SINCE MY DEAR BROTHER has been working like a horse, staying overtime at his job and doing construction on his house, I haven’t been able to talk to him in weeks! Until a few days ago, when we finally had a moment to catch up with each other…

And so as I’m talking to him about school and the weather and his stock portfolio, he is getting ready for work and seems a bit distracted. He tells me to hold on and I can hear the muffled sound of people talking. I’m holding on for a good four minutes before he comes back on the line. When I ask about who is there, and does he need to go?, he simply replies that he put down the phone to watch the footage of Kanye West interrupting Taylor Swift’s VMA speech on YouTube. ON YOUTUBE! He couldn’t even wait to push play until after we got off our long-lost-sibling phone call! I swear, if that boy didn’t make me laugh, I would clobber him.

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EVERY SO OFTEN I have a phone conversation with my older brother T that makes me wonder if I was abducted by an alien family in my sleep. I’ve shared my version of these such phone calls twice now (the last one is here), but this time I’d like to portray my occasional lame attempts to prank call the infamous prank caller.

Phone rings.
T: (answering in a high-pitched rambling voice) Whatchoo need fool?
Me: This is the police!
T: Whatchootalkinabout fool?
Me: We have a code 487, and we’re coming to arrest you.
T: Code 487!? No way, fool. That wasn’t me, fool.
Me: Yes it was. You’re in deep trouble.
T: Please, fool. Get your codes right, fool.
Me: I know my codes! Code 487 is serious. Stealing cheese is serious.
T: I never stole no cheese, fool. Woman, please.
Me: (losing steam) Actually this is Anna.
T: I know that, fool. Whatchoo need, fool?
Me: Nothing. Never mind.
T: Ok, fool. Why you callin’ me for nothing, fool?
Me: Just forget it. Bye.
T: Later, fool.

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They don't call him "Flex A Lot" for nothing.

WHAT ARE THE REAL SOUNDS OF SIBLING LOVE? I gave one example a few weeks ago, with my own interpretation of my brother’s frequent phone calls portraying his favorite characters. What follows is round two:

phone rings
Me: Hello?
T: Yeah, hi. (He dives right in with thick pseudo Jersey accent.)
Me: Hi Teva.
T: I don’t know any Tevas.
Me: Oh really.
T: (His accent grows quite thick, I can tell he’s been practicing this line): This is Frank Rizzo.
Me: (sighing) Oh, hey Frank.
T: (repeats) This is Frank Rizzo and I heard there was some trouble over there. I gotta call from Bobby Zitti.
Me: No trouble.
T: You need me to take care of anyone?
Me: Everything’s fine. (Halfhearted attempt to play along.) Um, thanks, I guess.
T: (again) This is Frank Rizz–
Me: –Do you need something T?
T: Ah, well no. (Back to normal T voice.) Actually, is Mom there?
Me: Yeah, hold on.
T: Ok.
Me: Talk to you later.
T: Bye.

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LAST WEEK I INVITED MY DEAR brother over for dinner so that we could cook and then eat vegetable fritters together. They happen to be one of our favorite foods that we grew up eating (which I previously mentioned in contrast to the kinds of things my mother grew up eating, namely tripe) and I thought it would a nice way to take some sweet brother-sister bonding photos for the blog to post alongside a recipe. But, apparently I thought “nice” way too soon.

Without making T sound like a madman chauvinist or me sound like a person with a severe anger-management problem, I will simply state that things did not go as planned. No sooner had the first balls of batter been plopped in the sizzling oil than a brutal argument broke out. Doors were slammed; words were thrown.

So when you wonder why the fritter photo series is not complete, just know that I slammed down the spatula and said “you make the fucking fritters!” before any had been finished.

I guess this post is far more authentic than the one I had originally in mind (we actually don’t ever cook together—T just likes to show up at our house when food is being served). But I’m providing the recipe anyway; perhaps you’ll have better luck with it than we did. And if you do, please let us know.

