Father's Day Deux

My daughter skipped into the room beaming, obviously greatly pleased with herself. (This is never a good sign.) She waited impatiently for me to notice her and finally, in exasperation, cleared her throat with an

"Ahem."

"Ahem? Is there someone there?"

"Oh, Dad, you are both funny and smart."

(OK, I made that part up but it could have happened. Really.)

Anyway, back to the story...

"I got you a cool Father's Day present. You're really going to like it. Wanna guess what it is?"

"An iPhone."

"No."

"A date with Paris Hilton."

"Dad, be serious, you are not Paris Hilton's type. She likes RICH old guys."

"A tie. Like the past 18 Father's Day."

"Not this year, Dad-0!" Claire was quite pleased with herself. "One word: NetFlix."

NetFlix. Hmmm, I had heard of the rent-a-movie service but since I don't watch TV, much less movies at home, and I can't imagine spending time watching a movie on an iPod, something like NetFlix was way low on my tech radar screen.

I decided to be Fatherly. "Oh, that's grand. You know, I had been thinking about NetFlix (for about a nanosecond) but you know me, slow to change."

Claire was unperturbed. "They're running a special so I signed you up and ordered some movies for you. You're really going to like them. They're a nature series on the migration of the snail darter, some kind of fish, whatever. Anyway, you'll be getting the entire 23 disc set of snail darter migration CD's."

I feigned appreciation wondering if I could make it through Disc 1 of a snail darter migration before I gouged out my eyeballs with a spoon. I smiled and replied, "How thoughtful. I. Can't. Wait."

Expecting the daughter to smile and leave, she stood there. I could feel the presence of the other shoe about to drop.

"And...?" I offered, hopefully.

"And...well, uh, I had to give them a credit card number to sign up for the free special."

"And...?

"And...well, uh, since if you like NetFlix you'll want to keep paying the low monthly fee of *cough*something*cough* I, uh, sort of, uh, put it on, uh, your, uh, card."

She smiled.

"So, you put a free special on my card and I can cancel it if, heaven forbid, I grow weary, ever so weary, of snail darter antics?"

Daughter paused in thought, then spoke.

"Well, 'free' is such a subjective term. Maybe 'discounted' would be a better description."

In my best Father Knows Best I summarized the situation.

"You got me a subscription to a service I'm not likely to use, rather than a date with Paris Hilton during which I might have a chance to check out her iPhone, and you used my credit card to pay for it and for the next year or so I'll be getting fish spawning films."

Claire smiled and said, "I knew you'd like it. Happy Father's Day!" She gave me a kiss on the cheek and skipped out of the room.

As I opened up my laptop to look up recipes for snail darter I mused to myself, "Well, at least it wasn't a tie."

Nature Lesson

A caterpiller spent a few days munching on our parsley plant which was bolting, so we let him munch. He pretty much cleaned up several branches and one morning we discovered this.



A chrysalis. How cool! We decided to leave it alone hoping we could see what hatched out.

Several days later, having seen no apparent activity, I glanced out the window and this little guy was hanging on for dear life in the rain. The rain stopped after a few hours and before my very eyes he flapped his wings a bit then took off. He fluttered around the back yard for a minute or so, then got caught by a breeze and went up and over the house.



Happy mating, little buddy!

Father's Day

The sound of a plastic bowl of water being spilled on a tile floor is quite distinctive.

The bowl is on the floor to begin with and there is not the anticipated crashing, bouncing noise, rather there is a subtle clinky-boinky noise that is identical to the noise made by a paw stepping on a plastic bowl of water and dumping the contents on the floor.

Try the experiment yourself! Fill a plastic bowl with water and set it on the countertop in your kitchen. Then, sweep the bowl onto the floor and observe the noise and mess.

Experiment 2 is to take the same plastic bowl full of water, place it on the floor, and step on the lip of the bowl with your toe and observe the resulting sound and mess.

Whereas the mess is about the same, the sound is totally different.

Back to the story.

After hearing the bowl of water spill over the floor, I didn’t need Kink to jump on my newspaper with wet paws to apologize.

Really, I didn’t.

Philmont

I have three crews coming off of Philmont in the morning. They have been hiking in the New Mexico wilderness for 10 days, probably in the heat, probably in the rain, probably in the cold and definitely in the altitude. The 36 individuals making up the three crews of four adults and eight Scouts each have trained for a year for this trip, but the trip itself has been in the planning stages for nearly two years.

In the morning the crews return to base camp.

Since I haven't received a call from Philmont I can safely assume that the crews didn't melt-down, have a medical emergency or otherwise fail in their trek. It's a tribute to planning and preperation.

I have been the coordinator for this trip. I've been to Philmont twice before and I volunteered to do the logistics for this expedition, but not go myself. It was a tough call to remain behind but others deserve the experience I've already had. Ever the mother hen I will be anxious to hear from the crews, share in their stories, ooh and aah over their pictures and marvel at their experiences.

There are always stories about a trek to Philmont.

Philmont can change a person and I remember one day in particular many years ago...

It was the hike to Sawmill Camp. We knew it would be tough, nearly 13 miles with the final 5 miles uphill. Not only uphill but 2,000 feet uphill; over half a mile uphill. To compound the difficulty we would be taking on a 4-day supply of food before embarking on the ascent to Sawmill Camp, so we were loaded down with food and water. Our heaviest, averaging about 50 lbs each if not a bit more.

Loaded up we set off, found the trail and hiked along relatively flat terrain. It was a creek bed. About two miles into the trek it started to drizzle, then rained, then poured down with rain. We pulled to the side of the trail and tried to shelter under a rock ledge and some trees.

Eventually, the rain let up and we pushed forward only to be confronted my more squalls as a line of thunderstorms passed over the canyon we were in. The rain was relentless and the trail unforgiving, but step after step we kept on and up and finally reached the summit at Sawmill Camp.

After resting for a bit and pitching our tents in the rain, I finally rolled into the tent exhausted. Moments later my son, Chris, crashed into the tent and lay flat on his back on his sleeping pad.

He said, "Dad, the day didn't beat me but I can tell you without shame that I am done.":

Philmont tests the limits of a man and that day my son learned where his were. So did I.

But, the next day we continued our trek and completed it a few days after that. The march to Sawmill has since become legend and a tale to tell around the campfire. We not only survived it but we grew from the experience.

Now, a new crew continues the tradition.

I can't wait.

Update June 21

I talked with the crew leader this morning and they have checked out of Base Camp and are on the bus back to Houston. By all accounts a successful trip. Heavy rains in May greened up the trails and there was water available in every camp. Must have been a sight to see! The crew should arrive around midnight and I'll be there to meet and greet.

Just think, if we get lucky we can start planning for a trip in 2009!

Porky Thing

We have some ground pork in the fridge that needs something doing to it.

That was all the instruction I got.

Ground pork. Something.

OK, so I looked at my staples and found the following: eggplant, onions, garlic, tomato sauce, rice and other stuff. Thanks to the other stuff I figured I could pull off this challenge.

The first thing to do was to fry up the ground pork with some onions, garlic and a rasher of bacon, (chopped). While that was cooking I trimmed off the leafy side of the eggplant, sliced it in half lengthwise and scooped out the middle. Thinking about throwing away the eggplant center stuff, I changed my mind and dumped it in with the frying ground pork and onions.

