Happy Blue Moon!
(Nikon D60, 200mm Nikkor VR, f11, 125/sec, handheld!)
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Happy New Year!
Once in a Blue Moon you'll see a picture like this.
Happy Blue Moon!
(Nikon D60, 200mm Nikkor VR, f11, 125/sec, handheld!)
Happy Blue Moon!
(Nikon D60, 200mm Nikkor VR, f11, 125/sec, handheld!)
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Ten Pack
It's December 20th.
In two days it will be Twelve Two Two and there will be Fondue. Watch this space for a live video feed of the festivities starting Tuesday afternoon.
Meanwhile, have you had enough of the Ten Best lists yet? Not me! Those lists save time and are non-fattening. Great combination.
Here's a selection of stories from Twelve Two Two Fondue past. I call it a Ten Pack rather than a "top ten" or a "best of" because I just picked them myself.
I hope you enjoyed them.
In two days it will be Twelve Two Two and there will be Fondue. Watch this space for a live video feed of the festivities starting Tuesday afternoon.
Meanwhile, have you had enough of the Ten Best lists yet? Not me! Those lists save time and are non-fattening. Great combination.
Here's a selection of stories from Twelve Two Two Fondue past. I call it a Ten Pack rather than a "top ten" or a "best of" because I just picked them myself.
Lightly Toasted
Social Dis-Ease
Pick Right
Crab Redux
The Giver
Casa Bonita
Go-Te-Bo
Lawnmower Man
Manchester 0, Dragonfly 1
Home Again
I hope you enjoyed them.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Ten Years Ago
I thought it would be fun to post our annual Christmas letter from 1999. Party like 1999, Garth! Also, we had a recent "Nobbs Sighting." Yes, the old boy is still kicking around the neighborhood.
1999
It makes you wonder if something is wrong when the cat chooses to live on the streets rather than stay at home. Granted, the Farrell’s moved in June but only about a mile from the old place, certainly not justification for Nobbs the Cat abandoning pretty nice digs with a swimming pool and an endless supply of Cat Chow for a life of sleeping in doorways, eating out of trash bags and picking up aluminum cans for spare change. He hitches a ride home every so often for some fresh shrimp to eat and clean clothes to sleep on, then he saunters back to the mean streets of Sugar Land where he is king. Well, so long as he’s happy.
In fact, his is not unlike the kid’s lifestyle. They use home as a place to eat, sleep, make phone calls and catch a lift to the next of their never-ending activities. If the van could talk it would describe its year as a continuous, frenetic journey between soccer games and tournaments and referee clinics, basketball games, driving lessons, Boy Scout meetings, campouts and adventures, orchestra and band concerts, birthday parties, and emergency shopping trips to purchase school supplies on Sunday nights at 9 PM. Oh, yeah, and picking up Nobbs every week or so for a hot meal and a delousing. Life in the 90’s.
All journeys have their highlights and this year has been no exception. It got off to an exciting start with soccer goalie Helen breaking her wrist trying to defend against a hard kick. The score: wrist 0, soccer ball 1. Today, Helen’s wrist is as good as new, in fact, even better. Helen knew that when Nobbs broke his toe last year it had to be amputated, so, all in all, she’s feeling pretty good about how her wrist turned out. She now has the uncanny ability to predict changes in the weather, a handy skill to have here in south Texas, and she manages to get out of activities that require heavy lifting because of her “poorly wrist”, don’t you see. Nobbs can still climb trees to murder birds, so everybody’s happy.
Still in January, Bill ran his first marathon, yes, folks, that’s 26 point two miles, and to this day he’s more than a little irritated at whoever tacked on that two-tenths of a mile at the end because after passing the big 26 mile marker the finish line is way the heck down the street. It just doesn’t seem fair. On the bright side he gets to do it again in a few weeks. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since he was limping around the house on sore feet whimpering “Oh!”, “Ah!” and avoiding stairs. Houston Marathon, January 16th, 2000. He’ll be there.
Spring was a blur of soccer games and referee clinics. Helen, Sarah and Claire qualified as soccer referees and actually got paid for strutting around in nifty, black uniforms, waving flags, blowing whistles and generally looking officious. Claire also played on a team, as did Chris who complained about bad calls made by whistle-blowing, officious-looking referees. Soccer generally involved being three places at once with two vehicles, and occasional trips to San Antonio which introduced Claire to the art of map reading at night and caused Helen to “lose it” only a few times. Soccer was interrupted, briefly, for a skiing trip to Colorado to visit the Day’s in their splendid mountain home. Everybody returned intact and well-fed.
In June the Farrell’s moved to a spacious new house gaining a swimming pool, two extra rooms, an enormous kitchen, and losing, to some extent, one ungrateful cat. Summer was punctuated by a few short trips with people going in all directions: Sarah to Bartlesville, Chris and Bill to Scout camp, Claire to Las Vegas (doesn’t it just figure) leaving Helen with a magical week of being “home alone”. We won’t count Helen’s sojourns to Rio de Janeiro on “business”. The whole clan descended upon Phoenix for a few days in July to visit the senior Farrell’s who celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in December followed shortly thereafter by Farrell Senior’s 80th birthday. A fine way to end the century by any account.
Life became less hectic as Sarah earned her driving license in September and was able to perform chauffeuring duties when Bill and Helen were stuck in traffic on the way home from work. She serves as a taxi for Nobbs, Chris and Claire. Nobbs seems the most grateful.
