JUDI'S HI-PROTEIN BROWNIES

2 eggs
1/4 cup bland vegetable oil
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon butter extract
1/2 cup instant nonfat dry powdered milk
1/4 cup smooth soy spread or reduced-fat peanut butter
1 cup granulated sugar*
1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts
1/3 cup lightly spooned Dutch-process baking cocoa*
2/3 cup lightly spooned self-rising flour

Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. and generously grease an eight- by eight-inch square baking pan.  Beat eggs with oil and extracts; add powdered milk and beat until thoroughly dissolved.  Add soy spread and beat until smooth.  Stir in sugar, nuts, and cocoa, followed by flour; mix until just combined.  Batter will be thick.  Spread evenly in prepared pan and bake 20-25 minutes or until set and edges pull slightly away from side of pan.  Cool in pan before cutting into squares.  Makes 16 servings.  Approximately 160 calories and 4 grams of complete protein, equilvalent to half a large egg, per square. 

*Variation:  For HI-PROTEIN BUTTERSCOTCH BROWNIES, add 1/2 teaspoon rum extract, use packed dark brown sugar instead of granulated, and replace cocoa with self-rising flour.  For BREAKFAST BARS, make butterscotch variation substituting wholewheat pastry flour, and add 1 teaspoon baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon, and 1/2 cup loosely packed raisins or chopped dried fruit such as prunes. Sprinkle top with old-fashioned rolled oats before baking.

Taking a break from studying to snack on some high-pro brownies and get our rent checks together for Mr. Sayler.  He's rather an off-the-beaten-track fellow you couldn't help but describe as, well, seedy.  A thirty-three year old chain-smoking alcoholic reeking of b.o., he's usually grizzled, disheveled, kind of depressed and out of it.  I guess this has a lot to do with his getting arrested in an attempted pawn shop burglary some years ago in which his buddy was shot and killed by the L.A.P.D.  He's been in and out of prison ever since.   He inherited the property from his grandfather.  We can dig his "anything goes" attitude--he doesn't care how many pets we have, what sort of company we keep, what we do to the place, or whether we're a little late on our payment--but approach him over any repairs and it's "Say what?"  Unless we can scrape up the money to call a repairman ourselves and deduct the cost from the rent, it's no go.  Thus we put up with peeling, cracking paint and stained, drooping wallpaper, ancient linoleum with dirt so ground in that mopping the floor only brings up swirls of grime, and threadbare Berber carpets.  The plumbing's sluggish and sometimes leaves and flowers and other debris make their way up the drain.  But the stout old built-in 1950's turquoise refrigerator still hums away on its wide enameled cabinet drawer, and the old mismatched gas range keeps firing up.   There's a spacious bathroom with a Hollywood-style vanity, louvered windows, and red-hot electric coil wall heater; large peninsula kitchen with glass-fronted cabinets and breakfast nook; and plenty of craftsman-style storage space in the hallway and three good-sized bedrooms.  Front and back verandas and a cyclone fence to keep out the riffraff.   Not to mention rent that's nearly half the going rate, so we never complain.   And someday, somehow, we'll fix it up ourselves, at least clean up the walls and give it a nice coat of paint.  Sigh.  But you know how THAT is. 

Well, folks I'm back!  Back to all-nighters buzzing on Vivarin and "toilet water"--budget coffee brewed with reused grounds--back to my diet, back to fights over the phone bill, back to communal bathroom visits so nobody pees their pants waiting for the other to get out of the shower, back to doing the Mexican hat dance on cockroaches in the kitchen at midnight, back to our sagging old rental bungalow off Fraternity Row.   (Actually I was back YESTERDAY but missed the Xanga deadline for Sunday!)  Sorry to say, but impromptu vacation is OVER.

