that he shunned instruction from One,
Scurried to close curtain and drape, light from the sun.
Instructions from One: “In the Event of” lay torn,
What did it say? What did it warn?

“Pig Two!” Hollered Wolf with a huff and a puff,
Invitation for dinner I hold in my cuff.
An ale we’ll share from my own private brew,
Carrots, potatoes, my gourmet simmered stew.
I – We will lounge after dinner with drink in my – our hands,
A Toast to all pigs ROASTED and BROASTED and PACKED IN TIN CANS!

Brother Two in a panic burst through the back door,
Not a minute too soon as his house turned to floor.
Like never before did he run like the wind,
And pounding, Two squealed! “Brother Three! Let me come in!”

“Samuel B. Wolf just paid me a visit.
He intends to skewer my ham! Baste it, exquisite!
His freezer is empty and needs to be filled,
That Wolf, he is horrid, Brother Four he did killed.”

In his office, askew, Brother Three found instruction,
“Says here Brother Two, we need better construction.”
Samuel B. Wolf could be seen rounding the ben,
“Quickly!” Three shouted, “To the smarter of kin!
Run now don’t saunter, run like before,
He’s huffing and puffing! My house! Soon no more!”

Samuel B. Wolf stood, blew into cupped hands,
His plan it was working. Even seasoned his pans.
With all Pig Brothers in one sound location,
Butchery and prep work, a perfect cook station.

Standing on rubble of once cozy room,
Samuel B. Wolf could hear cries of pig-doom.
“Wolf, he did puff and he huffed,” they did scream,
“‘till dust is all left, a nightmare from dream.
Tell us you said so, we’ll sleep on the floor!
Remember, we’re brothers, please, open your door!”

Brother One with a smirk, but ego none he,
Let Brother Two in, and then Brother Three.
The table was set and the dishes shone clean,
The look on One’s face was serious and mean.

A shovel, a hoe, a spatula, a knife,
“Brother Two, Brother Three, choose without strife.
Generations of terror, of fighting and discord,
More wrangling and killing, we cannot afford.”

Wolf he did huff, and puffed in full passion,
But Brother One’s home, held up in good fashion.
“A wrath” said in anger, “I bring to this home!
Now let me inside or I’ll crash through your dome!”

Pig One, he did answer and opened the door,
Which stunned the Pig Brothers’, Sam Wolf, even more.
“What is this you pork chop, you sausage, glazed ham!
You think you can trick me? Remember, I can!
My pans are all seasoned, my grill, it is ready,
You think you can fool me, throw me off steady?”

“Enter,” One instructed and gestured with curtsy,
Our fare, there is plenty and prepared without mercy,
With Wolf tartar, and canine sweet feet,
We’re ready for company. We saved you a seat.

Samuel B. Wolf ranted and cursed!
“Don’t worry said One. We’ll let you pick first.”
His plan it was working, Wolf bullied no more.
That swine! Why did he open it? I can’t blow down that door!

Wolf’s pride was broken, he sunk in defeat,
To home on the mountain, without any meat.
His days of baked ham, cinnamon and clove,
Were forever behind him, no need for a stove.

Nary a word and years had gone by,
When Brother One’s son came strolling, a nigh.
He smiled. His eyes twinkled, but not smart like his dad,
His uncles, he took after, poor little lad.

Her coat, silver-silky, her shape, ooh, voluptuous,
Oh, to know her… the thought, it scrumptious.
Wolf’s daughter, he noticed, she gave him wink.
He rubbed his snout charming, She likes me, I think…

