Is THIS The Day I Will Die?

One month ago last night, just four short weeks, a mere twenty-eight days, my life was changed dramatically.  Because it was the first time I ever truly thought I was going to die.

If you know me, you might remember I’ve had many near-death experiences in my almost 48 years on this earth. These include a burst brain aneurysm that left me in a coma for five days, several near misses on my Harley, and a four-car pile up that should have been fatal.

And, there was that time the parachute didn’t open correctly while I was skydiving. Oh, and that fuel explosion on our boat that left me with 2^nd and 3^rd degree burns. And the time we got rufied at a bar and both woke up in jail with no memory. Of course, I'll never forget our close call with the tragic events of 9/11.  

But I can honestly say I still had never really had a moment in all these events where I had time to consciously prepare myself for death. I had never actually thought to myself, “I’m going to die RIGHT NOW.” Contemplating the possibility of dying was always in hindsight, just a mystifying afterthought.

That is, until four weeks ago.

I'm sorry I can’t make this short. I’m a storyteller, and to exorcise my demons I must tell this story the way I experienced it. And it is this:

One month ago, at 11:15 p.m. on Friday, April 17, 2015, my husband, Dick, and I were confronted and attacked at our home by a masked intruder armed with a machete. And that is when I had my first conscious thought that I was going to die.

It started off as an ordinary Friday evening at home. Dick hadn’t been feeling well, so he went to bed about 8:30 p.m. That’s not an unusually early bedtime for him. He works very hard in the tropical heat, and often falls asleep on the couch or goes to bed shortly after having his dinner and a shower.

It’s also not unusual for me to sit up and write, surf the net, or watch TV in the front room for hours after he goes to bed. I’ve always been a night owl, it’s when my brain is most active, and I can’t fall sleep until the wee hours of the night. 

It was about 10:30 p.m. when I heard noises outside, so I grabbed the big Maglite flashlight and went out to look, literally, around the outside.

We live in a rather odd, roundish-octagon-shaped house that sits up on cement stilts. It has sliding glass doors on five of the eight sides of the house, all of which are flanked by louvered glass windows on each side. It also has a covered veranda that wraps around the entire house. And I literally went to look "around" the outside. 

So, I took the big flashlight, and shined it around the veranda, and down to the canal in our back yard, checking the dock to see if maybe someone was trying to steal Nemo, my tiny but beloved little boat. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary and hearing no more noises, I came back in.

A few minutes passed, maybe ten or more, and I heard more noises. Once again, I took the Maglite out and shined it around the other side of the wrap-around verandah. The motion lights had not been set off and I still saw nothing, but our “yard dog” Foxxi did. She growled, and at first raised her hackles, but then immediately dropped her body posture and wagged her tail.

I thought she had just seen a table that had been broken recently by some workmen and was still lying on its side in pieces on the veranda. I didn’t see anything unusual, and she didn’t react strongly, so I didn’t either. My thoughts were that the broken table had startled her, but that she then she realized what it was. I thought it was nothing.

I didn’t know at the time how very wrong I was.

Another ten or fifteen minutes after returning inside, I heard noises for a third time, and what sounded like a grunt or a quiet, gruff voice. But Foxxi was not barking and none of the outside motion lights had been set off, and the sounds seemed to be very close by. And that's when I finally went and woke the hubby up.

Since he hadn’t been feeling well, he had not been sleeping deeply. He said that he thought he had heard something, too. 

This time, we both went back out on the veranda. While Dick took the Maglite downstairs to look around, I smoked a cigarette near the front door, thinking how mad he was going to be at me for waking him up to look around for no reason. Finding nothing amiss downstairs, he started to return up the stairs.

And this is where I should remind everyone that I’ve always been terrified of the dark. I’m always hearing noises that don’t seem right, and sometimes I wake Dick up to check things out. And in every case before now, it’s always been nothing. Always, just me being a scaredy-cat.

I offer that information as the reason why neither one of us thought to grab a weapon, many of which I have hidden strategically throughout the house.

And yes, I AM a freak like that. Look, we live in a small village Belize in Central America, but this isn’t just about that. I did the same in Iowa. See, I know from working in the prison system that terrible things happen to people everywhere. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories, and personally know people who have had horrible things happen--in all parts of the world--who were thankful to escape with their lives to tell the story. I had always hoped to do the same.

