Blood in the Sauce


What a weekend the three gals from Syracuse picked for a visit to Fern Forest Treehouse. They had booked a year earlier, aiming for peak foliage season, and they hit it spot on. The maples put on a show of gold, orange, and crimson accented with deep green of the pines. Cool nights made for good sleeps and after a hike to the top of Mt. Abe and a soak in the hot tub, the trio hunkered down under blankets high in the trees. In the morning they shuffled in wearing onesies—a tiger, a lion, and a skeleton—for cups of hot black coffee.
            Ashley, a singer-songwriter, is known as Syracuse’s “wild child rocker,” and her band, Professional Victims, has played nationally. By day Ashley works at a tech company selling secondary market tech hardware, but at night she takes to the stage in exotic outfits, her long dark hair swinging at her waist. On Saturday night we all sat by the wood stove and she played a few songs on her guitar and sang, her resonant voice effusing emotion. 
The treehouse weekend was Ashley’s idea, but two of her close friends signed on with enthusiasm. Jennifer is a seraphic beauty who works as an ICU nurse in Syracuse, shovels snow from the walkway of a house she bought by herself, and manages single-parenting her four children.   
Abigail owns the restaurant LoFo specializing in farm-to-table dishes, locally sourcing ingredients. Cauliflower wings and beet burgers are two popular dishes on the menu. "Food is the common denominator that connects us," she says. That’s true, but last weekend it was the treehouse that brought us together.
It was also the weekend of the vote to confirm Judge Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court. Understandably, many women in their thirties (Ashley is in her forties) believe Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony that Kavanaugh sexually assaulted her when they were in high school. Dr. Ford is 51, but between 1982 and 1997 when Jennifer was fifteen, not much changed about the way women were treated. In fact, not much has changed since 1962 when I was fifteen. When the Senate’s very close vote confirmed Kavanaugh’s appointment, the four of us were dispirited, angry, and fired up to let our voices be heard.

“If men don’t wise up,” I said, “there will be blood. It may be menstrual blood, but blood nonetheless.”
“Blood in the sauce!” Jen yelled.
I must have looked confused. Abigail the chef was intrigued. The wild child rocker wanted to hear more.

In some cultures, Jen explained, if a woman wanted to control her man, she would put menstrual blood in the tomato sauce. After he ate the spaghetti, he’d be compelled to do whatever she commanded.
“‘Blood in the sauce’ sounds like a song,” I said. I could see Ashley’s wheels turning. 
Over the weekend we drank wine and Vermont beer and ate some good food. I was sorry to see Sunday come. They packed up Jen’s car leaving us vegetables from Abigail’s garden, her pickled beets and green beans, a jar of chipotle mustard, a bottle of New York bourbon (good with kombucha, you purists), and the conviction that strong women like these three are going to shake up this country. 
As they piled into the car to make their way back to Syracuse, Jen raised her fist. 
“Blood in the sauce!” she hollered. 
Fellows, you’d best be mindful of what you eat.


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Unknown said…
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November 20, 2018 at 7:16 AM
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