Recap:  After a hurried brunch at Spago Saturday, we wandered around downtown and caught an amateur theatre production of You Can't Take It With You.   Visited with some of Brett's cousins in the flatlands, then joined Ginge and Marsha for an authentic Brit tea at their house.  Mr. Olson contributed some Mile High lemon meringue pies, veal pate, and imported poppyseed crackers he'd bought in the city and we all pigged out.  Dinner was mixed indoor grill with the family, but Brett and I had other plans, party with some guys from the hills he hanged with in high school whom he'd lost touch with.   That was a mistake; spent the rest of the night watching my guy help Marc fix his classic '67 Ford Mustang convertible under the work light, freezing our butts off in his windy carport.  Beer and cold pizza delivery, then time to go home and crack the books.  We drove back in silence, Brett's forehead tense with contemplation.   He dropped me off at home and I showered off the horsey aroma of car grease, then fell into bed.   Sunday it was study, study, study, with me and Brett keeping a safe distance.   Went to take a hot afternoon bath and a huge lady roach hopped out of the overflow to join me.  Thank god for me trusty plastic soap dish.  Gross.  Today's pretty much routine.  Gotta one of those KILLER headaches (pretty much routine).   Laters.... 

This morning I dreamed I was lying in a dentist's chair with the glaring examining light in my face.   Brett's Dad walked in wearing a long black leather coat with nothing under it, like a bathrobe. 

"I am The Syndicate," he said, taking my legs and wrapping them around his warm hips.  As he proceeded to make love to me, the chair slowly revolved, sinking lower and lower, as if we were falling from the sun.   I was responding rapidly and didn't want it to end......no......

I awoke to Arlie standing over me, her bright blue eyes sparkling with glee.  "Better get up for brunch, people," she said.  "We're going to Spago." 

What did I do, jerk or something?  If only she knew; I had more to be embarrassed about than the drool on Brett's bare chest.  Mr. Olson, really!  Brett was never that good.   Too inhibited. 

Last night was a real trip.  Brett finally got back at four.  I never thought I'd be so glad to see his muscular legs, broad shoulders, and flash of long gold hair jump out of the pickup.  We hugged and shared a smooch and he had that really fresh outside smell that's so reviving.  My eyes followed him as he ducked into the carport to find a tool.  Suddenly he threw a basketball hard at me, taking me by surprise.  I just caught it, stinging my hands.   So we shot baskets for a bit on the side of the house until it got too dark.  It was okay until Brett's younger brother, Steve, a sixth grader whose--excuse the pun--"balls were just starting to drop," to use my gutsy roommate Chelle's expression, decided to referee.  To my chagrin, I started missing all my shots (not that I'd been playing that well before).  Brett, on the other hand, was doing marvelously, practically just reaching a long arm up and steering the ball in.  Steve guffawed.

"No fair!"  I cried.  "Brett's a foot taller!"

"Awww, you shoot just like a guy!"  Steve retorted.

"Sure!  I don't even bother to dribble."

"Yeah, but you always hit the rim!"  the boy shouted, smiling victoriously.

I sauntered over to Brett, looking up into his grinning face with my big beseeching topaz eyes.  "Wanna go sit in the truck for a while?  I really need to talk."

"Uh, oh!  Better check the shocks!"  Steve honked.  "Boinga!  Boinga!  Boinga!  Boinga!  Oh, oh, OH!  Oh, Brett!!!!!!!!!!!"  He proceeded to mock shrilly.

"Not really, babe," my boyfriend said softly, looking ascant at his little brother and taking me confidingly by the shoulder.  "I haven't eaten all day, man.  I'm starving!"  Leaning down, he gave me a swift peck on the lips.  "Maybe later, we'll take a nap, okay?  Mmmm."

"Hey, don't stop on my account."

"Shut up, you!"  he yelled at Steve.  As we were all going into the house, he tackled him and gave him a good tickleing, making him choke with laughter.  

Up in the gourmet kitchen, watching Brett chug down half a pint of milk in front of the fridge to wash down the big snack he'd eaten,  Steve said, "Ginger invited us over for Greek food tonight."   He wagged his tongue obscenely.

"Incorrigible, simply incorrigible,"  I stated, pinching his ear and making him blush.