I scooped out enough eggplant to create a couple of eggplant bowls about a half an inch thick.

As the pork stuff cooked I found a box of Pomi Strained Tomatoes and dumped that in. Then I added some cinnamon, nutmeg and a generous dose of Tabasco Sauce - Smoked Chipotle. I dumped in a cup of water, a cup of rice, stirred to mix and covered the pan for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, I heated the oven to 350.

When the oven beeped, I ladeled out some of the pork mixture and partially cooked rice into the eggplant shells, topped them with a couple of slices of tomato and grated some Mexican farm cheese on top. Returned to the oven to bake for 20 minutes or so.

So, when I was done I had a stuffed eggplant, plus a pork rice tomato sauce side dish.

Good eats were had by all!

Catnip Treats

Hey, you know those catnip treats you bought for Kink?

Yeah.

Well, they look like pistachios.

*pause*

How do they taste?

*pause*

Not like pistachios.

Catnip Dreams with Mousie

Go-Tee-Bo!

My cell phone has “voice recognition” which works about as well as the famed singing pig. The pig sings out of tune but it’s amazing that it sings at all. It's more like Voice Wheel of Fortune. You never know what you're going to get.

“Call Home,” I say.

“Call Rome,” phone replies.

“Sono spiacente, Gina che Lolabrigita non è disponibile.”

“Numero spiacente e errato,” I mutter and hang up quickly.

“Call Home,” I say.

“More Foam,” phone replies.

“Attic Foam and Insulation, Carl speaking.”

“Sorry, Carl, I was trying to call home, not foam.”

“Ah,” Carl said, “you’ve got the Binford 3000 phone. No problem. Happens all the time. But, if you need a few extra R-numbers of insulation keep us in mind.”

“Will do, Carl, have a good one and keep cool.”

Once again into the fray.

“Call Hommmmmmmme,” I shout!

“Lindsey Looooooohan,” the phone informs me calmly.

Quickly I hit the power button. The last time I called Lindsey we partied all night and I felt terrible for a week.

There has to be a better way. I’ve been working with voice recognition for several decades and it’s always been a pain. It works sorta, almost, not quite and, uh, your mileage may vary. Then again one could say it doesn't work worth spit.

Patooie!

Once I had a system that picked up on any conversation or ambient noise. You couldn’t turn it off. It went like this.

“Whew, it’s hot today!”

Shutting. All. Windows.

“Noooooooooooo!”

Confirmed.

“Stop! Don’t shut windows!”

Shutting down.

“Don’t shut down! Stop!”

Formatting hard disc.

“No, don’t format hard disc!”

Confirmed.

"Stupid idiot computer!"

Two large pepperoni pizzas, extra anchovies. Confirmed.

And so it went until that system met an untimely demise in a bayou.

Then I discovered Klingon. Klingon is the ultimate voice recognition language.

Besides Klingons, who speaks Klingon? Certainly not computers or cell phones. I figured that with Klingon the cell phone would have no choice but to obey. The only downside to using Klingon would be if there were a Klingon battle cruiser in orbit and what's the chance of that?

Klingon Battle cruiser! I crack me up!

So, I changed all my voice commands to Klingon and the results have been spectacular, beyond my wildest dreams. I'd have to boast a 100% success rate in voice-activated calls.

"Go-tee-Bo!"

Calling Joe...

"Yoooooool KAP!"

Calling Home...

"Rayyyyyyy Gni-Daiii!"

Calling Weather One...

It really is a good system, although the astute reader would recognize that nothing works 100%. Maybe 99%, or 99.9% and I confess the system did have one mysterious malfunction.

In an early test I called my wife's cell phone using the Klingon phrase

"Hi-jol phat!"

which means basically nothing, but is very close to the Klingon phrase

"Hi-jol pat"

which means "beam me up."

I must not have aspirated the "h" properly and that's the best explanation I have to what happened.

My wife's cell phone rang once, then went dead.

Later that night the kids asked, "When is Mommy coming home?"

I looked up into the evening sky as a small red dot orbited through Orion's Belt.

"Not for a while, I think, not for a while."

Walking Like Dallas

The rain pounded down on the car as the windshield wipers flapped back and forth furiously trying to keep up with the deluge.

I asked the Navigator, “What does Weather 1 say?”

Navigator was on the cell phone to our personal weathermeister back in Houston who was monitoring the storm, high and dry, I should add, on the Internet.

“Weather 1 says that the line of storms runs north-south along I-35.”

“How far north-south?”

“All the way.”

“How far all the way?”

“All the way to the equator.”

We pushed on south down I-35 through light rain, heavy rain, brief snatches of sunshine, fog and wind. What a day to be on the road, but here we were.

As we approached Dallas I checked the map. Let’s see, we take 35-East through this squiggly bit, then somehow get past this complicated bunch of stuff and merge with this road (I can’t read the number) and finally pop out on 45-South.

Piece of cake.

Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. I’ve made this run through Dallas before at flank speed, in traffic, and you have to be very alert and nimble to make all the exits which come fast, close together and suddenly. Be in the wrong lane for even a second and you will be cast off the freeway into the warren of twisty little streets below.

If that happens you might as well call a realtor and buy a house because you’ll never find your way back. You’ll be in Dallas forever.

Today, though, we would not be racing through Dallas. We would not be cruising through Dallas. We would not even be puttering through Dallas. We would be lurching through Dallas 100-yards at a time. Then stopping to take in the sights before lurching on another 100 yards.

If the US had gone metric we could have been lurching along at 100 meters at a time. Dang!

The one advantage of this mode of transportation is that we approached all our exits in slow motion. That’s not to say we had an easy time crossing 5 and 6 lanes of traffic to reach the correct ramp, but it was less hair raising.

Finally, after 3 hours we merged onto I-45 and headed south to Houston.

As we increased speed to 75 mph, lightspeed to us, Navigator remarked cheerfully, “Well, the worst is behind us, now! Only 5 more hours to go!”

As I examined the black thunderclouds ahead of us I thought, “Let’s hope so.”

More on Ribs

I have had a few rib disasters recently. Although I do many things well on the cooking front, I am BBQ challenged. When I think of me doing BBQ the word "black" comes to mind. It's not a good thing.

I have books on BBQ. I've watched Bobby Flay to the point where I almost like him, but not quite that far. I've talked with Old Hands who tell me useful stuff like "You gots to feel the BBQ, boy!" Yeah, all I feel is the heat from the family when they say, ewwwwwwww, it's all black.

I've tried rubs, wet mops, dry mops, smoking, unsmoked, direct heat, indirect heat and psychic energy (see the Night of the Raw Ribs). The result is either insipid or black.

Time to cue the Beatles.

Little darlin' it's been a long, long black rib job.
Little darlin' it's been a real bad rib you ett.
Here comes the Sun... (dinky, donky)
Here comes the Sun, oh Mama,
It's all right, it's done to per-fect-shun!

First, the rub. It's a fine, fine rub I do than I've ever done before. It appears that the secret is Brown Sugar. Cue the Rolling Stones.

Second, the cooking. Grill the ribs for 7 minutes on each side over the FLAMES!

Third, move the ribs off the heat and bake, closed, for a couple of hours at 300 degrees or less. Less temp, more time.

