New Year’s Eve and it’s time to fire up the old Macintosh Plus for its annual countdown. The old Mac turns 20 in March; still going strong. I start it up once a year just for the countdown.
The Mac booted up just fine displaying the charming message “Welcome to Macintosh” and displayed the date: 12/31/ 5. The time was a little off, but easily corrected.
We’ll spend the evening playing some of the old games on the tiny, 9-inch black-and-white screen.
Ah, the simpler times.
Take that you pesky Daleks!
Happy New Year to all of you and here’s to 2006, Daleks and all.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Friday, December 30, 2005
Spuds ‘R’ Us
I’ve been cutting down on the spuds this year in a vain attempt to reduce the overall girth of the household.
OK, it’s probably just a vain attempt. Who knows?
However, tonight’s dinner cried out for spudmania.
White fish on spinach with cream sauce.
The fish yelled for potatoes. The spinach yelled for potatoes. I capitulated.
But, what potato dish to do? It had to be something new so I pulled out my French Country cookbook and found the following:
Very much like potatoes au gratin, in fact, almost exactly like potatoes au gratin except that I have never simmered the potato slices in cream before.
In short: Rave Reviews.
There were no actual fights during the serving of this meal, but there was a tense staredown over the ultimate crusty bit in the pan on the table.
“You going to eat that?”
“I was thinking about it. You?”
“I was thinking about it, too. I’m older, you know. It’s my right.”
“It’s my birthday. Birthday trumps right.”
Short pause.
“Arm wrestle you for it.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Chicken.”
“I’m not chicken and I’m not arm wrestling you and it’s still my birthday.”
“Yeah, maybe. For two hours maybe.”
“That golden bit of cheesy, buttery potato ambrosia ain’t going to last two seconds. Loser.”
“Yeah? Well, you just wait a few months until my birthday and we’ll see. Yeah, we’ll just see!” And a little tear fell to the table.
The teary bluff was called, the golden, cheesy, buttery potato morsel was scooped up, deposited down the hatch and the Birthday Girl slumped back in her chair, a smile upon her lips, drool running out of the corner of her mouth and proceeded to utter contented noises.
We didn’t bother putting her to bed. We just threw a sheet over her and turned off the kitchen lights. Some things are best left undisturbed.
OK, it’s probably just a vain attempt. Who knows?
However, tonight’s dinner cried out for spudmania.
White fish on spinach with cream sauce.
The fish yelled for potatoes. The spinach yelled for potatoes. I capitulated.
But, what potato dish to do? It had to be something new so I pulled out my French Country cookbook and found the following:
Thin slice some potatoes and rinse them well and dry them off. Season.
In a large pot boil up some cream and butter and garlic.
Dump in the potatoes and simmer for 8 minutes.
Meanwhile, butter a baking dish, heat the oven to 350.
Dump the potatoes into the baking dish and cover with Gruyere.
Bake for 90 minutes.
Very much like potatoes au gratin, in fact, almost exactly like potatoes au gratin except that I have never simmered the potato slices in cream before.
In short: Rave Reviews.
There were no actual fights during the serving of this meal, but there was a tense staredown over the ultimate crusty bit in the pan on the table.
“You going to eat that?”
“I was thinking about it. You?”
“I was thinking about it, too. I’m older, you know. It’s my right.”
“It’s my birthday. Birthday trumps right.”
Short pause.
“Arm wrestle you for it.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Chicken.”
“I’m not chicken and I’m not arm wrestling you and it’s still my birthday.”
“Yeah, maybe. For two hours maybe.”
“That golden bit of cheesy, buttery potato ambrosia ain’t going to last two seconds. Loser.”
“Yeah? Well, you just wait a few months until my birthday and we’ll see. Yeah, we’ll just see!” And a little tear fell to the table.
The teary bluff was called, the golden, cheesy, buttery potato morsel was scooped up, deposited down the hatch and the Birthday Girl slumped back in her chair, a smile upon her lips, drool running out of the corner of her mouth and proceeded to utter contented noises.