Ginger lives "next door"--the next lot over, about half an acre down the road--in a rustic stockbroker Tudor with her lesbian lover, Marsha, and their two adopted Asian children.  Both women are successful writers and aspiring actors.  We were introduced on our last visit when Brett's step-mother June, an up-and-coming attorney of only thirty-one, returned with them from the hairdresser's one Friday.   Ginger, a tall gal with lush auburn hair, was something else.  I went to use the john and heard loud, hysterical crying echoing from the toilet compartment:  "Aw, ha-ha!  Aw, ha-ha-HAAA!!!"  Good god!  It sounded like the depths of despair.  When the sobbing didn't stop after ten minutes, I politely knocked.  The noise ceased at once, and a perfectly composed Ginger emerged from the room with not a fake eyelash out of place.  It happened that she was "practicing" for her child custody suite; the county had found out about her alternative lifestyle and wanted to rescind the adoption--especially since Chrissy, her girl, had become anorectic at twelve.  Marsha commented, "It's what you can expect from the valley, but what a time to start!"  June said Ginger'd better come out with some real feelings in case the hearing started going the wrong way.  When I stared at Ginger quizzically, she remarked, "Once an actress, always an actress, Sweetie," and, winking, "If you've got it, use it."  

Brett and I had time to take that long awaited nap, but privacy was out of the question now that everyone was on to us.  Mr. Olson doesn't believe in locked bedroom doors and will holler to high heaven if he comes upon one.  So for the first hour, the kids were bursting in and out of the room for this, that, and the other thing; if Steve didn't need to tell us something, then Arlie had to use Brett's computer because hers was down.  Eventually, we did lock the door and managed to get in some luscious kissing and stroking trying to keep warm under the down comforter, but the kids went berserk with the challenge, demanding we follow house rules with their ominous yelling and thunderous pounding.  Just when things were getting really hot, they jimmied the lock with a screwdriver and stuck their heads through the door, leering at us.  I was ready to burst with frustration.  At least I'll be good and ready tonight if we have another chance alone. 

We arrived at Ginger's house at seven-thirty to find our hostesses busy directing the cook, Favio, in the long, beamed kitchen.   Since joining a goddess group, both women had gained a considerable amount of weight, but not enough yet to spoil their voluptuous figures.  June approved; a maternal look would aid their case against the county.  They looked absolutely ravishing in festive Renaissance attire complete with ruffled underskirts and tightly-laced leather bustiers that showed off their creamy heaving decollotages.  If only they sported flapping silk fans, the ensemble would be complete.  (I remarked this later to Marsha and she claimed she'd left hers in the dressing room!) Though I wouldn't be caught dead in such a getup unless it were a costume party, I had to ask where they got their knee-length black suede boots.  They were real puss-n-boots boots, scrunched with brass buckles, that I'd never seen out of a fairytale.  Very sexy. 

There was a minor fuss getting the girls to eat.  Chrissy refused to sit at the table with everybody, claiming she didn't feel well.  

"Come sit by me, Chrissy,"  I crooned sympathetically, patting the  adjacent oak rococo chair.  "You'll be okay."

"No thanks, Tina.  The fumes make me nauseous.  I can't stand lamb fat; it gets in your skin and makes you smell like a butcher."

"Oooh, killing floor,"  Brett teased.

"There is no lamb,"  Marsha snapped.  "I told Favio to leave it out this time."   Her round cheeks, flushed from heat and effort--they had to keep the house extra warm for Chrissy, who was inclined to feel cold--rendered her truly Rubenesque.

"Everything's soaked in olive oil," the girl countered.  "I don't know what's worse."

So an extra table was brought out and placed by the fire for Chrissy and Arlie, as well as a separately prepared cold platter served on ornate pewter chargers.  But each girl only picked at the sumptuous selections.  There were tiny shrimp heaped on beds of romaine, brown rice and beans, orange wedges and avocado slices and other fresh fruit in season, cubes of cheese and tofu, hard-boiled eggs, colorful crudite, assorted roasted nuts, and two ramekins of dressing.  On the side was a full loaf of sprouted wholegrain bread, cut into thick, shaggy slices and accompanied by crocks of whipped butter, cream cheese, freshly ground peanut butter, jam, and honey.   To drink were ice cold milk, freshly squeezed fruit juice, and the obligatory Evian in several fat Bacarat goblets.  Except for its being vegetarian, the spread resembled a real Medieval repast.   But the only ones salivating over it were the family dogs, pedigreed chihuahuas, waiting pensively underneath.