And, that, as they say, is that for 1999; end of the year and, as far as we’re concerned, end of the century. Claire (who else?) is in charge of the New Year’s Eve party. We’ll have champagne, set all the clocks in the house to go off at midnight, pick up Nobbs and feed him shrimp until he barfs on the carpet. It’ll be great! See you next century!
Postscript
Born this day in Billings, Montana, to William and Maddie Farrell, young William Farrell (b1919-d2005), Architect, Army veteran, friend to many and my father. He would have been 90 today.
It makes you wonder if something is wrong when the cat chooses to live on the streets rather than stay at home. Granted, the Farrell’s moved in June but only about a mile from the old place, certainly not justification for Nobbs the Cat abandoning pretty nice digs with a swimming pool and an endless supply of Cat Chow for a life of sleeping in doorways, eating out of trash bags and picking up aluminum cans for spare change. He hitches a ride home every so often for some fresh shrimp to eat and clean clothes to sleep on, then he saunters back to the mean streets of Sugar Land where he is king. Well, so long as he’s happy.
In fact, his is not unlike the kid’s lifestyle. They use home as a place to eat, sleep, make phone calls and catch a lift to the next of their never-ending activities. If the van could talk it would describe its year as a continuous, frenetic journey between soccer games and tournaments and referee clinics, basketball games, driving lessons, Boy Scout meetings, campouts and adventures, orchestra and band concerts, birthday parties, and emergency shopping trips to purchase school supplies on Sunday nights at 9 PM. Oh, yeah, and picking up Nobbs every week or so for a hot meal and a delousing. Life in the 90’s.
All journeys have their highlights and this year has been no exception. It got off to an exciting start with soccer goalie Helen breaking her wrist trying to defend against a hard kick. The score: wrist 0, soccer ball 1. Today, Helen’s wrist is as good as new, in fact, even better. Helen knew that when Nobbs broke his toe last year it had to be amputated, so, all in all, she’s feeling pretty good about how her wrist turned out. She now has the uncanny ability to predict changes in the weather, a handy skill to have here in south Texas, and she manages to get out of activities that require heavy lifting because of her “poorly wrist”, don’t you see. Nobbs can still climb trees to murder birds, so everybody’s happy.
Still in January, Bill ran his first marathon, yes, folks, that’s 26 point two miles, and to this day he’s more than a little irritated at whoever tacked on that two-tenths of a mile at the end because after passing the big 26 mile marker the finish line is way the heck down the street. It just doesn’t seem fair. On the bright side he gets to do it again in a few weeks. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since he was limping around the house on sore feet whimpering “Oh!”, “Ah!” and avoiding stairs. Houston Marathon, January 16th, 2000. He’ll be there.
Spring was a blur of soccer games and referee clinics. Helen, Sarah and Claire qualified as soccer referees and actually got paid for strutting around in nifty, black uniforms, waving flags, blowing whistles and generally looking officious. Claire also played on a team, as did Chris who complained about bad calls made by whistle-blowing, officious-looking referees. Soccer generally involved being three places at once with two vehicles, and occasional trips to San Antonio which introduced Claire to the art of map reading at night and caused Helen to “lose it” only a few times. Soccer was interrupted, briefly, for a skiing trip to Colorado to visit the Day’s in their splendid mountain home. Everybody returned intact and well-fed.
In June the Farrell’s moved to a spacious new house gaining a swimming pool, two extra rooms, an enormous kitchen, and losing, to some extent, one ungrateful cat. Summer was punctuated by a few short trips with people going in all directions: Sarah to Bartlesville, Chris and Bill to Scout camp, Claire to Las Vegas (doesn’t it just figure) leaving Helen with a magical week of being “home alone”. We won’t count Helen’s sojourns to Rio de Janeiro on “business”. The whole clan descended upon Phoenix for a few days in July to visit the senior Farrell’s who celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in December followed shortly thereafter by Farrell Senior’s 80th birthday. A fine way to end the century by any account.
Life became less hectic as Sarah earned her driving license in September and was able to perform chauffeuring duties when Bill and Helen were stuck in traffic on the way home from work. She serves as a taxi for Nobbs, Chris and Claire. Nobbs seems the most grateful.
And, that, as they say, is that for 1999; end of the year and, as far as we’re concerned, end of the century. Claire (who else?) is in charge of the New Year’s Eve party. We’ll have champagne, set all the clocks in the house to go off at midnight, pick up Nobbs and feed him shrimp until he barfs on the carpet. It’ll be great! See you next century!
Postscript
Born this day in Billings, Montana, to William and Maddie Farrell, young William Farrell (b1919-d2005), Architect, Army veteran, friend to many and my father. He would have been 90 today.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Just in Time
I wondered how I was going to occupy all my free time over the holidays.
Wonder no more!
Doodle Jump meets Santa.
Wonder no more!
Doodle Jump meets Santa.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Shorter Shopping List
Found on the kitchen counter:
Well, that makes sense. Everything goes better with bacon!
Shopping List
bacon
toilet paper
Well, that makes sense. Everything goes better with bacon!
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Shorter Christmas Poem
"The Kat was on the mantle with care
in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there."
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Short Rave
About a million years ago I built a crystal radio. The parts were right out of the Flintstones: plywood, copper wire, cardboard tube, a semiconductor diode and a capacitor tuner which was the most 'elaborate' part of the setup. Once assembled I could pick up lots of static and faint AM radio stations. No batteries required.
Little did I know at the time but part of the static I heard was radiation remnant of the Big Bang itself. It would have been way cool to know that, but at the time it was just annoying. Now when I hear static I think it's way cool and I am One with the Universe.