After finding nothing, Dick started coming back up. And just as he got to the top of the stairs, I saw a vision that will be burned into my memory for the rest of my life. It was like something out of a Stephen King story.  A man with no face, brandishing a long machete, appeared from around the corner of the house. 

It is an image of terror I will see in my nightmares forever.

The intruder had been hiding on the other side of the verandah the entire time Dick was downstairs and I was standing there, alone and unaware, smoking my cigarette. It was at that moment that I realized Dick and I were also unarmed.

As I watched, in what seemed like slow motion, the intruder moved up to meet my unarmed husband at the top of the stairs with his machete. For a moment, I stood terrified and frozen in my tracks, unable to make a sound or move a muscle.

It was at this moment that the thought hit me, “This could be the day that day we die." 

Events such as this have happened to plenty of others all over the world, and I had no reason to think our story would be any different.

The guy was covered from head to toe. He had an oversized hoodie pulled in a small, tight circle around his face. He had something over his face, like a thin cloth or a mask, so that you couldn’t even see the whites of his eyes, his skin color, or anything distinguishing. He even wore gloves, pants and shoes, not the typical attire for Belize. He had, it seems, put a measure of thought into his plans.

He said not a single word, and didn’t immediately attack, but grunted and gestured, pointing with his machete, indicating that we should both head into the house. As I backed up, fear took over and I broke into a run for the door. At the same time, Dick yelled at me to lock the door. And then Dick turned, and did the unthinkable.

I watched in horror as Dick rushed at the assailant. As I slammed and locked the sliding glass door, I started screaming “CALL THE COPS!!” as loud as I could in hopes that the neighbors would hear. I ran to find my phone and grabbed the first huge knife I could find off the magnetic strip in the nearby kitchen.

Meanwhile, my husband and the assailant were wrestling on the veranda. The only sounds I could hear were from the struggle between the two men, grunts and groans and bodies connecting. If any of our three dogs barked, I never once heard them. I honestly can’t even say where they were during any of this.

By the time I returned to the door with butcher knife in hand, trying to dial the number for the police, the scuffle was already ending. As Dick ran towards the front door, I unlocked it and let him in. The attacker had already turned and ran down the stairs. 

Later, the neighbors told us they heard footsteps running on their dock, and then a splash in the water in the canal behind our houses. There was also a boat that was heard speeding away from the area shortly thereafter, but we’ll probably never know if it was carrying him.

Dick was understandably shaken up, and pumping adrenaline. I was terrified he would be cut up, stabbed, or worse. As I checked him over, we could not believe he was not bleeding from anywhere. He had a couple lumps on his head where the guy had hit him while they grappled with the machete, and a couple scratches, but no serious injuries.

Relief washed over me, as I had been envisioning myself making a panicked, wild drive in the dark on a shitty excuse for a road, to the tiny hospital an hour away. I imagined myself watching as the love of my life bled out in the truck before we reached help.

Thankfully, that was not to be.

Afterwards, Dick told me that when he turned on the assailant, he grabbed the machete by the blade, and all he could think was “thank god it isn’t sharp.” Apparently the assailant had made a dull choice for a weapon. While they struggled over the machete, Dick said he held the blade with one hand while he punched at the perpetrator, and the intruder did the same.

It wasn’t until three days afterwards that we found the thin, almost imperceptible slits in the screens of the windows that flank the sliding doors in the spare bedroom. One was at the exact same height needed to slide a hand in and unlock the sliding glass doors. The other incision was at the lowest part on the other side, where a hand could reach in and pull out the wooden brace placed in the track to prevent the door from being slid open.

We also found out afterwards that the motion light had been unscrewed at some point. We’re still not quite sure when.

Whoever the assailant was, he knew EXACTLY the steps we take to try to protect ourselves from an intrusion. And he knew our dog too. Even more telling was that she knew him as well. She does not let strangers approach the house unannounced. 

If the intruder had not been interrupted, I believe this story may have ended very differently. Who can say?

But late at night, when I’m trying to sleep, it’s all I can think about. And even though we have have installed even more advanced security and alarm systems, and keep our weapons even closer, I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep through the night, or feel safe, again.

And every noise I hear, while I lie awake in our bed at night, begs the question, “Is THIS the day I will die?”

Shit I Made Up - One Pot Pasta - A Party For Your Tummy!

For those of you who read along before I got disillusioned about writing and abandoned this blog, hold onto your hats, I'm changing things up. Yes, again. 

For those of you who don't know me…. brace yourselves. 

