Photograph: Roger Tooth

This time of the year always reminds me of when I plunged to the depths of my chocolate addiction. This little event took place about 10 or 11 years ago.

For years, I nagged Patrick to surprise me with a box of high-end valentine confections. When he finally got the hint, I happened to be on the Atkins diet.

I hadn't tasted sugar in months. Shock came over my face as I unwrapped my gift - of all times to hit me up with these creamy confections? I had no will power. I felt like Edward Cullen, sitting next to Bella Swan in Biology class. My eyes turned black and I couldn't contain the yearning to BITE.

I stayed firm and calmly set the box aside. I decided to do the dishes as a way to quietly debate my dilemma. To scarf or not to scarf? I know you're thinking - "just a nibble", but when you haven't had the hard stuff in weeks and then it's under your nose - the concept of "nibble" does not exist. "Gobble" takes over. I contemplated my options while Patrick went to the other room with our kids and my mother-in-law.

I thought maybe I could handle a nibble if I prepped myself first.

My mind raced. I knew if I ate just one piece, my diet would certainly crash and burn. You know that split-second turning point when you eat junk, there is no turning back? Regardless, a devilish voice in my head said,

"It's a gift, silly. A nibble won't hurt."

"NO waaay!" I said out loud. I grabbed the box and shoved it into the kitchen trash.

My hands trembled as I scrubbed the countertop. "Just a nibble . . . " I innocently thought.

Next thing I knew, I had my hands in the trash. I ripped off the lid and popped a truffle in my mouth. I closed my eyes and began to sway from the smooth, dark, decadence. I hadn't even finished it, yet had one more on deck.

All of a sudden the voice of a child brought me back to reality. My child.

"Mommy, why are you eating out of the garbage?" my son asked.

"Oh!" I laughed while wiping away the drool, "It's not what it looks like, sweetie!"

Yikes. I noticed my mother-in-law and husband had also witnessed my dirty deed.

"Were you just eating those candies out of the trash?" my mother-in-law asked.

"No, please let me explain," I cried. "The top of the box was still on them and . . . "

"Kathy!" said Patrick. "Why did you throw my present away?"

I ended up taking the box out of the trash and we all ate the chocolates together!

 Peace, love, and glitter!
Kathy :-)

I’m a strong-willed woman, college educated, a multi-tasking queen, and I run a happy household.

That’s all nice. But why can’t I cook?

This feeling of inadequacy hits me every December. As a Latina, aren’t I supposed to be genetically engineered with culinary super powers? Geez, at least for tamale making season! My dad, uncle, nana, aunts and mom-in-law are all tamale maestros. You’d think I’d pick up a few tips.

But noooo…. Instead, me in the kitchen is like Napoleon Dynamite on the catwalk. The only recipes I can handle are those of the arts-and-crafts variety.

A few years ago I decided I didn’t want to ditch my destiny. Maybe I just needed one-on-one training from a masa mentor. So I asked my dad to print his recipe for 30 dozen tamales, and I memorized it line by line.

I cheered and threw my fists in the air like Rocky when I survived the first day of his tamale boot camp. I went on to shred the beef and pork while bouncing my body, Shakira style, to the beat of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree that streamed from the kitchen stereo. I rocked!

Day two was not as smooth. As I ripped the stems off of the last of the chile pods, a seed flung up my nose. Calmly and as ladylike as possible, I stuck my finger up there to retrieve the seed. After several seconds of searching, I couldn’t find it, and my nostril began to throb from the heat. I excused myself and headed to the restroom for a more private (and extensive) inspection.

I sat on the bathroom counter and pressed my profile to the mirror. My heart raced from the four-alarm fire pain. I planted my index finders on the rim of my nose to search for the teeny villain. It didn’t help. The exterior of my other nostril began to sting just as bad.

Finally, it clicked. Doh! Despite the antibacterial hand wash, the chile pod residue lingered on my fingers. And I had just rubbed it all over the inside and outside of my sniffer.

I was in a chile-nose inferno of a panic. I hopped off the counter, raced to the kitchen, grabbed a little chunk of ice from the freezer and sprinted back to the bathroom. I stuck the ice nugget inside my flaming nostril to soothe the pain. It felt sooo yummy and cool. That is until I inadvertently sniffled, which caused me to suck it up with more force than a Hoover vacuum attachment. The sharp ice chunk became lodged in my upper bridge.

In that instant of shock, all I could thick of was how the ice would travel up to my brain. I would pass out and die. People would sob at my funeral. I envisioned them approaching my family to say: “What a shame! What happened to Kathy?!”.

And my husband would reply: “She tried to make tamales, but picked her nose with chile residue on her hands. She then inhaled a piece of ice and it got stuck. It didn’t melt in time. We couldn’t save her....”