We didn’t bother putting her to bed. We just threw a sheet over her and turned off the kitchen lights. Some things are best left undisturbed.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Austin
We’ve been in Austin the past couple of days. That statement doesn’t excuse the lack of postings on this blog because we enjoy a very broadband, wireless experience in Austin and, in fact, can connect to eight totally open networks in our condo.
Such nice people to let us surf the Internet on their dime, so to speak. And, you know, I’m really sorry for that couple across the hall who got hauled away by the FBI for accessing that sensitive website. Hey, I was only curious!
Anyway, I decided to secure our wireless network so I gave it some weird name I can never remember, but, fortunately, my Macintosh remembers and reminds me that I’m about to connect to “that weird network” and is that OK. Yeah, that’s OK.
Austin, Texas is a cool town because it’s three things at once:
1. It’s a university town, University of Texas. Woo Hoo, go Longhorns! Rose Bowl, 2006! Wooooooo, Bevo!
2. It’s the State Capital and has lots of cool stuff to do like the Capitol and museums and libraries and stuff like that.
3. It’s a restaurant mecca with cuisines out the wazoo.
We took advantage of all three. First, we cruised though the UT campus several times trying not to run down engineering students who had a habit of reading textbooks in crosswalks. What’s up with that?
Second, we avoided all the museums because once you’ve seen a stuffed Davy Crockett, you’ve seen them all.
And, third, we took advantage of every Mexican restaurant Austin has to offer, except for Taco Bell and Jack in the Box.
On the third point I’ll mention Trudy’s in particular.
Trudy’s, on 30th street just off Guadeloupe is located in a rambling house, and full of students, faculty and Austin glitterati.
We, of course, fell into the ultimate category.
Offered a table in the centre of the restaurant, we quickly downed a couple of the house margaritas before our dinners arrived. The margaritas were not diluted with mixture, rather represented the tequila appropriately.
Maybe too appropriately.
Dinner was, thankfully, a reasonable proportion of food. That is to say not a Houston Papadeaux quantity: enough to feed a navy.
The smoked chicken enchiladas were tender and flavorful and the chicken chipotle was tangy and interesting.
A lovely dinner in a vibrant restaurant.
Later that evening was the following conversation:
“Hey, at Trudy’s did you notice that couple across from us?”
“You mean the striking blonde about 5’10”, 130 lbs., possibly of German descent but definitely Northern European, with the way-too-tight eggshell white top, wearing grey ski pants, thong, red pumps and no socks, with the guy who was, like, four times her age?”
“No, the family with the baby!”
“Uh, no.”
Austin. Can’t wait to go back!
Such nice people to let us surf the Internet on their dime, so to speak. And, you know, I’m really sorry for that couple across the hall who got hauled away by the FBI for accessing that sensitive website. Hey, I was only curious!
Anyway, I decided to secure our wireless network so I gave it some weird name I can never remember, but, fortunately, my Macintosh remembers and reminds me that I’m about to connect to “that weird network” and is that OK. Yeah, that’s OK.
Austin, Texas is a cool town because it’s three things at once:
1. It’s a university town, University of Texas. Woo Hoo, go Longhorns! Rose Bowl, 2006! Wooooooo, Bevo!
2. It’s the State Capital and has lots of cool stuff to do like the Capitol and museums and libraries and stuff like that.
3. It’s a restaurant mecca with cuisines out the wazoo.
We took advantage of all three. First, we cruised though the UT campus several times trying not to run down engineering students who had a habit of reading textbooks in crosswalks. What’s up with that?
Second, we avoided all the museums because once you’ve seen a stuffed Davy Crockett, you’ve seen them all.
And, third, we took advantage of every Mexican restaurant Austin has to offer, except for Taco Bell and Jack in the Box.
On the third point I’ll mention Trudy’s in particular.
Trudy’s, on 30th street just off Guadeloupe is located in a rambling house, and full of students, faculty and Austin glitterati.
We, of course, fell into the ultimate category.