You see, I've talked about writing a book about the way I'm learning how to cook. And I've talked about how comical it is that I waited to learn to cook until moving to Belize a few years ago, at the admittedly advanced age of 45.

And yes, I've written parts of the book. And parts of the stories. And parts of the recipes. And I've talked about it in vague terms to several friends who ask what I've been up to. But I haven't let anyone see any of it. 

Til now. 

You, dear reader, are now and in the future officially privileged to be my test kitchen for the anecdotal "cookbook" I'm writing. 

Ok, so it's really more like a hysterical guide to "how to make shit up in the kitchen when you don't even know WHAT the stuff is you're cooking with" -- than a real cookbook. Hence, the title of this anti-cookbook-guide, which will be entitled, "Shit I Made Up." Cuz it mostly is.

Ok, and yes, it's also a sly reference to my dear hubby, who happens to be a fantastic master plumber. And yes, he really does know his shit, unlike me in the kitchen.  

Fair warning for the newbies - in case you haven't noticed, I swear. Sometimes, a lot. It's who I am and it's damn sure a huge part of my attempts at learning to cook. I make no apologies.

So, without further delay, here it is, the first "recipe" I've decided will be included my future "Shit I Made Up" learning-to-cook-book. This “One-Pot Pasta” is a tasty and filling hodgepodge of goodness I made when friends were passing similar recipes around on social media. 

It’s a dish that can stand alone, but also plays well with others as a side dish. I have made it many times so I know it holds up well to substitutions, omissions, and just throwing shit in on the fly. And you can do the same.

The best part of this little "pasta-fiesta for your tummy" is that it’s all made in one pot. Minimal effort. And thank fucking god for that. Seriously. When it’s 100 degrees with 98% humidity in Belize, and you have no air conditioning, who the hell wants to spend hours cooking, and more hours cleaning up tons of pots and pans along the way? Not this bitchy, menopausal, hot mess of a wife.

I don’t want to have to wash any more dishes than necessary. Hey – don’t judge. I don’t have kids, slaves, or trained monkeys to help out. And those tiny little bed-hogging, four-legged soul suckers in fur coats I have lounging around my house all day, they won't lift a furry toe to help... unless it's to lick up some food I inevitably spill on the floor. 

Have you ever stood at the sink with sweat burning your eyes while you’re trying to wash dishes? Then you wipe it away with a soapy hand and now you’ve got both sweat AND dish soap in your eye? And it's always the soap advertising "Extra Bleach!" Yeah. Not my idea of fun. Probably not yours either. So just stick to cooking easy stuff like I do. You'll thank me later.

I guess this serves about four people, depending on how hungry y’all are. And whether your plumber likes shit you make up, and will eat leftovers. My plumber will eat anything and loves leftovers. Personally, I won't touch leftovers. Ever.

At any rate, here’s what ya need, followed by the “how to” for making this shit up. 

4        Large boneless, skinless chicken breasts (optional-see "how to")

1        Large onion – I like white onions, but use whatever kind of onions you like best. Onions are onions.

3-4   Cloves garlic, diced up. Or, just use garlic powder instead. It's like magic. I use that shit all the time.

4-6    Tablespoons of olive oil or more – enough to sauté the onion and garlic. I like a lot of oil. Some people don’t. Do whatever the fuck you want – it’s not gonna make or break this pot of shit you’re making. This is a party for your tummy. Feel free to go wild!   

2         Cups or so of chicken broth, white (or blush) wine, or even just water. Use whatever liquid you have on hand. Seriously. You can even use pink kool-aid. I won’t tell. Oh, and you’ll need another 2 or 3 cups of warm water later.

2       15 oz cans of diced tomatoes. Of course, you can cut your own fresh tomatoes up, but who wants to fuck with all that shit. Tiny little seeds and tomato juice all over your counter. Jeezus Pleezus - what a mess. But hey, it’s your kitchen.

2        4 oz cans of Salsa Casera (or any kind of pre made salsa). I use Salsa Casera on everything, and it's cheap. I'll never make anything I can buy cheaply. If you’re feeling ambitious, feel free to make your own damn salsa and use it. Or, be lazy like me, and just buy cheap salsa. It’s all good. No one will know. Or care.

1       4-6 oz can tomato paste – or more, but only if you want your “sauce” to be a little thicker. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. I’m kinda funky that way.