Finally, enclose the ribs in foil, add the BBQ sauce mixture (a family secret) and bake for a further 10 minutes)

Allow to rest for 5 minutes and serve.

Here's the "family" recipe (today) for BBQ sauce: 4 oz KC Masterpiece, 4 oz Raspberry Chipotle sauce, 2 oz brandy. Heat, mix and baste.

I think my Black Era was from basting the meat too soon with a tomato-based mixture which caramelized and, essentially, burned. Also, I might have had the meat too close to the direct fire. Providing the BBQ part at the end seems to give the best results, at least for this house.

One final note about rubs. My best experience has been with rubs where the prime ingredient is brown sugar and not salt. Some rubs come out very bitter or too salty. I will experiment with taking salty rubs and cutting them with brown sugar.

Having said that, when I announce that I'm experimenting with a rib recipe the most common response is that "we're eating out tonight. See ya later!"

Where's the adventure, huh?

Monty Python Cheese Shop

Monty Python Brewpub Sketch

“Hi, my name is Cloud and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

(You wish, I thought in reflex.)

But, aloud said, “Cloud, that’s an unusual name. I wouldn’t suppose that your last name is Bank by any chance.”

“No,” Cloud replied, “my last name is Chambers.”

“Cloud Chambers?” I smiled, “I hope you’re a physics major!”

“Why would you think that,” Cloud responded airily?

“Uh, no reason. None at all. Well, you seem to have quite a few beers on offer.”

“Oh, yes,” Cloud wafted, “we’re the number one brewpub in Lawrence. We have an extensive selection.”

“Great, just wonderful. Well, I’ll start with the Jayhawk Stout.”

“Oh, the stout’s my favorite,” Cloud gushed, “it’s rich and creamy and, oh, so strong! I get goose bumps just thinking about it!”

“Uh, yeah, OK. Well, I’ll start with the Stout.”

“It’s off.”

“What?”

“Off. It’s off as in ‘not on.’ Out. We’re out of stout. Oh, I made a rhyme!” Delighted with herself Cloud performed a little hop and clapped in excitement.

Distracted by Cloud’s charm for a moment, I turned my attention to the beer menu for my second choice.

“OK, then, I’ll have the Irish Red.”

“Ummmmmmm! The Irish Red is naughty and tart, a perfect companion to our Chicken Fried Steak dinner.”

“Yeah, that’s sounds just right.” I was warming up to the evening. “I’ll have a Red and the Chicken Fried.”

“Great choice!” Cloud looked ecstatic. Then her face fell. “But, the Red’s off.”

“Off?”

“Yes, like the stout. Off, as in ‘not on’ as in ‘we don’t have any’ sort of off”

“No Red?”

“No Red.”

By this point I was looking around for the hidden camera. Seeing none I scanned the beer menu for my third choice. Wheat, no. Raspberry, definitely no. Blonde something, no. IPA.

IPA, Indian Pale Ale, yes! That would hit the spot. I placed my order.

“OK, then, I’ll have the IPA.”

I glanced up at Cloud. I didn’t need the Weather Channel to see that a storm was moving in. Definitely a front colliding with a warm air mass from the Gulf. It might even be a tornado warning.

“Let me guess,” I said, “IPA is off. Off as in ‘not on.’ Off as in ‘you don’t have any on tap.’ Like you and me, it ain’t gonna happen kinda off.” I batted my eyes, rested my chin on my hands and paused for a reply.

Cloud looked down and as she did so the storm dissipated. She brightened considerably and broke into a wide smile.

“Wow, you must be some kind of psychic. You’re right, we’re out of IPA. You must have ESB.”

I gazed at Cloud for quite a while before speaking. Finally, I said:

“Darling, if I had ESB at least I’d have a beer.”

I am so disappointed

How evil are you?

Cheeta - Who Knew?

As a young lad I was an early riser. On Saturday's, that is!

The TV festival started early and I didn't want to miss a bit of it. Sky King. Commander Cody. Bullwinkle and Friends. And, of course, Tarzan Theater.

We all loved Tarzan, Jane and Cheeta the mischevious chimp. Tarzan saving the explorers, Jane soothing Tarzan's fevered brow (or so we thought) and Cheeta stealing the important jewel, map, key or one of a thousand important things to steal. Cheeta came through in the end, though, and there was a happy ending.

Of all the actors and actresses in all the Tarzan films from the 30's and 40's, one actor remains: Cheeta.

Yes, Cheeta the Chimp is alive and well and living the Life of Riley. He's 76 years old which makes him the oldest chimpanzee on record. He's also an accomplished artist and produces what has been called "ape-stract" paintings.

And, believe it or not, you can purchase a painting from Cheeta and support him through his old age.

Just go to the Cheeta website and navigate to the Want a Picture link to make your contribution. In a few weeks you will receive your very own, unique painting by Cheeta, a couple of autographed photographs and a Certificate of Authenticity.

Here's my painting. The black smudge at the botton right is a thumbprint.



And here's a picture of Cheeta with Tarzan star Johnny Weissmuller. Cheeta is on the right.

Chickened Out

If you have been watching the news then you may have seen the report about ConocoPhillips teaming up with Tyson Foods to produce a hybrid fuel based on chicken fat.

Now, what exactly does that mean?

Well, I can tell you that the CEO’s of the two companies were mighty pleased with themselves during the announcement. Mighty pleased.

“The bonus to consumers may even meet the level of my annual bonus,” the Oil CEO squawked, a feather clinging to his lips.

“You’re kidding,” the Chicken CEO clucked, who’s bonus was chickenfeed by comparison.

“Yes, I’m kidding,” the Oil CEO confessed, “my little joke.”

And the two CEO’s fell about laughing and slapping each other on the back; feathers flew.

Now, think about this for a moment.

A chicken in your tank. What does that mean?

I’ve heard of a tiger in your tank, but I’ve never heard of a chicken in your tank.

Tiger. Sleek jungle animal racing through the underbrush in pursuit of prey. Fierce, strong, agile, fast. Claw and fang.

Chicken. Clumsy bird that can’t fly, can’t cross the road, in pursuit of cracked corn. Cowardly, one might say “chicken,” weak and tastes like chicken. Beak and egg.

Which would you rather have in your tank? Tiger? Chicken? Tiger? Chicken?

Just imagine. You’re driving down the freeway in your Binford 3000 Cobra XTi and, bing, the low fuel indicator chimes.

To your left is an Exxon station featuring Tiger Gas. Put a Tiger in your tank, you hunky guy, you!

To your right is a ConocoPhillips station featuring Chicken Gas (reminding you of that bad episode with KFC last weekend.) Put a Chicken in your tank, you total loser. Braaakkk!!

What are you going to do?

Well, I can tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to go out and buy a couple of Hummers and some Exxon stock!

But, that’s all hypothetical. I mean, who’s going to drive around with a fake chicken’s head hanging out of their gas tank like people did with tiger tails? More important to consider is how the fuel is going to be made.

Think about it. Chicken fuel.

They’re going to, like, pump chicken fat from the chicken farm in Arkansas to the oil refinery in Texas. Does this mean they’ll have to construct a chicken fat pipeline through Louisiana? What are the environmental considerations? What if there’s a chicken fat rupture in Monroe?