Tuesday, May 31, 2011


  So I was lounging next to the pool. Something had changed. My primary objective was to relax, but how could I entertain the exquisite when something was amiss. For a second, dismissal for investigation strengthened with a sip of my Pinot Gris, but even the tang of citrus and floral mid-palate complexity couldn’t kick what was haunting me.
             Examination of every detail was perused with scrutiny. The flagstone path was sparkling clean. The brilliance of our newly installed glass and Copper etched doors with soft patterns of Hopi art was an artists dream. The investment, I reflected, was worth every saved penny.
             The water, as usual, beckoned me to test its cool solution: the perfect mix of muriatic acid chased with a dash of salt. All Cacti was shaded perfectly by fanning tentacles of swaying Queen Palms. Even the cruxy ebb and flow from the waterfall poured with perfection. But curiosity kept nagging me. Something didn’t fit.  So what was it? My questioning mind would not let it go, so trusting my intuition, I allowed my toes to fan the water. Briefly. It wasn’t that . . . With libation safe on tabletop, I probed further and with a rocking to and fro, I took notice that all Periwinkles, Lavender sage and Black-eye Susan’s that swayed in Earth’s harmony, still, an anomaly persisted. I gave up and splintered my stubborn in half. “Do you notice anything different back here?”
             My man surveyed carefully. Using his index finger he tapped his chin twice so as to project his concern. “Nope.” Then with water container in hand he disappeared into the bloom. Somewhat satisfied that my answer lay in more celebration, I resigned myself to another glass of glory.
             Meandering methodically toward the house, I was visited by memory of lore that says that once one lets go of tribulation, answers will roll in like thunder; and in that second folklore turned to reality. Like a flash of a camera, my Beach-babe-self ceased to exist! I could not escape that the roll that had resonated around my mid-drift, while the thunder had planted itself firmly on my thighs!
             So what was amiss?
             Nothing really . . .  I’m told.
             So what if my bod is no longer fit for poolside entertainment!
             I can still swim.
            And I can swim really fast.
            Damn those doors!

Friday, May 6, 2011



I first discovered chocolate mousse at Edward’s Mansion Restaurant located (once upon a time) in Redlands, California. You couldn’t miss it. It was an old Victorian style three story complete with a Widow’s Walk. It sat about 500 yards off the I-10 out in the middle of nowhere. The menu, with no surprise, was as detailed and quaint as the old house. I wasn’t that hungry, so I decided on dessert. Chocolate Mousse . . . Need I say more? Yes. I do. I need to say more . . . It was the most perfect chocolate I had ever tasted. It was dark with a bit of a bite and velvet creamy. The chocolate was rich and full flavored. Yep, I heard Heaven.
I realized the following day that the perfect mousse in the world lay in wait for me almost four torturous hours away, and being a frugal sort at the time, more trips up the road was not a solution to my problem, so into the kitchen I went . . . for days . . . and weeks, until . . . Violá!
Robin C’s Dark-Dark Chocolate Mousse (Without)
Ingredients for Six 4-6oz. serving sizes:
2 cups chilled heavy whipping crème
1 pasteurized egg white
1/2 cup (or to taste) Dark Chocolate Cocoa Powder
3 Tbsp raw sugar (or to taste – some will need more sweet)
1 tsp. Vanilla
2 Tbsp. butter
Heat butter in microwave until it is melted (usually no more that 35 seconds)
Use a whisk or blend electrically (very low speed) heavy whipping crème, and  pasteurized egg white, until fluffy. Using a rubber spatula, fold in vanilla, sugar, and melted butter into fluffy mixture. Add cocoa until the batter is moist and blended.
Portion mousse into glass serving dishes.
Garnish with mint leaf or shaved white chocolate pieces
Chill (refrigerator is fine) until ready to serve.

Robin C’s Dark-Dark Chocolate Mousse (With)
Follow the above directions; however, increase cocoa to ¾ cup
Flavor with your choice (or use in combination) Amaretto or Grand Marnier.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

A Classic Retelling

And when

she stood before it, grand, majestic, like a story told, and open just a sliver, she peaked.


Her boot,

fashioned and perfect fit, rested against it, tapped, then wedged, then acted without foot, and leaned against it, pretending invitation.


Entering now

where permission not lay, the locks-headed girl called in whisper, Is anyone home?


Beginning inspection

of table adorned in linen, white, china, gold trimmed, etched crystal, candlesticks, silver, she spied berries and took it as summons.


Sent from Heaven

wafting, steaming, hovering, three kettles. With raise of each cap and dip of golden spoon, she dreamed

then tasted.


Too hot

was the first pot with girth that matched her craving, while the second, just slightly smaller, was too cold.

But the tiny pot, fired with whimsy, held promise.


Appetites satisfied

invite contemplation and to her delight, Locks found that her answer was held in cushions, fastened, puckered, brocade, and each piece with its ornament stood in grand fashion.


The King’s chair

grand in stature revealed imposture. It was too hard. The Queen’s chair, however, more fitting her style,

implored to conceal her. It was too soft. But one chair, the petite, whispered dew-spot petals and morning spring…Until it broke.