1       16 oz package linguine. And if you want to use some other fancy-schmancy kind of special pasta, by all means, get DOWN with your bad self! I just prefer linguine and we can almost always get it. But I have heard of people using bowties, macaroni, or just plain old spaghetti. Truth is, this tastes so good, the type of pasta you use really doesn’t matter. So, just make this shit up with whatever you have handy. That's what it's all about. 

1         Large handful fresh basil leaves, cut roughly. We hardly ever get fresh basil here in our village, so I often use a gigantic handful of spinach leaves instead. Tastes good either way. If you’re a kale lover, try kale. Who knows? You might have the next superstar-award-winning recipe! Me, I’d rather die than eat kale.

Finally, the good stuff! How To Make This Shit Up:

First, get your self a good sized spaghetti sized pot, one like you make soup in. I think they call those stock pots, but I don’t really know. But any good sized, deep pot will work. Put it over about medium heat. Don’t ask me what temperature that is - on my stove knobs it's a "5" - so just turn your damn stove knob to roughly “the middle.” 

Put your olive oil in the bottom of the pan, and throw in your diced up onion and garlic- that is, if you’re not too fucking lazy like I sometimes am to cut all that shit up. (*You can use onion and garlic powder if you want, I do it all the time. If so, add that in later with the other seasonings instead of here.)

Saute the onion and garlic until it’s soft, a couple minutes. This will smell so goddamn good. But don’t spoon too much of that good shit into your big fat mouth, or they’ll be none left for the main dish. Once soft, toss your 2 cups of broth, koolaid, wine, or other liquid into the pot. If you are using the boneless chicken boobs, this is where you want to throw them into the pot too. Did I mention this dish is tasty with or without the chicken boobs?

By the way, if you care to know, we don’t even get truly "boneless, skinless" chicken boobs in our village. They come frozen, and yeah, they say “boneless” on the package. But I have YET to get one that didn’t include some kind of bone or disgusting, gristly shoulder joint or something. And feathers. Always at least one feather. Oh, and they are never skinless. 

Photo Credit: Debbie Simorte

Dis-GUST-ing. Before living in Belize, I wouldn’t touch a piece of raw chicken meat with my hands. Now I wrestle that nasty, slimy skin off those chicken boobs and pluck feathers like a badass. I've really progressed so much in three years. I also boil that shit up to feed my little four-legged soul-suckers. They love that crap. But, I digress. Sorry.

So, add your two cups of liquid, and if you’re including chicken boobs lower your temp a little bit or the boobs will get tough. And nobody likes tough boobs. On my stove knobs, that’s about “3”. Let the boobs simmer in the onion, garlic and liquid for a while. Turn once or twice while simmering, but only simmer until they are about ½ to ¾ cooked through, maybe 10 minutes, because they'll continue to cook along with the rest of the shit you're gonna toss in.  

Then it’s time to really get the party started! Dump in your canned tomatoes and juice, the Salsa Casera, the tomato paste, and the linguine. You’ll also want to add about 2-3 more cups of liquid or water at this point. Add any seasonings you want. You can use basil & oregano flakes, salt, pepper, or red pepper flakes, and this is where you can throw in the powdered garlic and onion if you were too lazy to cut up real ones. 

Of course, don’t forget, salt and pepper to taste. I like lots of salt and lots of spices and I like to put lots of shit in my shit --because the plumber and I love really flavorful shit. Sometimes I throw in jalepeno powder or cayenne. Who wants boring shit for dinner? But you don't have to add any spices if you don't want to. It's your party. Be boring if you want to.

Then, crank that heat up to high, on my stovetop that's "10,"  until it starts to boil. You’ll want to stir it a few times while you're waiting for it to boil so the pasta doesn't stick to itself. Once you get it to boil, stir well one more time, and cap a lid on that pot. Turn your heat back down to about 3 or 4, and then just let 'er sit. 

Check and stir every 5 minutes or so until pasta is tender, and the sauce has cooked down and thickened up. Should take about 15-20 minutes or so to finish. Right before calling everyone to the table, just drop in your roughly cut basil or spinach, stir well and serve. BOOM. Dinner is ready. All hot, and all in the same pot.

And that's it. I'd love to hear if you try this recipe and how it turns out for you. Just remember, I take no responsibility for either good or bad results, because the truth is I seriously just make this shit up as I go. 

Most of the time it turns out fairly good, but every once in a while, it's a real shitshow. I'll tell you more about THAT next time.

Now if I could just get someone to wash the pot…...