Offered a table in the centre of the restaurant, we quickly downed a couple of the house margaritas before our dinners arrived. The margaritas were not diluted with mixture, rather represented the tequila appropriately.
Maybe too appropriately.
Dinner was, thankfully, a reasonable proportion of food. That is to say not a Houston Papadeaux quantity: enough to feed a navy.
The smoked chicken enchiladas were tender and flavorful and the chicken chipotle was tangy and interesting.
A lovely dinner in a vibrant restaurant.
Later that evening was the following conversation:
“Hey, at Trudy’s did you notice that couple across from us?”
“You mean the striking blonde about 5’10”, 130 lbs., possibly of German descent but definitely Northern European, with the way-too-tight eggshell white top, wearing grey ski pants, thong, red pumps and no socks, with the guy who was, like, four times her age?”
“No, the family with the baby!”
“Uh, no.”
Austin. Can’t wait to go back!
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Old Hand, New Store
Christmas Eve and it’s going to be a long night.
One present left to buy.
The big one for Someone Special.
The mall is all but deserted. The kiosk vendors are packing up their cell phones, woodcarvings, hair straighteners, sun glasses and massage chairs and, in some cases, erecting Easter displays. Somehow the sight of an Easter bunny with a Santa Claus backdrop is disquieting.
I trudged through the ever-thinning crowds as store after store turned off their lights and brought down their security gates.
Oh well, I thought, as I made my way to the exit, looks like a gift certificate or an IOU or an envelope of cash dredged from the bottom of my closet will have to do. I’m out of ideas and out of time.
About that moment I spied a familiar shape shuffling towards me.
It was the Old Hand.
“Yo, bud,” I called out, “what brings you to the mall at this late hour?”
The Old Hand moseyed up and stood in front of me full of Christmas cheer and holding a bag full of goodies that nearly crawled out of their confines in joy.
“Hey, yourself,” the Old Hand greeted me warmly, “Season’s greetings to you, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Your sacking arm is recovering nicely, and I was talking with Carlos the other day and he sends his best.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I replied downcast, “happy whatever to you and Carlos. Well, I gotta go.”
And with that I turned away and headed towards the door.
“Hey,” the Old Hand called, “what did you think of the New Store that opened up this week?”
I turned around and asked, “What new store?”
“The one down from Foley’s. You checked it out, didn’t you?”
True, I had been down by Foley’s but I didn’t see any new store. There was The Gap and Buckles and the Watch Store and the Bagel Shop, but nothing new.
“No,” I replied, “I didn’t see the new store. What do they sell?”
“All sorts of stuff,” the Old Hand replied, “I think you’d find what you’re looking for there.”
“I dunno,” I replied dejectedly, “I’ve been all over the mall all night and I’m empty handed and it’s 10 PM. I’m just going to crawl home and…” I trailed off.
“Follow me!”, the Old Hand said enthusiastically, “You won’t be disappointed.” The Old Hand disappeared down the mall calling “Follow me!”
I turned and followed the Old Hand who was nearly skipping down the deserted mall walkway. Man, I thought, he can move when he wants to.
I hurried along.
Shortly we pulled up in front of a store I had overlooked during my shopping. The bright sign above the doorway flashed “New Store – Opening Soon.”
As we crossed the threshold I heard an all too familiar tinkling sound and through a fog in the back of the store, in slow motion, blonde hair swishing back and forth ever so slow, came Gizelle; hips pivoting, long legs reaching out atop 8-inch spiked heels. She was as ever beautiful.
Breathlessly, Gizelle stopped, towering above us and asked, “Is there something I could show you? Boys?”
Boy, howdy, could you, I thought, but said out loud, “I’m looking for a gift.”
“This way,” Gizelle replied without even asking me who the gift was for or how much I wanted to spend.
We followed Gizelle through aisle after aisle of exquisite gifts until finally she stopped and pointed to an object on the middle shelf.
“This will this do,” she stated petulantly.
I looked down and feasted my eyes on the perfect gift ever. I closed my eyes as in a dream, opened them again and, yes, it was still perfect. I checked the price tag having already decided that money was no object and the price was reasonable.