Collecting her pride,

but ready to leave not, interest found her atop a spiral. Still knowing her crime, but blaming those who failed to latch,she explored nevertheless.


She entered

a chamber of sleep, which held in it, beds: one large, knotty pine, one medium, with canopy, and one small,

embossed and engraved.


The largest

ruffled in twill and still telling story, was so giant she almost not dare.

It was too hard.


The second,

a cot in ribbon and fluff, proved dangerous. It was too soft.


But the cradle,

delicate, cordial and fitted to her stature,

embraced her and soon she fell into sleep.


Like dreams

that make wonder Locks slipped from reality, and imagined faint voices were those of servants to report for duty.


And when the Bears’ three,

spied signs of intrusion, doors open, dishes washed, chairs broken, they crept upstairs where they found

quilts tussled, pillows tossed, and the golden locks girl asleep.



still in dream stirred, and yet in knowing envisioned a mutinous set by those whose purpose was to wait upon her.


But like a sweet dream

that twists into nightmare, hers grew into reality. And now with yawn and stretch and circle of wrists her eyes, cerulean, revealed themselves to those that crouched around her.


And the Bears’

those three, insulted by intrusion, lay bare their teeth, quiver of lips, and wide stone eyes.



gigantic, huge, and spongy, nudged toward her, nearing her condition with implication of harm.


And then Locks

in subconscious action, leapt from broken slumber not even feeling the clutch of curls pulled from her head.


With sunsets behind her,

and many moons ahead, she stood before it grand, majestic, like a story told, open just a sliver, and she knocked.


Sunday, August 8, 2010


I caught my son in prayer,
perhaps giving thanks for the meal he was about to partake in.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Saturday, May 29, 2010


“Now see, amor, with patience we are there.” Or were we? As I listened to Joe in conversation with the cashier, it became apparent that something was wrong. Body language betrayed the woman as she kept shaking her head as she curled her lips inside her mouth. Very concerned I asked Joe what was happening. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, and now with even more confusion, it was difficult to dicipher. Without thinking I left my seat, and coveted post as pillow, but not without noticing how my half sleeping friend timbered in to the lap of my other compadre. I enquired again about our travel plans, when as if by design, a suggestion was offered to me by way of a tug on my braid.

“What you say es Que Pasa? That is what you mean to say... Que Pasa?” Beside me stood a boy about 9 years of age holding a hanger dangling small leather purses and belts. A strap around his neck was latched to a tray that rested against his torso. It was stocked with gum, candy and chips. He looked just like one of those cigarette girls in a 1950’s movie, only his face was smudged and his sweaty clothes were somewhat tattered. His head adorned a glittering blue and gold sombrero, one that any tourist would die for, and he was almost barefoot as his roped sandals were worn and fraid. “You will not be train traveling today. No more tickets, so you ride the bus. I know where lunch is.”

“The bus?” I was about to enquire more, but my attention was diverted away from the boy, as I was pushed a few inches closer to Joe by an irritable crowd still waiting to be told sold-out. He and the cashier continued to exchanged words that I understood little of; however, discontent and exasperation about to flood away from each one's brow, made interpretation easy.

“We had reservations!” Joe said in English eyeing the cashier. I could only guess what he said turning toward my direction because whatever it was, it was all in Spanish. The woman rattled off something more. Joe was obviously distressed but being considerate, he continued to do his best to include me in the conversation as did the boy who was still standing next to me. “The only seats left are for passengers boarding in Hermasio. I offered to pay more, even for regular seats. She keeps saying that first class is filled and they won’t sell anymore seats because they have other passengers to pick up down route.”

“In Hemosillo...” I replied. “We had reservations. Did you tell her that?” Joe, who was clearly exhausted and feathering both hands through his hair, shrugged and nodded a pitiful yes.

“All the people paid the money for da tickets before you husband.” I looked at the kid, tried not to sneer, thanked him, then handed him a couple quarters and actually heard a Beat it Kid! come out of my mouth. But he didn’t leave. “Ah,” he said, “this is good, but where I take you for lunch, we will need more.”