"Where's our Ensure?"  Arlie whined.

June, a full-figured gal herself still in her business suit, nervously spread some bread with soft ripened brie and set it on their plates, saying, "Make sure you get in your lipids.  You know what the doctor said."  

Chrissy rolled her heavily made-up eyes.

Arlie frowned.  "We don't need extra lipids on maintenance."

"Gee, those cats are getting fat,"  Steve remarked, indicating the felines lurking a few feet away.  "They grunt when they jump down from the couch.  I never heard a cat grunt.  What you feedin' em?"

"Steve!"  June cautioned.

"Thought Tina was one of the dogs running up the stairs this morning,"  said Mr. Olson jovially once the main meal was underway.  "I didn't want to say anything, she's so cute."  He shot a glance at me above his wine goblet and winked.

"Of course not, Jon," said Ginger, who seemed to be making up for her daughter by trying to get in as many calories as possible.   Apparently she was "really getting into her food and into her fat" as Marsha'd whispered to me earlier.

"The girls could use her as an example,"  June, who seemed to never break out of her professional tone, put in.  "She looks like she knows how to eat.  More pastitsio, Teen?"   

"Teener wantsa weiner,"  Jerry, Marsha's son and the same age as Steve, chortled.

"No, thank you, I'm getting full.  Everything's so delicious."

"Doesn't he look more and more like Bruce Lee every day?"  June gushed.

There was a sound like one of the chihuahuas choking and we all turned around to see Arlie holding her linen napkin to her face.   Mr. Olson looked like he'd had it.  "What the fuck are you doing, throwing up again?"  Looking towards me, he tched and said, "Isn't that something?  They vomit right where they sit, like an animal!"  and back to Arlie, "Can't you have the decency to use the john?"

"I'm NOT vomiting.  All this cheese is making me gag.  I can't help it.  I'm not supposed to have so much at once."

Other than this the evening went smoothly and there was good fun.  But, as could be predicted, Brett and I were too tired to drive back home and decided to cut class AGAIN.  Oh, well.  Nothing much to do but course wrap up and fare-thee-wells to each t.a.

Mmmm, YAWN....Woke up to find Brett's bed empty; he said last night he was going to check back at the frat before going to work at his part-time campus lab job, so I'm all on my ownsome, sitting with an English muffin, soft-boiled egg, and a glass of Citrus D at the Olson's marble snack bar overlooking the beach.  The "ownsome Olson's," LOL.  That's what happens when everyone in your family plays their cards right and enters the professions.  In ten years, Brett will be a promising orthodontist.  Just my luck I ran up the back stairs an hour ago to find Mr. Olson still sitting in the morning room smoking behind his Wall Street Journal.  I thought he was long gone; I'd forgotten architects pick their own hours.  Errg.  As I slid onto the tiled landing in my stockinged feet, breathless from hunger and surprise, a large corner of the newspaper collapsed to reveal his staring at me through square wire-rimmed glasses as if I were a dazed mouse who'd lost her way from the basement.   A little "I-talian" mouse.

"Hi!"  I gasped sheepishly, flipping back my long wet hair.

Olson nodded sternly and took another puff on his cherry pipe.   In his late forties, he was still lean and mean, nicely sun-creased, not much gray showing through his evenly thinning dark blonde hair.  I knew I was being merely tolerated as he absently listened to me hastily explain how I happened to be there.   How Brett and I'd come in late last night and didn't want to wake anybody; how we'd finished all our term papers and class projects and were just taking a break before studying for finals, sorta.  I was missing only one class today, Design 10 (design "for dummies").    "Where did you sleep?"  he interrupted gruffly, obviously expressing the first thing on his mind.

"With Your Son."   That came out rather bluntly, like, Mister, let me tell you about YOUR SON, but how could I hide it?

Slut, Olson seemed to frown, pausing for effect as he surveyed my clothes.  Underneath my girl's navy and gray plaid pendleton shirt tails was Brett's sleeveless undershirt.  I had on no bra, skin-tight misty blue Levi's,  and blaring pink, orange, and turquoise knee highs, striped like king snakes.  "Well, get yourself something to eat."  The paper sprang back up, signaling my dismissal.  Mr. Olson was some act; he knew what it was all about.