“Oh, yeah, babe,” I said, “this is way cool. I’ll take it. Do you gift wrap?”
Gizelle regarded me as she would an insect and replied, “Of course.”
The gift wrapped, the Old Hand and I left the new store and made our way to the mall entrance.
“Thanks, Old Hand,” I said as I shook his hand, “This gift is the most perfect gift I’ve ever found. It embodies what I feel, you know what I mean? It’s not just a thing to buy and give, but it expresses what my heart wants to say. It’s, well, perfect.” My voice trailed off.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said the Old Hand, “Well, Merry Christmas to you and yours and we’ll see you next year, old pal.”
And with that the Old Hand disappeared into the gently falling snow and in a moment was gone.
Just before I headed out the mall doors myself I spied the mall manager doing his nightly duties. I strolled up to the manager and told him…
“That new store of yours is a stroke of genius and I wanted to thank you personally for saving my hide on Christmas Eve.”
“Oh”, the mall manager said, “what new store?”
“The one down by Foley’s, where the Texas Store used to be before it closed.”
“There’s no store there,” the mall manager replied, “it’s still an empty property.”
Together we walked through the now deserted mall towards Foley’s where the New Store should be. As we rounded the corner we passed The Gap and Buckles and finally…
For Let
The storefront was dark and empty. Gizelle was nowhere to be seen. We peered through the window but there was no life inside.
“Are you sure this is where you bought your gift?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, look,” and I opened my bag clearly labeled New
Store.
The mall manager looked in and let out a low whistle, “Whoa, man, that’s a cool gift. Wish I’d found my wife something that cool. You say you got that here?” The mall manager looked around wistfully.
“Yeah,” I said, “I think so.” And, suddenly, it all seemed not as clear.
The mall manager shook his head, and we walked back up the mall to the main entrance. We said our good-byes and I headed off into the parking lot.
As I got to my truck I heard some laughing and looking up, I thought I saw Gizelle climbing into a low-slung, red sports car, the Old Hand sliding into the driver’s seat. I closed my eyes, shook my head and when I opened my eyes again the sports car was gone.
Is this a dream, I thought? I looked into my bag and gazed upon the perfect gift. I guess not.
Shouting into the night I proclaimed, “Merry Christmas, Old Hand!” And in the distance I heard a throaty varrrooommm and a high-pitched, tinkling laugh.
One present left to buy.
The big one for Someone Special.
The mall is all but deserted. The kiosk vendors are packing up their cell phones, woodcarvings, hair straighteners, sun glasses and massage chairs and, in some cases, erecting Easter displays. Somehow the sight of an Easter bunny with a Santa Claus backdrop is disquieting.
I trudged through the ever-thinning crowds as store after store turned off their lights and brought down their security gates.
Oh well, I thought, as I made my way to the exit, looks like a gift certificate or an IOU or an envelope of cash dredged from the bottom of my closet will have to do. I’m out of ideas and out of time.
About that moment I spied a familiar shape shuffling towards me.
It was the Old Hand.
“Yo, bud,” I called out, “what brings you to the mall at this late hour?”
The Old Hand moseyed up and stood in front of me full of Christmas cheer and holding a bag full of goodies that nearly crawled out of their confines in joy.
“Hey, yourself,” the Old Hand greeted me warmly, “Season’s greetings to you, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Your sacking arm is recovering nicely, and I was talking with Carlos the other day and he sends his best.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I replied downcast, “happy whatever to you and Carlos. Well, I gotta go.”
And with that I turned away and headed towards the door.
“Hey,” the Old Hand called, “what did you think of the New Store that opened up this week?”
I turned around and asked, “What new store?”
“The one down from Foley’s. You checked it out, didn’t you?”
True, I had been down by Foley’s but I didn’t see any new store. There was The Gap and Buckles and the Watch Store and the Bagel Shop, but nothing new.
“No,” I replied, “I didn’t see the new store. What do they sell?”