“Monroe schools were evacuated today following a rupture of the Chicken Fat Pipeline. Hazardous material specialists from Shreveport were flown in to contain the spill which was being channeled into a local bayou where the fat was consumed by local alligators. Protesters from POTA, Prevent Obese Treatment of Alligators, were present, objecting to the industry practice of using alligators to clean up chicken fat spills.”

No, I think this a bad move. It’s going to encourage copycat fat fuel refining. No telling where this will end.

BP: Put a pork pie in your tank!

Shell: Put an oyster in your tank!

Valero: Put a bull in your tank!

Believe me, this is a slippery slope for oil companies to be on. I mean, what if the chickens don’t produce enough fat? How will it be made up?

Chicken fat production is down. Meanwhile, at Big Oil Company headquarters the annual employee physical…

“Whoa, Bill, looks like you’ve gained a few pounds! Been at those donuts at staff meeting have you? Well, we’re going to have to transfer you to refining. Yes, to refining. You’ll do well at refining…”

And in the Big Oil cafeteria a new line of Soylent Green wraps opens.

Ranch or BBQ?

Egged On, Not!

I’m an expert cook. Who says? Me!

I can cook anything. Moose? I’ll do a moose mousse. Pig? A pit I’ll dig. Squab? Give me a kibab.

Boil an egg. Please, don’t insult me. I can boil water and I can boil an egg, thank you very much.

Hard boiled or soft boiled? I can calculate the time to within a nanosecond of perfection. Hah! Egg, bring it on.

So I thought.

Egg Number 1.

Ever the consummate expert I prepared the landscape: Canadian bacon in the microwave to heat up, crumpets in the toaster to toast. Boiled egg with Canadian bacon on crumpet…yum-o! What’s not to like?

The crumpets popped up right on cue as the microwave beeped and and the stove timer chirped that the egg was done.

Taking the egg to the sink all looked right with the world. The crumpets were brown and warm, the Canadian bacon at the right temperature and, sure enough, the egg was cooked to perfection.

Carefully, I broke the shell on the edge of the sink and worked the shell off. I nearly had the egg shelled when…

Then, without warning, a furry paw reached around, snagged the egg and pulled it out of my hands.

“No!” I shouted, but it was too late! The egg and Kink’s furry paw fell to the floor in a yellow and white splatter on the tile. Kink proceeded to lick up his kill and I entertained thoughts of killing.

Egg number 2.

Undaunted, I left Kink to his ill-gotten gains and pulled another egg out of the fridge. Come on, I’ve cooked chocolate soufflés and Moose mousses. What could be difficult about a boiled egg? I placed the egg in the pan of water, turned up the heat and let it go. Meanwhile, Kink was licking the kitchen tiles. Good for you, Kink, point to you. Kink 1, Egg 0.

Bang! What bang? There was a bang, a clank and a fire. Soon I realized that the egg in the pot had exploded and blasted egg white and yoke all over the stove. I looked in the pot and the eggshell was empty. The egg had inverted itself and was a slimy mess.

Dang.

Egg number 3.

I will not be defeated by an egg. I’m an expert cook. I’m a pro. Boiling an egg is like the most elementary of dishes.

I can boil an egg.

I cleaned out the pot, filled it with water, selected a nice, free range, brown egg and set the timer. Boil, boil it went. Tick tock went the timer.

Ding!

Egg done and a perfectly cooked egg if I must say so myself. Smugly, I cracked the shell on the sink and proceeded to unwrap my lunch treasure.

Purple spots. Wha? There were purple spots on my egg! No, purple spots shouldn’t be on eggs. I examined the spots closely and in the end decided it wasn’t worth the risk to eat the egg.



You know, I’ve gone off the whole idea of eating altogether. Just as well. I could use losing a few pounds.

Kool Kink

Repeat

I've said it once and I'll say it again:

Annie Lennox

Catnip Jones

Sandy never showed an interest in gardening until we bought some catnip.

Now he's doing a month at Betty Ford.

Day at a time, Sandy old pal, day at a time.

Migas

Migas is a Mexican egg dish that has as it's core onions, corn tortillas and eggs. I am on a journey with migas having only just discovered it. I feel like Christopher Columbus in this endevour. A New World.

Migas means "crumbs" and there are migas-like dishes from around the world.

I'll concentrate on the Southwestern variety using leftover corn tortillas torn into little bits. A general recipe for migas would be as follows:

Saute some chopped onions in oil. When they are well cooked and turning brown toss in a handful or more of corn tortillas torn into little pieces, about half an inch in size. Cook this for a while. Meanwhile, beat some eggs with a little milk, then add the eggs to the onions and tortillas. Cook for a few seconds then add some chopped tomatoes and nopalitos (if you have them). Season with salt, cumin and anything else you like. Toss in some chopped jalapenos, for example. When the eggs start to set crumble in some Mexican hard cheese or feta cheese or grate some sharp chedder on top. Reduce the heat to very low, cover and let cook for a few minutes.

Uncover and shout, "Migas!"

For a small migas:

1 onion chopped
2 tomatoes chopped
6 corn tortillas, torn to pieces
2 eggs
3 tbsp milk
1/2 cup shredded cheese

For a large migas, serving 6-8:

2 onions
3 tomatoes
12 eggs
10 corn tortillas
1/4 cup milk
1 cup cheese

Additional things that could be added are chopped jalapenos, nopalitos, bell pepper, garlic and other stuff you think might be good to eat. Since this recipe is sort of like a flan, then chopped ham, bacon or sausage would work.

Avocado Lives

We thought we lost it.

We had a couple of frosts this winter and after each frost more leaves turned brown. Then, they started to drop. After the big wind in February most of the leaves were gone and we had this stick that used to be a tree. OK, a very skinny tree, but considering it started as a refugee from a bowl of guacamole it was doing fine, just fine.

Now, lookie, lookie! Leetle green leaves!



I hope it grows lots and lots of leaves this summer. Millions and billions of leaves!

Do you know what you call a tree with 6.02 x 10 ²³ leaves?

An Avogadro.

Bacon Saving

You need to eat more vegetables, she said.

I’m on the Atkin’s Diet, he said.

Since when, she said?

Since this morning, he said.

I smell bacon, she said.

You’re having an olfactory hallucination, he said.

No meat for the rest of the week, she said.

!!!, he said.

I mean it and you’d better produce something good, she said.

*#$@%**, he said.

It so happened that just that very day an interesting recipe had been posted on one of the prime food blogs that just might fill the bill. Vegetarian and with no spices. Hmmm, no spices? What’s up with that?

The dish is called “mujadara” and it derives its wonderful flavor from caramelized onions combined with lentils and basmati rice.

You can read all about it at Orangette but I’ll provide the blueprint here.

You’ll need a couple of onions (I used red Spanish onions as I would for onion soup), a cup of lentils, half a cup of rice and some olive oil and salt. That’s it.

Chop the onions into small pieces and fry them in about a quarter cup of olive oil until they’re golden brown, same as you would for onion soup. Scrape and turn, scrape and turn for about 20 minutes until the onions are golden, brown and possibly black in spots. Cooking the onions thoroughly is essential to this recipe.

While this is going on, as if you have nothing better to do, cover the lentils with about an inch of water in a saucepan, bring to a boil and simmer, covered, for about 20 minutes. You probably won’t need to drain them and I wouldn’t bother because of what happens next.