I had carefully rinsed off my plate and was just about to wipe off the range--I knew how to take care of other people's things--when I almost stepped on his spotless leather loafers.

"What are you doing?"  he huffed.

"I just thought I'd clean--"

"Leave that for the housekeeper," Mr. Olson cut in, grabbing my dirty dishes and setting them next to the sink.  "She has to get paid for SOMETHING, you know......Was that all you ate?"  he queried, making us both think of Brett's fourteen year old anorectic sister, Arlie.  Before I could answer he was preoccupied fixing a large strawberry yogurt smoothie in the professional bar blender.   No matter; anything I might say would probably come out wrong.  "You should have a smoothie, or a gazpacho."  

A tall cold glass of smoothie appeared in front of my barstool, so I went and sat back down, toying with it.  "You off work today?"  I ventured.

"It rained on the site last night--the new CONSTRUCTION site," he explained, catching my puzzled expression before I could make a mistake.  Smiling lamely, he turned and piled the dirty blender next to the dishes, making a semblance of a mess on the long gleaming counter.  Then he left, taking the rest of the milkshake into the study.

I spent most of the morning alone watching cable TV in the drafty rec room, munching on microwave popcorn and chatting on the phone with Brett.  It was not only freezing, but dark, its being a cold overcast day.  Mr. Olson came down and checked on me once, advising me to light the fire.  What was wrong with me? Didn't I know I could catch cold?!? 

"This is good cord wood," he grunted, throwing a log into the firebox and kindling it.  The Olson's are too frugal to pay a two hundred dollar a month utility bill and rely on wood burning stoves and inserts, electric blankets, and the layered look.  Squinting at the giant screen:  "There's nothing but crap on TV, now.  Why don't you watch a foreign film?"  he urged, plunking a video on the coffee table before slouching back upstairs. 

Around noon Daisy, the svelte almond-eyed uniformed Mexican lady from the cleaning service, came and made no bones about my being in her way.  I'd move my books and stuff to another room, only to be told she had to do that one, now.  Before long I was being shooed from room to room like a big puppy that might muddy or chew or knock over something. 

Mr. Olson even chuckled at me, Daisy smirking at his side, and cried, "Shoo, shoo!"  "Look," he told me, "The sun's coming out!" 

So I got on my ski jacket and hiking boots and took a walk.  The  air outside was brisk and pungent with smoke, pine needles, and gingerbread incense.  A cute Jamaican guy exercising a buckskin quarter horse mare about half a mile down the winding road stopped to talk with me.  I commented how long it'd been since I'd ridden and, to my delight, he let me sit her a while.  He ended up asking for my number, but I told him I was "engaged" and headed back towards the house.  Soon, Brett would be home with his brother and sister, whom he was picking up from school on the way back from work, and the place would be really livening up.

Well, here I am, baring myself to the public.   I never thought I'd start a weblog, but I just finished my last composition book journal and I'm at Brett's folk's house with nothing to do.  Brett's my current boyfriend.  We took a long drive last night and didn't feel like heading back down the coast to campus.  He's a fraternity man and member of our school tennis team and has a fantastic physique.  I can't see his gorgeous chameleonlike gray eyes right now because he's passed out on one of the single beds in his old downstairs bedroom; it was the only place we could crash without his parents hearing us.  We're right across the laundry and down the hall from the rec room, a vast knotty pine affair with a massive stone fireplace, wet bar, pool table, and media center complete with cinema-style popcorn machine.  Where we're at was originally intended for the maid's suite.  It has its own full bath with plush carpeted dressing room.  Really sexy, if you know what I mean, especially when it's too cold for the cabana, even in L.A.  No one knows we're here yet; we're just enjoying the privacy while it lasts.  The clean steam from the hot dryer fills the room like the smell of our blue deoderant soap.  Citrus and sandalwood, it shouts from our skin like summer.  Brett's Apple computer glows even bluer, like a vinyl pool pillow.  Here I go!