Some years later I built a Heathkit Short Wave radio that operated on many bands in the short, medium and long waves. I scanned the airwaves for hours at a time listening to Morse code, foreign languages and static, none of which I understood in the faintest. I did wonder, however, how true those stories were of people who "learned to speak English" by listening to radio. I listened to a lot of Spanish and never learned anything other than "pendejo" is a term of affection.
The Heathkit Short Wave radio was a serious contraption, and considering I had no freaking idea what I was doing putting that thing together it's a wonder it worked at all. Granted, I could follow the instructions but I can only imagine how many cold solder joints I made or how many components I put in the wrong place. I remember having a bunch of parts left over which either were spares or I didn't install them. Who knows? The radio worked in spite of myself.
Fast forward a few years or decades (and this was a few years or decades before the present) and a friend of mine showed me the latest and greatest in portable short wave, all band radios. The Sony ICF-2001 was about the size of a modern laptop (which hadn't been invented yet) and was (gasp, be still my heart!) DIGITAL!
Yes, you could "punch in" a frequency and pull up a radio station exactly. No "twiddling" of dials or knobs. No messing around with side bands and all that other stuff that brought in more Big Bang static than Big Bopper music. Just tap-tap-tap and it was Pendejo City! I was so impressed I bought the company. Well, not exactly. I made a mental note to find one of those Bad Boy short wave radios and that's what I did.
That was the plan. What I didn't count on was Sony taking the technology both up and down a notch; more powerful and smaller. Enamored, never the less, I sprung the cash and scored the goods; the Sony ICF-2002. Running on four AA batteries the 2002 took me to Pendejo City any time I liked and also brought in AM and FM stations free of the Big Bang. I had a lot of fun with that radio and learned to swear in 39 languages.
All things come to an end, however, and for the ICF-2002 it was a bad set of batteries which leaked (twice) and corroded the circuit boards rendering the radio mostly useless. I say "mostly" because in its final days in 2008 it served as our only link to the Outside World in the aftermath of Hurricane Ike which knocked out power to our house for over six days. With the radio we could pick up AM, FM and TV audio broadcasts that told us how quickly, or not, the service companies were working to restore power to the area, the priorities and the predictions.
Much like my days centuries earlier with my crystal radio set, we huddled around the little Sony and dreamed of chocolate bars dropping from airplanes as the power siege lifted. I like Ike! Not.
So, after power was restored and we went about getting our lives back in order I spent a little time learning what Sony had done in the intervening years. Turns out not much and a whole lot. The ICF-7600 is a much-updated version of its ancestor and totally computer controlled. It didn't take me long reading phrases I had no idea of the meaning but sounded totally cool like "synchronous detector circuits" before my Shiny Object Gland took over and I was hammering Amazon like a starving monkey on a coconut.
In due time I retired the ICF-2002, conducted an autopsy to determine how far the battery damage actually went (extensive) and the new radio moved into the hood. Similar operation, similar size but this guy will live on a diet of lithium batteries, hopefully less prone to leaking and causing damage.
It was a good run of over 20 years for the ICF-2002. Who knows what the technology will be like in 2030!
Little did I know at the time but part of the static I heard was radiation remnant of the Big Bang itself. It would have been way cool to know that, but at the time it was just annoying. Now when I hear static I think it's way cool and I am One with the Universe.
Some years later I built a Heathkit Short Wave radio that operated on many bands in the short, medium and long waves. I scanned the airwaves for hours at a time listening to Morse code, foreign languages and static, none of which I understood in the faintest. I did wonder, however, how true those stories were of people who "learned to speak English" by listening to radio. I listened to a lot of Spanish and never learned anything other than "pendejo" is a term of affection.
The Heathkit Short Wave radio was a serious contraption, and considering I had no freaking idea what I was doing putting that thing together it's a wonder it worked at all. Granted, I could follow the instructions but I can only imagine how many cold solder joints I made or how many components I put in the wrong place. I remember having a bunch of parts left over which either were spares or I didn't install them. Who knows? The radio worked in spite of myself.
Fast forward a few years or decades (and this was a few years or decades before the present) and a friend of mine showed me the latest and greatest in portable short wave, all band radios. The Sony ICF-2001 was about the size of a modern laptop (which hadn't been invented yet) and was (gasp, be still my heart!) DIGITAL!
Yes, you could "punch in" a frequency and pull up a radio station exactly. No "twiddling" of dials or knobs. No messing around with side bands and all that other stuff that brought in more Big Bang static than Big Bopper music. Just tap-tap-tap and it was Pendejo City! I was so impressed I bought the company. Well, not exactly. I made a mental note to find one of those Bad Boy short wave radios and that's what I did.
That was the plan. What I didn't count on was Sony taking the technology both up and down a notch; more powerful and smaller. Enamored, never the less, I sprung the cash and scored the goods; the Sony ICF-2002. Running on four AA batteries the 2002 took me to Pendejo City any time I liked and also brought in AM and FM stations free of the Big Bang. I had a lot of fun with that radio and learned to swear in 39 languages.
All things come to an end, however, and for the ICF-2002 it was a bad set of batteries which leaked (twice) and corroded the circuit boards rendering the radio mostly useless. I say "mostly" because in its final days in 2008 it served as our only link to the Outside World in the aftermath of Hurricane Ike which knocked out power to our house for over six days. With the radio we could pick up AM, FM and TV audio broadcasts that told us how quickly, or not, the service companies were working to restore power to the area, the priorities and the predictions.