I couldn’t let that happen! But the sensation of the searing ice chunk was more agonizing than the chile. So I did what any quick-thinking crafty chica would do. I pressed my finger to close off my open nostril, aimed for the sink and blew hard out of the clogged one. The ice shot out like a marble from a cannon and made a loud clink in the sink. Eyes watering and lightheaded, I looked into the mirror and asked out loud, “Did that really just happen?”

I didn’t want to injure myself any further so I reached for the safety of a scrub towel. I wrapped a piece of ice in it, and held it up to my nostrils in tandem until the pain went away. I never told my dad.

Moral of the story: Wear gloves when de-seeding chile pods. As for me, I refuse to let the chile seed win. I’m going to tackle Tamale Making 101 again this year. If I fail, I can always make a glittered cornhusk wreath!

Dedicated to my dad, who passed away last July.

Do you have a ghost story? I do :-(

When I was pregnant with DeAngelo and it came time to deliver,  I had to go to the ER. I had undiagnosed toxemia, my feet were swollen like a sideshow circus performer and Deangelo had stopped growing in my belly. Duh! The doctor didn't take those as clues.

Anyway, at the hopsital, my blood pressure shot up sky high thanks to a pushy nurse with a horrible bedside manner. Every few minutes the alarms would go off and the other nurses kept telling me to calm down before I had a seizure. I felt calm, but my blood pressure didn't. They wheeled my bed into a different room and Patrick came in with me.A doctor came in and informed me that I had to get an emergency c-section and within seconds a whole team of nurse flew in and crowded around me.

It was in the old wing of the St. Joseph's. From one second to the next, I had shots and tubes going in (and out) every where and the whole surgery ordeal was very traumatic. DeAngelo came out, undercooked and unhappy, and was put in a little incubator because he was jauniced and barely four pounds. They moved me to a room to recover and sleep off the meds that had me heavily sedated.

In the middle of my slumber, I felt someone SMACK me dead on in the face with a pillow. I jumped up and screamed - first from fright and then from pain from the fresh c-section wound. I yelled at Patrick (who was sleeping in the chair next to my bed) "Why did you do that? You hit me with the pillow!"

He said, "Why would I do that to you? I love you!" He began to cry with me. We heard weird wailing sounds of people crying and sobbing uncontrollably. We couldn't tell if they were real people or ghosts. All the lights were off because it was in the middle of the night, so all I could see was Patrick's silouette. We decided no matter what, we wanted to get the heck out of there! We were beyond freaked!

Right then the door busted open and the lights came on. It was the nurses wheeling in baby DeAngelo, who was crying because he was starving. We knew had picked the right name for him, DeAngelo, because it means "the angel" in Spanish. At that moment everything was ok.

So we thought...

Several years later we moved into a house that used to be a way station for the homeless and was since renovated into a nice home. It has some strange creaks and noises happening there. We'd be in the art room painting and hear shuffling in the kitchen, as if someone were going through the cabinets. We responded by turning up the volume on the TV.

But at this house, any time I felt exhausted and would fall into a heavy sleep, this thing would hit me in the face, just like at the hospital. Sometimes harder! I'd feel it pick me up by my feet and lift me upside down and spin me around, pull me to the ceiling or once even drag me through the hallway at super speed. It was like an unwanted frightening outer body experience. Like a kidnapping of my spirit, a violation!

From up above, I would see Patrick below, sleeping on his side of the bed next to my body. I would try sooo hard to call him to wake him or grab him to get him to help me, but I couldn't reach him and he couldn't hear me. The only way I could get free from this thing's iron grip was to yell at it in my mind, like "NO!" and squiggle and fight until I was released. When the nightmare experience was over, I'd be physically out of breath and right away I'd wake up Patrick to hold me.

It got to the point where I was terrified to go to sleep because it was happening every night (I'm a workaholic and was/am always exhausted). One night Patrick hugged me and then gripped my shoulders and told me to go to bed like a warrior - vibe up, take control of my energy and put up my spiritual, sacred force field. It sounds so goofy but thats what I did! It was the only defense I had.

For the first time I summoned what I call my Aztec Warrior Angels to protect me and my family. Every night now, I don't fall alseep without saying my prayers, giving thanks and asking to be protected. I now send out a strong Kill Bill warning right before the sheets are pulled up under my chin.

The only thing I can think of is that something must have latched on to me from the hospital when my inner and outer defenses were weary and weak. It returned when we were living at that creepy house. It's gone now though, all is good! I'm not scared because I know I'm strong.

Hope I didn't freak anyone out!

Do you have a ghost story? Please share!

Happy Halloween!

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