Add the rice to the onions and mix it up. Add the lentils, a teaspoon of salt, two cups of water, mix well, bring to a boil then simmer for 20-30 minutes.

That’s it.

I was a little worried that the recipe didn’t call for garlic or black pepper or cumin or curry powder, but I needn’t have been concerned.

This is the best thing you’ve ever cooked, she said.

You always say that, he said.

Yeah, but this time I really mean it, she said.

He said nothing but thought, “Thanks, Molly!”

Kink 1, Cutting Board 0

I don't know how he did it. The cutting board weighed as much as he did and it was sitting flat on the counter. I heard the crash and went into the kitchen in time to see Kink pawing playfully at the remains.

Just as well. I "need" to go to Williams-Sonoma, anyway! I need a new cutting board, yep, and a new sauce pan, a knife (can't have too many knives. I always say that.) and one of those French things that I don't know exactly what it does but it's French and I could probably use it. Somehow.

Rolled

We got rolled!

But, the question is why? Why would anybody roll us? We have no kids in high school. We live in an ordinary house on an ordinary street in an ordinary subdivision. So why pick our pitiful trees from which to hang toilet paper?

On the plus side, I gathered up about a months supply so Woot to that!

In fact, roll me in a month. I could use the supplies!

Ouch, No and Owww!

Kink the Kitten is a well-trained little cat. At a mere five months Kink has learned how to ask for food (bite my ankle), how to ask to play (bite my ankle) and how to go outside (bite my ankle).

What a smart kitty!

New with Kink is sharpness. He is sharp in mind and claw. I caught him the other day sharpening his claws on a tree, after which he honed them to razor sharpness with his teeth.

Silly me, I thought he was flossing.

Not so.

Witness the following recent conversation:

What happened to you?

Nothing.

What do you mean “nothing,” you look like you went through a shredder?

Just a scratch.

Looks like a zillion scratches.

Please! It’s not like I get a transfusion every day. I mean, once a month, isn’t that the norm?

What’s to be done with a sharp, playful kitten with razor sharp claws and teeth and did I mention sharp?

Number One: Avoid confrontation. When confronted with a sharp kitten, the sharp kitten will win. Back away slowly and chant “Nice kitty, nice kitty.”

Number Two: Feed often. A fat kitty is a slow kitty. A fat kitty is a sleeping kitty. However, the corollary is a fat kitty is an energetic kitty. (See Number One)

Number Three: Assert yourself! You’re the king of the house! Act like one. Failing this fall back to Number Two and Number One.

I’d write more but I have to staunch a recent wound to my ankle. And feed Kink who’s looking a little famished in spite of my blood dripping off his left fang.

Future Chefs

In a few hours I will be up to my eyeballs in young chefs hopefully learning some of the basics of cooking.

It was a moment of madness that I agreed to serve as Merit Badge counsellor for Cooking, but, hopefully, by this time tomorrow some of the 40 young men who take my course will be more confident in the kitchen, at the camp stove or around a fire.

In addition to Health and Safety I'll try to impart some basic knowledge about food and our relationship with it, how to season lightly, when time in the pot is necessary and how to pack lightly while eating well.

My kitchen is strewn with bags of chopped food, trail mix, charcoal and plasic bags. At the end of the day tomorrow I will have supervised the cooking of over 150 meals. Don't people get paid for this sort of thing? Naw, that would ruin the adventure!

p.s. Kink is laying on the keyboard and I'm having to "mouse" around him which is sort of weird if you think about it too much.

Seems Reasonable to Me

You'll die from an Unlikely Illness (like the plague).

You will unfortunately succumb to a random and unlikely disease. Only to find out after death that eating more broccoli would have cured you.

'How will you die?' at QuizGalaxy.com

I like broccoli! More?

Blog-a-Day March

I had a plan. I had it all mapped out. With all the time in the world I would do this and that, go here and there, have my people call your people and we'd do lunch.

The plan is still there but I'm not on it. I'm not with it. I'm out of it.

Shiny objects are my bane and I confess that I've been attracted by them. Chalk it up to no discipline and no willpower. Where did it go? I used to have both, at least a little bit.

Well, it's time to get back on track. March is Blog-a-Day month, go to the gym month and clean the garage month.

Really.

No, really!

This time I mean it.

Mouser

Kink has lived a sheltered life, literally, but he knows a toy mouse when he sees one. The mouse is spyed with keen vision, stalked with stealthy precision and pounced upon with great pounceatude!

Witness -

The Kink

I Knew It

Your results:
You are Dr. Doom

Dr. Doom 77% Apocalypse 62% Lex Luthor 62% Mr. Freeze 61% The Joker 61% Magneto 54% Juggernaut 49% Riddler 47% Dark Phoenix 43% Poison Ivy 38% Venom 37% Green Goblin 37% Kingpin 36% Catwoman 26% Two-Face 25% Mystique 13%

Blessed with smarts and power but burdened by vanity.

Click here to take the Supervillain Personality Quiz

Sharp

Is that a pulsating artery in your neck I see?

Let me have a closer taste, er, look.

The Giver

The bench at the animal shelter started to dig into my rear end. I figured the estimated maximum butt time on this bench was about 30 minutes and I had been sitting there 45.

Done my time. Where's the t-shirt?

Please, spring my ass and let me out of here, I have been listening to barking dogs and smelling dog and cat smell for long enough. It must be part of the "experience."

I was at the animal shelter picking up an animal. Saving an animal, really. A cat with a broken tail named Kink. I had filled out the paperwork and was just waiting for Kink to get done with his exit interview and we would be outta here.

Exit interview. What were they going to ask him?

"How was the Cat Chow, Kink?"

"Well, for the most part the Cat Chow was fresh, and I liked how you alternated between fish and chicken. That was a nice touch. However, you could use a bit of pimento from time to time to add to the color and spice it up a bit."

Right.

I waited for Kink to complete his physical. People came and went. Some came to get rid of animals which for some reason they couldn't keep, and some came for other reasons altogether.

An elderly couple came in clutching a bundle of blankets. After a while the girl behind the counter asked if they were there to pick up an animal.

No, the lady said, we're here to donate some blankets and food.

Fine, the girl said, wait a moment and I'll get a cart and the paperwork.

The lady turned to me. She was in her seventies I would guess, moving well and with purpose. Her husband followed behind pushing the cart full dog food, blankets and dog medicine. He had a grim expression, resigned to his task and not questioning.

We stood there for a while, the three of us. Grim man, elderly, weepy woman and guy waiting for a cat.

Finally, the woman turned to me with the saddest eyes I had seen in 20 years and said, "She died last night."

I thought, Oh my God her daughter died of cancer. Or her even more ancient mother died of some unknown and rare disease. But, it turned out it was her dog. Her faithful companion of many years.

I looked at her as a tear welled in her eye, pooled in the corner, overflowed, and trickled down her cheek.

"She was our baby for 15 years..." her voice trailed off.

I'm not the kind of person...I don't know why...look, it's not me, but I was there and she was looking at me and...

I reached out, pulled her to me, stroked her hair and said, "I know, I know."

She sobbed great heaving sobs, her shoulders hunching up and down and her fingers digging into my back. Finally, she pulled back.

"I loved that dog for so many years," she choked the words, "from a puppy. We rescued her from the rain. The neighbors moved and just left her. She was almost dead but so sweet and she was my friend for so many years and now she's gone."