Much like my days centuries earlier with my crystal radio set, we huddled around the little Sony and dreamed of chocolate bars dropping from airplanes as the power siege lifted. I like Ike! Not.
So, after power was restored and we went about getting our lives back in order I spent a little time learning what Sony had done in the intervening years. Turns out not much and a whole lot. The ICF-7600 is a much-updated version of its ancestor and totally computer controlled. It didn't take me long reading phrases I had no idea of the meaning but sounded totally cool like "synchronous detector circuits" before my Shiny Object Gland took over and I was hammering Amazon like a starving monkey on a coconut.
In due time I retired the ICF-2002, conducted an autopsy to determine how far the battery damage actually went (extensive) and the new radio moved into the hood. Similar operation, similar size but this guy will live on a diet of lithium batteries, hopefully less prone to leaking and causing damage.
It was a good run of over 20 years for the ICF-2002. Who knows what the technology will be like in 2030!
Friday, December 04, 2009
Snow? Ha!
This was yesterday.
The weatherman called for "snow in the morning."
Snow? Ha!
This is today.
Snow! Not so ha.
When it snows in Houston we do crazy things. Like run around outside in t-shirts and sandals screaming, "It's snowing! It's snowing!"
We make snowballs the size of hummingbird eggs and pelt each other with them. We have to get very close because most of the snow-bird-egg-balls melt before reaching their target.
And take pictures of palm trees with snow on them because NOBODY'S EVER SEEN THAT BEFORE!
Check it out! Snow. On a palm tree!! Is that crazy or what?????
And it brings out the best in people who apparently have never seen snow!
The weatherman called for "snow in the morning."
Snow? Ha!
This is today.
Snow! Not so ha.
When it snows in Houston we do crazy things. Like run around outside in t-shirts and sandals screaming, "It's snowing! It's snowing!"
We make snowballs the size of hummingbird eggs and pelt each other with them. We have to get very close because most of the snow-bird-egg-balls melt before reaching their target.
And take pictures of palm trees with snow on them because NOBODY'S EVER SEEN THAT BEFORE!
Check it out! Snow. On a palm tree!! Is that crazy or what?????
And it brings out the best in people who apparently have never seen snow!
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Hoarse, of Coarse
I woke up this morning a little hoarse this morning, pranced around, nibbled on some hay and farted a rainbow.
That is, I was dreaming I was a little horse but woke up with a big hoarse and a very colourful room.
(I heart rainbows!)
(I heart coffee more!)
Following my heart into the kitchen for a hot cup of Joe, I called Kink to give him a Morning Snax but instead of hearing myself say, "Hey, Kinkers, ya want a Snak-O?"
it came out more like this:
" y ers n Ssss O ? "
Although I was thinking real loud, I was squeaking like an old hinge on a rusty gate being swung by a quartet of bullfrogs. I tried a chorus of Sweet Adeline in one-part harmony to no effect.
Kink was still in the other room oblivious to my condition. I decided to write him a note only to find the pen was out of ink.
Great Caesar's Ghost! My hoarseness had affected my literacy! I could read but I couldn't write. I was a half-literacy. That gave me more pause for thought. Half-literacy. Which half was I, lite or racy? Based on the last time I weighed myself I certainly wasn't "lite" which meant I was "racy."
It all made perfect horse sense. I was a racy hoarse.
If you're confused then think for a moment about me going through this before having a single cup of coffee.
Coffee! That might cure my racy hoarseness.
Alas, that was not the case. After cup three I was hot to trot, champing at the bit and I think I had become a Colts fan.
It didn't get any better throughout the day. Why is it when you're having a little trouble with your voice that people ask you one inane question after another?
So, at the end of the day after all that advice and heartfelt concern I sit here with Dr. Google and here's what he has to say:
"The best remedy for hoarseness is to not talk."
Now, why didn't I think of that?
That is, I was dreaming I was a little horse but woke up with a big hoarse and a very colourful room.
(I heart rainbows!)
(I heart coffee more!)
Following my heart into the kitchen for a hot cup of Joe, I called Kink to give him a Morning Snax but instead of hearing myself say, "Hey, Kinkers, ya want a Snak-O?"
it came out more like this:
" y ers n Ssss O ? "
Although I was thinking real loud, I was squeaking like an old hinge on a rusty gate being swung by a quartet of bullfrogs. I tried a chorus of Sweet Adeline in one-part harmony to no effect.
Kink was still in the other room oblivious to my condition. I decided to write him a note only to find the pen was out of ink.
Great Caesar's Ghost! My hoarseness had affected my literacy! I could read but I couldn't write. I was a half-literacy. That gave me more pause for thought. Half-literacy. Which half was I, lite or racy? Based on the last time I weighed myself I certainly wasn't "lite" which meant I was "racy."
It all made perfect horse sense. I was a racy hoarse.
If you're confused then think for a moment about me going through this before having a single cup of coffee.
Coffee! That might cure my racy hoarseness.
Alas, that was not the case. After cup three I was hot to trot, champing at the bit and I think I had become a Colts fan.
It didn't get any better throughout the day. Why is it when you're having a little trouble with your voice that people ask you one inane question after another?
Oh, your voice sounds terrible! Does it hurt? I said, DOES IT HURT? Alright, don't say anything, be that way!
(Memo to self: find a way to tell people that your voice is broken, not your ears.)
