Like this red road
But won’t break
I don’t stalk
Like this red road
But won’t break
I don’t stalk
My only rule is don’t be bland. I love the spice of life! Some days I feel cool like a vanilla bean in ice cream. Other days I am comforting like pot roast and potatoes with carrots, onions, garlic and bay leaves. In every recipe of days, I don’t divulge all my secrets. Every creator worth her salt keeps secrets.
I have days when I feel like a delicious pot of gumbo; a layered goodness that begins with a simple roux…just flour and oil mixed to the perfect consistency, stirred patiently over a steady heat until the moment is right. (You know to add the stock of your choice with the color of the paste and at the first whiff of burnt peanuts.) Trial and error is the way you learn to make your roux. Next the Holy Trinity of Cajun cooking gets thrown in the pot…onions, celery and bell pepper, chopped to your personal preference. Add freshly diced tomatoes, (or canned) and fresh sliced okra, (or frozen). I always boil a whole chicken for my stock, then take meat from the bone and add to pot. This is good, but adding deveined shrimp, whole crab, or lump crab meat, crawfish, redfish…any combination that appeals to you. A sausage gumbo is good if you use a good link sausage. In my neck of the woods, that’s Conecuh link sausage. Experiment with this as all cooks do and yes, I have secret ingredients I add too. It takes time to cook this and serve it over rice. Yep. I feel like a gumbo some days, complicated and time consuming, but delicious and worth the effort.
Seasoning my life…expanded by many cultural cuisines learned by traveling the world as a third culture kid. I can be anything but bland. Never. Ever. Bland
Talk to palm shadow
Sea whispers soothing answer
I am a desert
Eternal beauty abides
Serene and alone
Tall slender graceful dancer
Dates will arrive soon
Hiding in plain sight
In a monochrome world
The red umbrella unfurled
Chameleons do not fight
Master of disguise
Making a bold choice
Wide open eyes
Secrets take his voice
Wind takes his brolly
He does not let it go
Lands in prickly holly
Chameleon skin does show
Bloody red streaks
Even chameleons know
When havoc wreaks
To: The Family Court Case from Hell
From: Khawaga Kid aka Emancipated Daughter in Divorce Decree
My roots were dying. I wasn’t flourishing, with the two of you nourishing your vendetta. My recent excursion into Hell offered me an option I had never explored in its legal context, I am emancipated! Running away in the summer of 1979 emancipated me.
My extremely vocal and persistent cat named Stripe Ed aka Striped Eddie is meowing outside my office door as I let my words flow free form onto the page, my therapist. I have been away from writing therapy, not by choice, but by the fact that I have not had time for my first love, words.
My Daily Med keeps me rooted in my personal relationship with a Godhead called the Trinity. I have never seen these three who are One physically, yet a book called the Bible, aka God’s Word, I believe. This sustains me through the passing seasons of my life, Surviving is not enough, though as I grew from victim to survivor, I was content with survivor status as opposed to victim status.
I am in my 58th season and find that I will not only survive, I will thrive and I will flourish. I have met the old new me and welcomed her back to my little family tree. The person I have been yet could not be.
I call her Mama. My sister called her Momma. This young lady’s picture tugs at my heartstrings because I know her future.
July 15, 1984. Her “Baby Doll” suffered traumatic brain injury. July 17, 1995. Momma’s chick died in her sleep at home. Home. The cozy nest made for her comatose child. Home. Where both were housebound because this Momma Hen cared for her child around the clock with minimal assistance.
My Mama Hen is 75 now. She is thankful that her prayer was answered and her baby died at home. I can’t imagine how she felt when she woke and went to check my sister.
Mama Hen feels like she hasn’t accomplished much in her life. I tell her I will always honor her for her dedication and devotion to my sister’s health and welfare; Momma Hen. I will share more stories about having this beautiful young lady as our Mama/Momma.
How well did she care for my sister? Eleven years and two days without bedsores. Physical therapy. Cognitive therapy. My sister could hear. Momma Hen and her chick are the inspiration for Three Blinks. Momma Hen taught her injured chick to communicate. One blink for no, two blinks for yes.
So, one day Momma Hen notices her chick is blinking three times. It’s not random, it’s deliberate. She says, “Baby, are you trying to tell me something?” My sister blinks twice for yes. Momma Hen says, “Give Momma some time to think about what you’re saying.” Later that day it comes to her. “Baby, are you telling your Momma ‘I love you?'” My sister blinks twice. “Yes.” I say that’s superb accomplishment for a Momma Hen and her brain damaged Baby.
Writing is my preferred method of communication, giving me time to think before I speak. Today I write to 37 other bloggers following me. I have tried to interact with each of you on some level, yet there are a few I can’t reach for varied reasons.
2021. I resolved to deactivate a Twitter account with 3500+ followers; starting again from scratch. I haven’t tweeted much on my new profile, and the same is true for Facebook. This blog is my choice to stay “socially connected”, and I haven’t been consistent, but real world events are happening in real time that keep me busy. Yes, I will write about them, but for today, I just want to thank all 36 of you.
We all have our unique niche and I’m happy to be writing. Writing can be our escape, our sanity saver, a dream and/or a nightmare. Creating worlds with words. I love it.
There is only One Way to succeed…Do not give up on your dream. Stop trash talking yourself, your talent. All Way sign? You can take yourself anywhere in writing. Have words and get ready for a wild and glorious ride with imagination your guide. ♥️✍
“So, where are you from?” I’m evasive, illusive, when I answer this question. “I come from around here.”
I have chosen my hometown; they just don’t know it yet. So many to choose from and some tug away at my heartstrings.
Foreign places, cozy spaces, juicy peaches, silent beaches. Falling leaves or Evergreen. I come from around here…Khawaga Kid
Soon it will end after decades. The Family Court Case from Hell. 1984 thru 2021. Mama and me? We vow to ourselves and one another that this is the final court battle. We will be free of Kabtn Khawaga, ex-husband and ex-father.
I am his daughter, Khawaga Kid; Write Fighter. I chronicle the days of our lives and the poison of his lies. Out of alibis, caught by the world wide web.
Ten year anniversary yesterday. I cried on our wedding day. He cried on our 10th anniversary. 😂 We joked about the tears…”You cried on our wedding day because you were just tired of running and I finally caught you!” Yeah, and you cried on our 10th anniversary because you’re sorry you did!”