"You were her friend, too," I said, "you gave her life purpose. She loved you for that. You must know that."

She sobbed a bit more for a few minutes then pulled back. We all reached for some hankies and found a box by the sign-in sheet on the counter. Apparently, the Shelter people anticipate some emotion by people who pick up or drop off animals.

She dabbed her eyes and I dabbed mine.

I thought of the animals I had lived with over the years and how, over time, they had died and I thought of the love we give those animals and their trust and reliance in us and thought of this lady's grief.

After signing the invoice for her donation of blankets, food and medicine she turned to leave. Her husband, bent though age, followed.

She paused at the door, turned and looked at me.

"I don't think we'll be getting another dog," she said, but she wasn't convincing.

I looked at her and said, "I'm not so sure about that. I think there's a dog here who needs you, you know, someone who knows and loves dogs. There are lots of dogs here who need love. Maybe you should come back here in a week or so and check it out."

She looked down and pulled one of the paper Kleenex she had picked up from the shelter and blew her nose. She looked at me and said, "Yeah, maybe I will. We've always had dogs. Maybe I will."

We sort of half waved at each other, she climbed into the passenger side of a pick-up truck which roared to life, backed out slowly, and she was gone.

Shortly, one of the staff members came out with a small kitten.

"I've got Kink, here. Who's taking Kink?"

New Cat in the Hood

Hello Kink!

Save the Sprout

Brussels Sprouts.

How many millions of you are going “Ewwwwwwww!”

Many millions I suspect. The Brussels Sprout is the most hated vegetable in the world according to children, although how many children have actually eaten one? Really. Such a reputation. Undeserved, I say.

The mighty Sprout is rich in vitamin A, vitamin C, folic acid and dietary fiber. Furthermore, the noble Sprout has a crisp, nutty flavor that goes well with butter and lemon. So, there!

A little known fact is that the number one chocolate confectionary sold in Switzerland is, you guessed it, chocolate dipped Brussels sprouts! They are not exported, by law I think.

Of course we all know that things that are good for you are neither good tasting nor popular, like spinach, cod liver oil, exercise and moderation. Who needs ‘em? But, the misunderstood Brussels sprout is that rare exception that is both good for you and good to eat. Moderation, bah! Bring on the sprouts!

Today I write in defense of the regal Sprout, a vegetable I, and, apparently the entire Swiss nation, happen to like. It wasn’t always so. As a child presented with a plateful of soggy Sprouts I would run and hide or join the French Foreign Legion; anything to escape the mushy, foul-smelling, sulphurous pile of green nightmare in front of me.

So far, so bad.

Yet, what I ate as a child and what most people are presented with are the results of abuse and torture of the poor, naked Sprout by…

FREEZING!!!!

And BOILING!!!!

Yes, friends, millions of defenseless Sprouts are subjected to freezing every day. Torn from the warm, sunny climes of the California sprout growing region Sprouts are bundled into unmarked 18-wheelers at night and trucked to an undisclosed location where they are frozen like a brass monkey in a Minnesota blizzard. And heinous as that might sound it gets worse. Once frozen the hapless Sprouts are then shipped to elementary school cafeterias around the United States where they are subjected to days of incessant boiling! Boiling! Until their delicate leaves are reduced to shriveled masses and the exhausted Sprouts expire releasing copious hydrogen sulfide, i.e. fart smell.

American students presented with a steaming green pile of sulphurous green corpses of dead sprouts are commanded to eat them or there will be no dessert! How can you have your dessert if you don’t eat your Sprouts?

Meanwhile, a continent away, refined Swiss students eagerly devour their chocolate sprout truffles served on shiny silver trays.

Is it any wonder that education in America is going downhill?

To illustrate the plight of pitiful Sprouts I present the following series of photographs.

WARNING! The following photographs are of a GRAPHIC nature! Viewer discretion is advised!



The Sprout on the left is a fresh, happy Sprout about to embark on a trip to Switzerland where he will be dipped in warm chocolate and placed on a shiny silver tray.

The Sprout on the right is a very unhappy, shivering frozen Sprout about to be dropped into BOILING WATER!

Let’s watch.



Bubble, bubble toil and trouble! Sprouts boil and waters bubble! Eye of newt, toe of dog, rather than a Sprout you’d eat a frog!




Sad, sad bowl of Sprouts destined for an elementary school in New Jersey where they really won’t notice the smell so much.

How long can we allow this to continue? Free the Sprouts, I say! Contribute generously to the Sprout Liberation Front at P.O. Box BR-549.

Bill Gets His iPhone!

Get yours, too!

Once the service with Cingular is turned on I should be getting calls any day now. At least on paper.

Apple's New iPhone

No buttons! Touch screen. iPod, video, Internet. Check out the Quicktime Movie of the phone in action!

I Sing the Sprout Electric

First, a well-deserved congratulations to Molly at Orangette for snagging a book deal. I am a huge fan, literally, of Orangette and am looking forward to her forthcoming book with a certain hunger.

Thank you, Molly, for reminding me of the Noble Brussels Sprout, but first a word from my electrician.

Dawn broke quietly over Casa Fondue. The cats were asleep. The birds were at somebody else’s house nattering away. The squirrels were tippy toeing around the yard picking up acorns. Barky Dog was, hopefully, trying to draw his last breath in the clutches of a half-starved python, and was silent. Not even the drone of the pool pump to disturb the solitude.

Not even the drone of the pool pump.

The pool pump that drones every morning was droning not.

No. Drone.

I bolted upright with visions of a mass of algae creeping across the deck into the kitchen! Quickly, I leapt out of bed, pulled on my best Pool Boy shorts, threw up the sash, and ran out to the side of the house to see what was the matter.

The pump was lifeless.

I opened the control box and toggled the switch. Nothing.

I went into the garage, opened the breaker box and…everything looked just fine. No red squares indicating a thrown breaker. To be on the safe side I “reset” the breakers. There were lots of breakers and I sort of had a Breaker Fest.

(Now, I put the word “reset” in double quotes because this particular action plays a role later on.)

Once again I checked the pump. Click. Click. Clickity-Click! Nothing.

Rats. Something’s wrong. What’s the best course of action at this point? Right, drink some coffee.

And that’s what I did.

On about the fifth cup, my daughter came downstairs and said that the lights in her bathroom weren’t working. Nor were the sockets. The lights downstairs on the same side of the house weren’t working either.

Uh oh. First the pump. Now the lights. Sounds like it’s time to call..

The Electrician.

“We can be there around 2. OK? If you smell smoke call 911 and not us. OK? Have a nice day!”

Smoke?

I brewed another pot of coffee.

Around about 2 the Electrician Guy arrived. After filling out the paperwork we went around to the pool pump, EG opened the box and probed around with his Magic Probe.

“Ah ha,” he said, “the pump is not getting power. Could be a problem with the cable under the house.”

What I heard was this: Ah ha. The pump is not getting power because the rats chewed through the cable. Rats? Well, they got in through this hole made by the termites. Termites? Well, they got in through this crack in your foundation. Crack? Well, that happened because a big sink hole is forming under your house. But don’t worry about any of this because the asteroid is going to wipe out your neighborhood in two days.

When we got back to the garage EG took the front off the breaker panel and checked all the circuits. They checked out just fine. Then he made an important discovery.