“Why are you making friends?” Joe asked. Before I could defend myself, he had already turned his attention back to the cashier. “Isn’t there anything... I mean...” then corrected his language to continue in Spanish. A quick 9 seconds later in attempt to interpret, he told me everything he knew still using Spanish, then back toward the cashier, “I know you are - then back to me, Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, back to her with English, English, English, but not before he ended with, “Oh Dios mio!” with both hands back in his hair squeezing his head as if trying to remove it.

I couldn’t help myself. I just had to... “Oh my gosh...I’m starring in an episode of the I Love Lucy show. Tell me again, Ricky Ricardo!” I chuckled, but Joe clearly was not amused, turned back toward the stubborn ticket-taker.

“Oh jes! That is me! Ricardo. Mi nombre es Ricardo.” the little boy piped as he lurched for my suitcase. “Lucy, I take care of you and Ricardo, my friends, one of my same name.”

“I’m not Lucy, my name is Peri and he’s Joe. Leave, now.” I said through gritted teeth turning away from the kid for the 75th time.

“Ricardo. Ricardo. I am Ricardo just like you friend,” and then he bowed. I was a sucker. I just had too...

“What friend?” I replied.

“You friend, Lucy-Perita, you, the lady with Ricardo!”

“We’re not friends - I mean - look... Ricardo, we're busy. I’m not going to purchase any more of your lovely items. I am not a customer anymore. Get going now. Shew!” I jestured waving my hand.

“That is right. You was customer, now you my friend.”

Trying to listen to Joe and the clerk, while trying not to listen to the kid, I let down my guard. “Ok.” I said. “I’ll buy that small purse,” I said pointing not to any one in particular, “but then you have to leave. We are busy here.” I started digging through my shoulder bag, around everything I didn't need, but packed anyway, when I found my coin purse, snapped it open and handed the kid a dollar.

“Ah. That one, she is brown so you will need this one.” I practiced patience while the little salesman untangled a turqouise and black change purse, definately something else to die for, thanked him, and then quickly turned my back with another jesture shewing him away.

“But Lucy-Perita, you man,” I heard coming from behind me.

"My friend to you, I am -"

"I know, I know, Ricardo. Ricardo, you must simply go somewhere else now. Not here. Beside, you are losing business."

"Jes! Somewhere else, and that is why I take you to the bus. The bus, he is somewhere else away from the train. I take you there and you will have lunch, and soon you will bus travel to Guadalajara." Who did this kid think he was? A fortune teller? I was about to thump the little guy when Joe turned to me in surrender and defeat.

"So, what are we doing?" I asked softly.

"Yes, Senior, Que Pasa? but I know what to do. I take you to the bus and you will be okay. Your lady, she is hungry."

Monday, January 4, 2010


And I found it. My return to Yuma commenced with conniption and mantra of I can't believe this is happening to me! Through clenched teeth and an occasional whack at my steering wheel, I trudged forward weaving thoughts of temporary, temporary. It was 11:45 p.m. when my brand new jalopy rolled itself onto the driveway. With little pondering of my situation, I was ready to market my plan of short vacation before moving on to greener pastures, especially since the only green pastures in Yuma were man made to feed the world.
As I was readying to leave my stuck-to-my-sticky-back seat, my mother, my grandparents, and my brother, surprisingly rounded the walkway to load into the Cadillac for Bullhead City. Being that it was mid August, the plan of a midnight run came into fruition with the discovery of a smoking air conditioner, and the part needed was still three shipping days away. The trip was hot (and the hot never ended), which furthered my case for getting the heck out of Yuma, again. But I would need a job first... a temporary job... first...Leaving Bullhead City, was ventured in fashion, as before, departing just before midnight. As the sun broke, I wasted no time looking for temporary work, and I found it. In fact it was a place I visited before, only previously it wasn't a restaurant.

The Garden Cafe is much as it was during the early 1980's. I can readily say that it is one of Yuma's finest and original patio restaurant. Guests are in for a treat as they dine on delicious gourmet breakfast, lunch and desserts, surrounded by l
ush trees, blooming flowers, and an aviary that is home to generations of doves and cockatiels. While customers dine in the presence of history, one would never guess that the old grounds keeper's home that sits charmingly among ribbon filled trees, now serves as storage for the restaurant.

Nature's Way, as it was called then, became my piece of Heaven in the desert for almost four years. Tips were adequate if not good, but on those rare occasions when too little filled my pocket, the beauty and paradise of what I had privilege to that day, filled a permanent place in my heart.