Have you tried gargling with (salt water, vodka, oatmeal, cod liver oil, hot tea, grape jelly ... )
I had the SAME thing and I couldn't talk for 12 years.
Nod your head for 'yes.' Do you want tuna or turkey?
So, at the end of the day after all that advice and heartfelt concern I sit here with Dr. Google and here's what he has to say:
"The best remedy for hoarseness is to not talk."
Now, why didn't I think of that?
Monday, November 30, 2009
I Can Haz Care
Yeah, you finished your Fourth NaBloPoMo in a row. You can haz pat on bak now.
I cares.
Rly.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Trying Angles
A report on National Public Radio the other day reported on something I've known intuitively for years: sandwiches taste better if they're cut diagonally.
Triangles taste better than rectangles? Apparently so! It was on the radio. Must be true.
The reporter even went so far as to dig up (literally, I think) an historian who argued that the triangle was one of the original Platonic Solids and, thus, by dint of being Greek, I guess, tasted better. I never knew one could have a Platonic relationship with a sandwich, but there you have it. It was on the radio. Must be true.
Sandwiches taste better if they're cut diagonally. Furthermore, people know this either innately or by experience which explains why people preferentially select triangle-shaped over rectangle-shaped sandwiches.
I pondered this for quite a while, several minutes at least, and mused about my own sandwich eating preferences and concluded that I must operate at a simpler, less Platonic, level. Call it "reptilian."
See sandwich. Eat sandwich.
That's about it.
I tried to harken a time in which I thought, "Ah, the Rectangle! Four 90-degree angles on the inside, four perfect corners on the outside. My, oh, my is this sandwich going to be good!"
Nor, I confess, could I recall a time thinking, "Ah, the Triangle! Oh, and an isosceles Right Triangle at that. Why, bless Plato, this sandwich is going to be good!"
Nope. All I could dredge up were vague, disturbing images of my forked tongue flicking in and out, and then everything went blank.
So, being unable to confirm the NPR report, regardless of the fact that it was on the radio, must be true, I set out to conduct my own scientific study on Sandwich Shape Preference.
I started out by constructing two identical sandwiches: turkey salad with tomato, avocado and Romaine lettuce on home-baked wheat bread. (See Figure 1, below.)
Figure 1
Next, using my best English steel carving knife honed to surgical standards I cut one sandwich perpendicular to the crust to form two rectangles, and the other sandwich was cut along the diagonal to form two triangles. Identical ingredients served on identical plates, the only difference being The Cut. (See Rectangle Cut and Triangle Cut, below.)
Rectangle Cut
Triangle Cut
The next part of the experiment was a little tricky. I wanted to solicit the opinions of twenty people at random, but where to get twenty random people? Turns out the solution was right in front of my nose, rather, my house.
The walkers.
On a Sunday there is a continuous parade of neighbors out for a stroll or walking their dogs. All day long. Back and forth, often the same people. Very random and very perfect.
So, I decided to stop people as they walked by the house to get their opinion and settle the sandwich shape debate once and for all, scientifically.
Now, do you have any idea how many people either start walking faster or even break into a run if you stop them and ask a simple question like, "Do you want to have a look at my turkey sandwich?"
Seriously! After an hour I had to change my approach totally. First, be polite. Second, sound more scientific. Third, invoke authority.
"Excuse me, sir or madam, would you be interested in offering your educated analysis for a project somewhat under the guise of PNR?"
"Are you working under the auspices of N-P-R?"
"More like under the influence."
"Yes, I'd be delighted."
In no time I had twenty considered opinions and the results were both unequivocal and conclusive.
Rectangles are preferred. TWENTY to ZERO! Yes, every random person picked Rectangle. No hesitation.
I know, I was shocked, too. This shakes my faith in radio. Can nothing be trusted? What about Plato and the Solids and the aesthetics of triangles over rectangles. Was that all just hype? What else has NPR got wrong? Does this mean that in Lake Woebegone the women aren't strong and all the children aren't above average? Or instead of Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me we should tell people right away? Should Science Friday be on Wednesday? Should we only consider Some Things?
Clearly, the conclusion to be drawn from this scientific experiment is not to accept things at face value. We must place a higher premium on skepticism. We should all move to Missouri. There's more at stake here than Triangles or Rectangles, Boxers or Briefs. I believe that we are talking about Civilization or Savagery.
Seriously. Think about it.
In conclusion let's contemplate the once-maligned Rectangle whose tarnished reputation was given a slight buff today. Here's to you, Rectangle, well done! (See the Winner, below.)
The Winner
Triangles taste better than rectangles? Apparently so! It was on the radio. Must be true.
The reporter even went so far as to dig up (literally, I think) an historian who argued that the triangle was one of the original Platonic Solids and, thus, by dint of being Greek, I guess, tasted better. I never knew one could have a Platonic relationship with a sandwich, but there you have it. It was on the radio. Must be true.
Sandwiches taste better if they're cut diagonally. Furthermore, people know this either innately or by experience which explains why people preferentially select triangle-shaped over rectangle-shaped sandwiches.
I pondered this for quite a while, several minutes at least, and mused about my own sandwich eating preferences and concluded that I must operate at a simpler, less Platonic, level. Call it "reptilian."
See sandwich. Eat sandwich.
That's about it.
I tried to harken a time in which I thought, "Ah, the Rectangle! Four 90-degree angles on the inside, four perfect corners on the outside. My, oh, my is this sandwich going to be good!"
Nor, I confess, could I recall a time thinking, "Ah, the Triangle! Oh, and an isosceles Right Triangle at that. Why, bless Plato, this sandwich is going to be good!"