[Show as slideshow]

Salem Family Veggie Fritters
For about 20 fritters you will need:

about 3 cups steamed broccoli (about 1 large bunch) chopped finely or mashed
2 cups cooked rice (or substitute another grain)
½ cup of chopped fresh parsley
1 medium-size onion
2 minced cloves of garlic (optional, my mother hates garlic)
salt and pepper to taste
a dash of soy sauce
2 large eggs
several handfuls of cornmeal
about ¼ cup olive oil

In a cast-iron skillet heat about a ¼-inch coating of olive oil on medium. In a large wooden bowl mix together the chopped broccoli, rice, onion, garlic and parsley. Add salt and pepper to taste. Make a small “nest” or indentation in the center of the batter for the eggs. Beat the mixture with a fork, starting in the center with the eggs and gradually incorporating the rest of the batter.

Coat hands with cornmeal, keeping some extra cornmeal handy in a smaller, separate bowl. Using your hands, scoop out balls of batter (smaller portions will cook faster) and drop them into the hot pan. Use a spatula to flatten the balls into “patties” in the pan. Cook on both sides for about 4 minutes, flipping the patties when crispy and brown. As the fritters come out of the pan, let them cool in a bowl lined with a paper towel. Serve warm or cold.

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The Sister Project is beginning to write down its rules for sisterhood. Mine follow; Paige and Marion have some, too. We hope you’ll add to the list.

M Y RULES FOR sisterhood are split in two categories, because I see my role as sister to a brother as being quite different from my role as sister to my friends.

Rules for being a sister to a brother:

1.    Maintain a list (mental or otherwise) of offenses that happened long ago that you can use in your favor at a later date.

Just recently, I reminded my brother of the time he knocked the wind out of me in front of our cousins as a good example of why he owes me a favor.  Note: Don’t think I’m heinous for doing this. T continuously brings up the time I took a bottle-finishing swig of his Tang beverage 18 years ago as proof of why he should never share food with me again.

2.    Make fun of your parents.

Sometimes the only way to keep from breaking-down when we think about our parents’ messy divorce is to start laughing. And there is no better subject than the thing that we have most in common. Every once and a while, we get on these rolls of Dad impersonations that leave us both hyperventilating.

3.    Keep things rambunctious.

Chances are (unless you have an anger-management problem) that your siblings are the only people you can get away with beating up. Take advantage of that outlet. I do.

Rules for being a sister to your girlfriends:

1.    Hold their hair/heads/hands. (When they’re puking/crying/scared.)

2.   Keep their secrets when you want to; spill them when you have to. There’s a fine line between those two, which friends must navigate with care.

3.    Make endless fun of prom photos (and other ridiculous memorabilia)—it’s the best way to keep from taking yourself too seriously (proof of ridiculous prom photo to come).

What are the rules of sisterhood that you live by? Any of these resonate with you?

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The man is ready to pounce! Let's hope I survive his wrath when he sees that I put this photo on the internet.

I N THE PAST WEEK, I have pinched my brother T, wrestled him to the ground, pulled his hair, given him a “wet-willy,” and told him that he will never have a girlfriend again. (I’m coming clean because TSP is the place to do so.) I won’t even begin the laundry list of his offenses against me, but I’m sure you get the picture. Since my father, T’s former roommate, joined the Peace Corps last fall, at the sprightly young age of 61, T has been spending an increasing amount of time here at my mother’s house (the house where we grew up).

He hasn’t brought any of his clothes over from Dad’s house, so every morning he wears this 49ers sweatshirt (I’m pretty sure it was a gift he received in 1993) along with a pair of long johns that belonged to my Dad in the days of yore. I don’t know if it’s the outfit, or the fact that we are surrounded by all our old weapons, or that we cannot help acting like we have ADD around our mother, but daily events in 2009 have strangely resembled daily events in 1992. It’s been feeling like the Twilight Zone at our house.

After taking this photo, my mind wandered to various afternoons spent climbing on top of T while he played dead on the living-room floor. We came up with a wrestling league before I was even in school, now the name of it escapes me. We were the only members, of course. T chose his wrestling character to be named “Tree Top,” which you won’t think is wimpy at all when I tell you that my chosen wrestling name as a runty little girl was “Curtain Snip.” I can still hear him announcing with our fists in the air, “Tree Top vs. Curtain Snip! Wrestling match of the century!” These days, he doesn’t let me win.

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