“Hey, lookie this!” he said, “This here main breaker thingie is not quite reset. When they put in the pool they jumpered these house light breakers over here. See? Looks like it blew, got stuck, and didn’t get reset. Then, somehow, all these house breakers got turned off. Did you try to reset any of these breakers?”

My silence gave him his answer.

Having thrust the knife in, EG twisted it for effect, “All we have to do is, click and click, and the problem is fixed. I like it when it’s this simple to fix!”

So, I called out an electrician to flip a circuit breaker. Nice. Although, as I wrote out the check for the service call I asked, “Now, about this asteroid…”

Zoning In

It must be the New Year. The Twilight Zone Marathon is on the Sci-Fi channel. Back to back Twilight Zone episodes, hour after hour.

Who could resist?

As a kid I watched the Twilight Zone every Friday night. Without fail. Little did I know at the time that I was watching performances by actors and actresses who would go on to fame and fortune: William Shatner, Jack Klugman, Burgess Meredith, Billy Mumy, Veronica Cartwright, Donna Douglas.

If I stay awake long enough I’ll see a years worth of episodes.

Creepy episodes featuring disturbing children, clowns and demons.

I’ll never get to sleep after that.

Just like when I was a kid.

I Dive

It's never too late to learn.

Christmas Greetings!

Merry Christmas to all from Twelve Two Two Fondue and Family!

Twelve Two Two Fondue - Three!

Happy Twelve Two Two Day!

Fondue Three will be held tonight at an unspecified location at an unspecified time!

Everybody's invited!

BYOF.

Watch this space as the festivities unfold later this evening.



Later that day...preparing the fondue!



Fondue is ready. Dig in!



And wash it all down with champers after!

Blog Island

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Lord William the Careless of Fiddlehope in the Marsh Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Lucky Ducky

Here we are on an island in the Caribbean: Turks and Caicos.

Palm trees. Sand. Sea. And Internet?

"Is there a hot spot or a Starbucks or a library of some place where I can connect to the Internet," I asked.

"Yes," Miss Trainee at the Front Desk replied sweetly, "you can go to our Hospitality Center and use our new Wi-Fi connection."

"Sweeeeeeeet!" I replied sweetly.

I planned to check out the connection in the morning. A day or two without accessing the Internet wouldn't kill me, although I was beginning to feel a bit puny.

On the way back from dinner we saw the sign for the Hospitality Center.

"Hey, lookie that, the Hospitality Center is right under our room."

Right under our room? Right under our room! Well, if they have free Wi-Fi and the access point is

Right. Under. Our. Room.

Then all those beautiful Internet rays should be irradiating our room like searchlights at a used car lot.

With trembling hands I fired up the MacBook and waited for it to boot up.

"Do you want to connect to linksys?"

Awwwwww, how cute, they're using the default SSID and broadcasting it without a password.

Four antenna bars later I was surfing Google News from the comfort of my balcony and checking out the scene through the screen.

Someone called to me from the back room, "Hey, we're going down to the beach. Wanna go with us?"

"Hang on," I replied, "I'll Google it..."

Timing is Everything

What a nice morning it appeared to be! Sandy the Cat was curled up on the end of the bed chasing imaginary birds in his dreams and making little eep eep noises; twitching his feet erratically.

The sun was shining in the sky, there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Mr. Blue Sky did it right. Hey, hey hey!

I leapt into the shower, sang Inna Gadda Da Vida until the hot water started to run out then decked myself out in my finest daily wear: tropical shorts, bright Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops.

Red-day to par-TAY!

Cruising through the kitchen I filled the coffee maker with a radical, bold mixture of Sumatra and Gold Coast and set it for 8 cups. Gonna get wired today! Look out!

While the coffee was brewing I salsa’d to the front door and saw that the morning paper had arrived. Well, of course it had! Four hours ago, probably. No matter, I thought, I’ll just salsa out there, enjoy the morning sun and pick up that bad boy newspaper. After all, it would take too long to buy and train a dog to do it.

Flinging open the front door I strode purposefully down the walk stopping every few steps to perform a little Tai Chi. Tiger Crane paper fetching. I have found that this sort of behavior keeps the neighbors at bay. I’m trying to cultivate a little je ne sais quoi and I think I’m succeeding.

Suddenly, I froze.

No, I didn’t see a rattlesnake. No, I didn’t realize that I had dreamed getting dressed. No, the neighbors weren’t lined up along the sidewalk videotaping my Tai Chi. No, Paris and Britney had not pulled up to the curb in a low slung sports car.

I froze because it was bloody cold outside! Yikes, who turned off the heat? Although I later found out it was 33 degrees out there, my first thought was “It’s like 33 degrees out there!”

Funny joke, Mr. Blue Skies. Ha ha.

I was seriously underdressed for the weather and turned to dash back into the house faster than you could say “brass monkey” when I paused and glanced back at the paper. I was torn. Newspaper, warm house, newspaper, warm house.

Suddenly, I was overcome by a Texas Moment.

A Texas Moment is when a manly voice sounding a bit like John Wayne comes out of nowhere and tells you the right thing to do. Well, maybe it’s not always the right thing to do but it’s the Texan thing to do. The sort of thing that would lead your surviving family to say

“Well, he warn’t too smart, but he died doing what he loved.”

The voice asked, “What are you? A man or a Jell-O pudding pop?” That was all it took for me to remember my pioneer roots and do the right thing. The Texan thing. I turned and calmly, nay, proudly, walked to the street, in the cold, and picked up my newspaper.

Davy Crockett would have been proud.

Just at that moment I heard a hissing noise. I was surrounded by a hissing noise. Spurting and sputtering the lawn sprinkler system came to life spraying 33-degree water in all directions.

A chill descended on me like being two hours late for an anniversary dinner. Like cluelessly walking into a meeting and being greeted as the keynote speaker. Like checking out a giant cartload of groceries only to find you’ve left your wallet at home. Like getting up for work on a Saturday thinking it’s Friday, then going back to bed only to find out hours later that it really was Friday.

That sort of chill. The cold realization that the sprinkler system will be on for the next 7 minutes and the only way out of the literal chill into the warm house is through the water spray.

WWDCD?

What would Davy Crockett do? Why that’s simple, pardner, the voice said. Old Davy would jes stare down those sprinklers like they wuz gophers on a toadstool and old Davy would jes sashay up through the water like it was confetti at a wedding. A wedding of gophers, if ye will.

Yeah, but Davy would be wearing buckskin and boots, not a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops. There was only one thing to do. Make a run for it.

And one other thing.

Scream like a little girl!

Taking giant steps and looking like one of those lizards that can run across water I hopped, skipped and jumped back up the walkway into the house landing on the foyer carpet in a screaming, soggy heap.

So glad we installed a Binford 3000 Super Soaker Yard Sprinkler, I thought, so very, very glad. I dripped into the kitchen, got a towel off the rail, dried off a bit, cranked up the heat and poured myself a cup of coffee.

Sitting down at the kitchen table I opened up the paper and read the headlines:

Arctic Front to Cause Morning Freeze
Sunny but Cold
Dress Warmly!

What do you think, Sandy, I asked the Cat, black or white socks with sandals?

So That's My Role

Heard in the car today while Christmas shopping:

"One of us needs to be unhappy and I see no reason why it should be me."