Nope. All I could dredge up were vague, disturbing images of my forked tongue flicking in and out, and then everything went blank.
So, being unable to confirm the NPR report, regardless of the fact that it was on the radio, must be true, I set out to conduct my own scientific study on Sandwich Shape Preference.
I started out by constructing two identical sandwiches: turkey salad with tomato, avocado and Romaine lettuce on home-baked wheat bread. (See Figure 1, below.)
Next, using my best English steel carving knife honed to surgical standards I cut one sandwich perpendicular to the crust to form two rectangles, and the other sandwich was cut along the diagonal to form two triangles. Identical ingredients served on identical plates, the only difference being The Cut. (See Rectangle Cut and Triangle Cut, below.)
The next part of the experiment was a little tricky. I wanted to solicit the opinions of twenty people at random, but where to get twenty random people? Turns out the solution was right in front of my nose, rather, my house.
The walkers.
On a Sunday there is a continuous parade of neighbors out for a stroll or walking their dogs. All day long. Back and forth, often the same people. Very random and very perfect.
So, I decided to stop people as they walked by the house to get their opinion and settle the sandwich shape debate once and for all, scientifically.
Now, do you have any idea how many people either start walking faster or even break into a run if you stop them and ask a simple question like, "Do you want to have a look at my turkey sandwich?"
Seriously! After an hour I had to change my approach totally. First, be polite. Second, sound more scientific. Third, invoke authority.
"Excuse me, sir or madam, would you be interested in offering your educated analysis for a project somewhat under the guise of PNR?"
"Are you working under the auspices of N-P-R?"
"More like under the influence."
"Yes, I'd be delighted."
In no time I had twenty considered opinions and the results were both unequivocal and conclusive.
Rectangles are preferred. TWENTY to ZERO! Yes, every random person picked Rectangle. No hesitation.
I know, I was shocked, too. This shakes my faith in radio. Can nothing be trusted? What about Plato and the Solids and the aesthetics of triangles over rectangles. Was that all just hype? What else has NPR got wrong? Does this mean that in Lake Woebegone the women aren't strong and all the children aren't above average? Or instead of Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me we should tell people right away? Should Science Friday be on Wednesday? Should we only consider Some Things?
Clearly, the conclusion to be drawn from this scientific experiment is not to accept things at face value. We must place a higher premium on skepticism. We should all move to Missouri. There's more at stake here than Triangles or Rectangles, Boxers or Briefs. I believe that we are talking about Civilization or Savagery.
Seriously. Think about it.
In conclusion let's contemplate the once-maligned Rectangle whose tarnished reputation was given a slight buff today. Here's to you, Rectangle, well done! (See the Winner, below.)
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Who You Calling a Goober?
Goobers.
Not a great sounding word, but good eating as they say.
I'm talking about boiled goobers, aka boiled peanuts.
Once you start eating them, get comfortable. You're going to be there a while. I'd suggest laying in a supply of cold beer, too. And some tall tales.
Let's see. Goobers, check. Beer, check. Tall tales, check and double check. (Is there any other kind?)
Boiled peanuts take planning. First, it's not easy to get raw peanuts year round. They usually appear in the Fall, like about NOW and don't last long at the supermarket. I bought two bags this year on a whim. I saw "Raw Peanuts" and thought "Boiled Peanuts" and the rest was history.
The process is easy but time consuming. You have to boil the peanuts in a large pot of water with plenty of salt for 3-4 hours. I let the peanuts soak in the brine after cooking for another hour to let them soak in as much brine as possible. Then I drain and refrigerate them overnight.
Chilled boiled peanuts are fun, if messy, to eat, succulent and salty. Don't forget salty. That's the best part. Next to the beer and tall tales.
When I was a kid we used to hike to Old Man Carter's for boiled peanuts. It was a long way. About two days hike. Uphill. And it was always snowing. We couldn't afford shoes so we wrapped our bare feet with barbed wire for traction in the snow.
Old Man Carter would always tell us that he just sold out to make us cry, then charge us double because he could.
Then it was a three day hike home. Uphill. In the snow.
But worth it, yes, every frostbit amputated toe was worth the trek. I saved those toes and I've got them in the fridge here in a jar labeled "Gerkins" just so I don't get in trouble with the FBI.
Ah, I seem to be getting ahead of myself in the Tall Tale Department. Oh, well, there's always tomorrow!
Friday, November 27, 2009
Nobbs Sighting
Nobbs
Short version: We raised Nobbs from a kitten. He ran away.
A longer version: We moved to Houston about a decade ago when housing was tight and found "a place" to call Home until we could find "another place" to call Home. In the 18 months we lived at "a place" our cats, Nobbs and Sandy, staked out their territory. Sandy, more of a homebody, staked out the kitchen and the couch. Nobbs, the explorer, ranged about a mile in radius. He could be sighted far and wide around the neighborhood, so much so that the kids on the next street over thought he lived there. They named him "Cow" because of his striking markings.*
After we moved to "another place" Nobbs was never quite settled and could often be found slinking around the old neighborhood nearly two miles away. His range had increased considerably. Nobbs was always a survivor and we called him the Dust Bin King of the neighborhood because of his uncanny way of living in the rough: eating out of trash cans, mooching off of people and living off the land. Nobbs had quick reflexes, sharp claws and a hair trigger. You'd cross Nobbs at your peril.
Nobbs would disappear for weeks at a time only to show up at the window ready for some chow and a long nap. Then he'd be off again. We found that he had taken up residence at another house in the neighborhood and his absences grew longer and longer. Finally he stopped coming home altogether.
After about a year he showed up in a yard and I saw him as I drove by. I stopped and called him and he trotted over as if he owned the place, which he did. He was wearing a collar with the name "Domino." Nobbs, Cow, Domino - he's a man of mystery. I went on my way and he went on his.
Another year passed without a Nobbs sighting and we figured either he moved to a farther neighborhood, or his adopted family moved or he had gone to the Great Dust Bin in the Sky.
Not so.
Recently I was driving through the neighborhood and there he was, big as day, sleeping in the tall grass. I pulled over, got out my camera and gave him a call. He perked up his ears, trotted over and gave me a rub around the ankles as if we were old buddies. Then he turned tail, walked into a flower bed and went to sleep.
What a character. One of these days he's going to show up pawing at the window for some chow and a nap and, you know, he's welcome to it.
*The name "Nobbs" referred to a peculiar broken bone at the end of his tail that fused into a knob. Later in life he got his tail caught in something and it had to be amputated, the stub of which is seen in the photo. What's with our cats and strange tails?
Short version: We raised Nobbs from a kitten. He ran away.
A longer version: We moved to Houston about a decade ago when housing was tight and found "a place" to call Home until we could find "another place" to call Home. In the 18 months we lived at "a place" our cats, Nobbs and Sandy, staked out their territory. Sandy, more of a homebody, staked out the kitchen and the couch. Nobbs, the explorer, ranged about a mile in radius. He could be sighted far and wide around the neighborhood, so much so that the kids on the next street over thought he lived there. They named him "Cow" because of his striking markings.*
After we moved to "another place" Nobbs was never quite settled and could often be found slinking around the old neighborhood nearly two miles away. His range had increased considerably. Nobbs was always a survivor and we called him the Dust Bin King of the neighborhood because of his uncanny way of living in the rough: eating out of trash cans, mooching off of people and living off the land. Nobbs had quick reflexes, sharp claws and a hair trigger. You'd cross Nobbs at your peril.
Nobbs would disappear for weeks at a time only to show up at the window ready for some chow and a long nap. Then he'd be off again. We found that he had taken up residence at another house in the neighborhood and his absences grew longer and longer. Finally he stopped coming home altogether.
After about a year he showed up in a yard and I saw him as I drove by. I stopped and called him and he trotted over as if he owned the place, which he did. He was wearing a collar with the name "Domino." Nobbs, Cow, Domino - he's a man of mystery. I went on my way and he went on his.
Another year passed without a Nobbs sighting and we figured either he moved to a farther neighborhood, or his adopted family moved or he had gone to the Great Dust Bin in the Sky.
Not so.
Recently I was driving through the neighborhood and there he was, big as day, sleeping in the tall grass. I pulled over, got out my camera and gave him a call. He perked up his ears, trotted over and gave me a rub around the ankles as if we were old buddies. Then he turned tail, walked into a flower bed and went to sleep.
What a character. One of these days he's going to show up pawing at the window for some chow and a nap and, you know, he's welcome to it.
*The name "Nobbs" referred to a peculiar broken bone at the end of his tail that fused into a knob. Later in life he got his tail caught in something and it had to be amputated, the stub of which is seen in the photo. What's with our cats and strange tails?
Thursday, November 26, 2009
New Yam in the Hood
Grilled Sweet Potatoes with Chipotle Cream Sauce
It takes lots of paperwork to change the Thanksgiving Dinner Menu. Lots of paperwork.
First there's the Petition to Substitute which has to be signed by at least four people.
Then you have to get past the Recipe Review Board and the Intolerance Panel.
The Quantity Compensation Committee might demand a backup dish to be provided from the Approved List.
Fail to follow protocol and you could be looking at sanctions ranging from a few hours of Normal Family Derision to twelve months of Hell To Pay or a permanent place on the Wall of Remembrance.
"Remember when we had asparagus mashed potatoes?"
"Ewwwwww! Or how about the garlic cheese cake?"
"My favorite was the peanut butter stuffing. We had to throw away the entire turkey."
"No, no! My favorite was when the oven got switched off by mistake and nobody noticed until it was time to eat and the turkey was all raw and everything. Remember? We had to eat a cheese ball and drink beer until the turkey was done. Wait a minute, that wasn't so bad. Never mind."
Surprisingly, those mini-disasters did not qualify for the Wall of Remembrance. No, the Wall is a special place for Memorable Meals such as:
As I am the only one in the family who not only enjoys but looks forward to my Special Candied Yams, a recipe honed to perfection over 25 years, I decided that it would be a safe bet and easy sailing through the Review Boards to propose a change to the "yam" part of the meal.
I was right! Not an eye was batted when I proposed grilling the yams outside and serving them with a smoked chipotle pepper cream sauce.
"You'll be grilling them outside?"
"Yes, Madam Board President, outside."
"Well, anything you do with a yam outside is fine by me. I presume you won't be bringing them back inside, then."
"Uh, negative, Madam Board President, the yams will be returned to the domicile whereupon they will be relegated to their own serving dish so as not to, uh, so as not to, that is, uh ... "
"Contaminate?"
"Yes, Madam Board President, thank you. 'Contaminate' the other delicacies."
Madam's eyes narrowed, her lips pursed as if sucking a very large lemon through a very small straw.
"Very well. Permission to Substitute granted for a probationary period of one meal. Case dismissed, next case!"