Well, that explains a lot.

Weevil Be Gone

I set my coffee cup down to get a piece of toast out of the toaster and when I returned there was a weevil doing the backstroke in my Gold Coast Blend!

How rude!

I fished out the little bugger and noticed several of his brothers clinging to the cupboard door.

That's it, I thought! The weevils have taken over my cupboard and I'm not going to stand for it any more.

Of course, that called for more work than I anticipated, which is the usual case, isn't it?

I took everything out of the cupboard, threw away half the bottles of old vinegar, stale oils and other junk. I washed all the shelves and dried everything thoroughly. I even found half a bag of flour that had become the Weevil Ritz Hotel.

Looking back at my handiwork I wondered why I hadn't done it a year or two or three ago. Not ripe enogh, I expect. Not ripe enough.

Also, I gained about a third more space to store old vinegars, stale oils and other junk.

Woot for me!

Old Moron, Young Moron

"Impulse engines one-quarter reverse thrust, Mr. Sulu. Back 'er out nice and easy."

"Aye, captain, one-quarter reverse thrust."

I'm careful when I back out of a parking place. Usually visibility is limited so I back out slowly to give any drivers behind me a chance to stop. Or whatever.

Today it was a dose of "or whatever" as a kid, whom I'll refer to shortly as the Young Moron, in a red Mustang gave me the horn treatment.

HONNNNNNNNKKKKKK! "Moron," I heard him shout.

Yeah, right, moron to you, too, kid, I thought as I pulled back into my parking place to let him by.

Young Moron gunned his engine and sped past me, squealing his tires.

"Resume course, Mr. Sulu."

"Aye, captain, course laid in."

So, backing out Part Deux went without a hitch and I headed off across the parking lot to the exit. At the far end of the parking lot there seemed to be some sort of commotion; several cars stopped with hazard lights flashing and other people forming a small crowd. I cruised past the first exit and decided to engage in a Texas passtime, rubbernecking, and have a look. There was another exit near the crowd and I could check out the action.

Maybe it was Britney and Paris. Who knows?

Young Moron was standing next to the remains of his red Mustang. It appeared that the speeding Young Moron had run into several shopping carts that are often found littering the parking lot. One or more carts had cracked his windshield and both headlights were gone. Worse yet, though, Young Moron had veered into a planter. The planter won that encounter as the Mustang's front wheel was lying sideways to the car.

What a mess.

I did not gloat, though. Parking lots are hazardous places and it's not a good idea to speed through them. Young Moron was lucky that nobody was hurt. Perhaps he'll learn from this experience and have an opportunity to grow into an Old Moron.

"We are clear of Spaceport, captain."

"Thank you, Mr. Sulu. Set a course for home. Warp factor 5."

"Aye, captain, warp factor 5."

Short List

"If you don't let me know soon what you want for Christmas, you'll get a t-shirt!"

OK. Large, please.

Book 'em, Danno

I am a voracious reader. I read all the time. If I’m idle, I’m reading something. I subscribe to about a dozen magazines, most of them journals or literary reviews. The Victoria’s Secret catalog is a review, of sorts.

I also read books. Many books. And at any given moment I have 10 or 20 books on the go.

The problem is, I recently realized, that I haven’t actually finished a book in years. I start them, skim through them, read the endings, browse but I never actually go front to back, straight through, in page order, from cover to cover.

That was not always the case. In the dim recesses of my mind I remember a time B.K. when I read books all the way through. How else would one treat a book? But, when Kids Ruled the World all that changed and the most I could do was cat nap with a book. That’s probably when I started to subscribe to so many magazines with short stories and, thankfully, sidebars!

If not for the sidebar with its snippets of information I would be even more clueless than I am today. Thank you, sidebar, for telling me that pi are round and cornbread are square.

So, getting a jump on the dreaded New Year’s resolutions I am resolving to read one book, cover to cover, this month.

I have two books in mind: On Writing by Stephen King which has been sitting on my shelf for about 2 years, and The Reluctant Mr. Darwin by David Quammen which I bought only recently. My stretch target will be to read them both. Heck, if I managed to blog every single day in November, how hard could it be to read a couple of books?

We’ll see!


*B.K. - before kids

DHL Hide and Seek

I was expecting a delivery from DHL this morning. I had the tracking number and according to the website the "goods" were on the van. Status: Out for Delivery.

Yesterday was a false alarm. I had the tracking number but the status read: Unknown.

I figured that since the expected delivery date was yesterday it would have been delivered yesterday regardless of the status.

I was wrong. No status, no delivery.

Yesterday came and went as I sat by the window like Scarlett O'Hara waiting for Rhett Butler.

Rhaally, I did. (eyelashes batting furiously)

No DHL.

UPS was all over the street delivering Christmas lawn ornaments from the Monstrous Inflatable Company. FedEx was close behind piled high with Amazon.com boxes.

I finally gave up, lit a candle for the window, and went to bed.

In the morning I got up early, keyed in my tracking number and was greeted by a veritable cornucopia of information. Package received, package scanned, scan acknowledged, package loaded into delivery van, delivery van engine started, delivery van encountering dense traffic, slowing down for school zone.

Oh, joy! It’s coming, it’s coming!

I had several cups of coffee and waited expectedly by the window, my breath fogging the glass in the cold morning air. Soon I was out of coffee and out of breath. The empty box of Puffs and an overwhelming hankering for chicken soup signaled that I needed to make a Kroger's run or I might be too feeble to rip apart the packaging once "it" arrived, suffering from the effects of a cold as I was.

A mental calculation told me that if I was quick and efficient I could dash to the store and scurry back before the traffic density factor dropped to the point that the delivery probability neared unity, assuming the value of pi held over that interval. In a flash I was in the truck and bounding down the road keeping a keen eye out for yellow delivery vans sporting red lettering, just in case I had to make an emergency return.

In my mind I plotted out my shopping path through Kroger's and, once I arrived, executed my plan with military precision: vegetables, Puffs and a plump chicken. In a blur I was through the self-serve checkout lane and heading home, on the prowl like the Terminator for yellow delivery vans.

Arriving home I was relieved to see that the streets were clear and quiet, and prepared to breathe a congested sigh of relief until I spied The Tag hanging from the front door.

A yellow tag sporting red lettering.

Oh, no!

Oh, yes. The tag read, "We waited until we saw you leave your house, then we came out of hiding and tried to deliver your package but, of course, you were already gone! So, we're leaving you this tag to remind you what an idiot you were for leaving the house when you knew the delivery van was on the road. So there."

Before I ground my teeth into powder, though, there was a P.S. at the bottom.

P.S. We'll be back in your neighborhood in an hour which will give you time to unpack your shopping and get your chicken soup started.

Somewhat dejected, that’s exactly what I did and as I finished seasoning the soup and putting the lid on the pot I heard a van pull up to the front of the house.

A yellow delivery van with DHL in big, red letters.

“Here you go,” the delivery guy said, “sign here. Thanks. Have a nice day, drink plenty of fluids, get some rest and enjoy your chicken soup. I always add a quarter-cup of vermouth. That’s good in chicken soup.” He hopped into the van and drove off.

I walked back into the kitchen and put the package on the table. I fixed a cup of coffee; no rush, now. And found myself humming,

“Here comes Santy Claus, here comes Santy Claus…”