Great. I had permission, a plan but no recipe. More of a vague notion. Grilled yams and a spicy red sauce. I consulted my sidekick and expert chef, Emeril LeGoogle.
In short order I had a recipe put together but, alas, no experience. The Wall loomed.
Here's the blueprint:
Although I wasn't totally pleased with the sauce and I scorched several of the yam slices, I tried a distraction with a nice presentation.
I prepared a serving for Madam Board President.
"Ummm," said Madam Board President thoughtfully, "as a rule I'm not a big fan of yams and, in fact, I'm a microscopic fan of candied yams."
Madam Board President fixed me with a stare and paused for effect.
I started to sweat.
She continued, "However, these yams are not quite as bad as I had expected. The spicy smoked pepper sauce complements the sweetness of the yam and they go together better than either one separately. To be honest, though, the sauce needs work and you'll have to improve it next time."
Next time, I thought?
"You are hereby granted a Recipe Extension for a period of one year to work out the kinks. Speaking of whom, where is Kink?"
It takes lots of paperwork to change the Thanksgiving Dinner Menu. Lots of paperwork.
First there's the Petition to Substitute which has to be signed by at least four people.
Then you have to get past the Recipe Review Board and the Intolerance Panel.
The Quantity Compensation Committee might demand a backup dish to be provided from the Approved List.
Fail to follow protocol and you could be looking at sanctions ranging from a few hours of Normal Family Derision to twelve months of Hell To Pay or a permanent place on the Wall of Remembrance.
"Remember when we had asparagus mashed potatoes?"
"Ewwwwww! Or how about the garlic cheese cake?"
"My favorite was the peanut butter stuffing. We had to throw away the entire turkey."
"No, no! My favorite was when the oven got switched off by mistake and nobody noticed until it was time to eat and the turkey was all raw and everything. Remember? We had to eat a cheese ball and drink beer until the turkey was done. Wait a minute, that wasn't so bad. Never mind."
Surprisingly, those mini-disasters did not qualify for the Wall of Remembrance. No, the Wall is a special place for Memorable Meals such as:
Scorched Cabbage with Pork that required the house to be aired out. In December.
Rubber Band Chocolate Mousse caused by many chunks of undissolved gelatin. One-quarter yum, three-quarters patooie.
Goat Neck and Honey Stew. Putting the "ewwwww" in stew.
Peanut Butter Salsa ice cream. No, it didn't taste better than it sounds. Worse. Much worse.
Cantaloupe Cream Soup in the Shell. One of those few things that actually tasted better coming up than going down.
As I am the only one in the family who not only enjoys but looks forward to my Special Candied Yams, a recipe honed to perfection over 25 years, I decided that it would be a safe bet and easy sailing through the Review Boards to propose a change to the "yam" part of the meal.
I was right! Not an eye was batted when I proposed grilling the yams outside and serving them with a smoked chipotle pepper cream sauce.
"You'll be grilling them outside?"
"Yes, Madam Board President, outside."
"Well, anything you do with a yam outside is fine by me. I presume you won't be bringing them back inside, then."
"Uh, negative, Madam Board President, the yams will be returned to the domicile whereupon they will be relegated to their own serving dish so as not to, uh, so as not to, that is, uh ... "
"Contaminate?"
"Yes, Madam Board President, thank you. 'Contaminate' the other delicacies."
Madam's eyes narrowed, her lips pursed as if sucking a very large lemon through a very small straw.
"Very well. Permission to Substitute granted for a probationary period of one meal. Case dismissed, next case!"
Great. I had permission, a plan but no recipe. More of a vague notion. Grilled yams and a spicy red sauce. I consulted my sidekick and expert chef, Emeril LeGoogle.
In short order I had a recipe put together but, alas, no experience. The Wall loomed.
Here's the blueprint:
Chipotle Cream Sauce
6-8 dried chipotle peppers, soaked in hot water (or simmered) for 15 minutes, peeled.
1 onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
some pepper soak water (from above)
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon maple syrup
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
salt
Sauteé onions and garlic in a little butter. Put to one side.
Peel peppers and discard seeds, stems and skin.
Blend in a food processor onion mixture and peppers.
In a small skillet add cream and syrup to the mixture, blend and bring to a simmer. Sauce will be thick and you'll have to adjust it with cream and water.
I found the sauce to be a little bitter and thought lemon juice might help by providing some sweetness and tang.
Grilled Yams
2-3 medium sized yams, peeled, cut into 1/2 inch slices
olive oil
salt/pepper
Brush the yams with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Grill on a medium heat 5-10 minutes a side, depending on the yam, and pay more attention to the grill than I did to prevent burned spots. Brush with more olive oil if the yams dry out. When cooked the yams should be soft enough to easily insert a small knife, fork, skewer, etc
Although I wasn't totally pleased with the sauce and I scorched several of the yam slices, I tried a distraction with a nice presentation.
I prepared a serving for Madam Board President.
"Ummm," said Madam Board President thoughtfully, "as a rule I'm not a big fan of yams and, in fact, I'm a microscopic fan of candied yams."
Madam Board President fixed me with a stare and paused for effect.
I started to sweat.
She continued, "However, these yams are not quite as bad as I had expected. The spicy smoked pepper sauce complements the sweetness of the yam and they go together better than either one separately. To be honest, though, the sauce needs work and you'll have to improve it next time."
Next time, I thought?
"You are hereby granted a Recipe Extension for a period of one year to work out the kinks. Speaking of whom, where is Kink?"
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