“All sorts of stuff,” the Old Hand replied, “I think you’d find what you’re looking for there.”
“I dunno,” I replied dejectedly, “I’ve been all over the mall all night and I’m empty handed and it’s 10 PM. I’m just going to crawl home and…” I trailed off.
“Follow me!”, the Old Hand said enthusiastically, “You won’t be disappointed.” The Old Hand disappeared down the mall calling “Follow me!”
I turned and followed the Old Hand who was nearly skipping down the deserted mall walkway. Man, I thought, he can move when he wants to.
I hurried along.
Shortly we pulled up in front of a store I had overlooked during my shopping. The bright sign above the doorway flashed “New Store – Opening Soon.”
As we crossed the threshold I heard an all too familiar tinkling sound and through a fog in the back of the store, in slow motion, blonde hair swishing back and forth ever so slow, came Gizelle; hips pivoting, long legs reaching out atop 8-inch spiked heels. She was as ever beautiful.
Breathlessly, Gizelle stopped, towering above us and asked, “Is there something I could show you? Boys?”
Boy, howdy, could you, I thought, but said out loud, “I’m looking for a gift.”
“This way,” Gizelle replied without even asking me who the gift was for or how much I wanted to spend.
We followed Gizelle through aisle after aisle of exquisite gifts until finally she stopped and pointed to an object on the middle shelf.
“This will this do,” she stated petulantly.
I looked down and feasted my eyes on the perfect gift ever. I closed my eyes as in a dream, opened them again and, yes, it was still perfect. I checked the price tag having already decided that money was no object and the price was reasonable.
“Oh, yeah, babe,” I said, “this is way cool. I’ll take it. Do you gift wrap?”
Gizelle regarded me as she would an insect and replied, “Of course.”
The gift wrapped, the Old Hand and I left the new store and made our way to the mall entrance.
“Thanks, Old Hand,” I said as I shook his hand, “This gift is the most perfect gift I’ve ever found. It embodies what I feel, you know what I mean? It’s not just a thing to buy and give, but it expresses what my heart wants to say. It’s, well, perfect.” My voice trailed off.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said the Old Hand, “Well, Merry Christmas to you and yours and we’ll see you next year, old pal.”
And with that the Old Hand disappeared into the gently falling snow and in a moment was gone.
Just before I headed out the mall doors myself I spied the mall manager doing his nightly duties. I strolled up to the manager and told him…
“That new store of yours is a stroke of genius and I wanted to thank you personally for saving my hide on Christmas Eve.”
“Oh”, the mall manager said, “what new store?”
“The one down by Foley’s, where the Texas Store used to be before it closed.”
“There’s no store there,” the mall manager replied, “it’s still an empty property.”
Together we walked through the now deserted mall towards Foley’s where the New Store should be. As we rounded the corner we passed The Gap and Buckles and finally…
For Let
The storefront was dark and empty. Gizelle was nowhere to be seen. We peered through the window but there was no life inside.
“Are you sure this is where you bought your gift?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, look,” and I opened my bag clearly labeled New
Store.
The mall manager looked in and let out a low whistle, “Whoa, man, that’s a cool gift. Wish I’d found my wife something that cool. You say you got that here?” The mall manager looked around wistfully.
“Yeah,” I said, “I think so.” And, suddenly, it all seemed not as clear.
The mall manager shook his head, and we walked back up the mall to the main entrance. We said our good-byes and I headed off into the parking lot.
As I got to my truck I heard some laughing and looking up, I thought I saw Gizelle climbing into a low-slung, red sports car, the Old Hand sliding into the driver’s seat. I closed my eyes, shook my head and when I opened my eyes again the sports car was gone.
Is this a dream, I thought? I looked into my bag and gazed upon the perfect gift. I guess not.
Shouting into the night I proclaimed, “Merry Christmas, Old Hand!” And in the distance I heard a throaty varrrooommm and a high-pitched, tinkling laugh.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
The Pain of Bread
Christmas shopping done; I was heading back to the barn at flank speed.
“What’s the rush to get home?”
“I’ve got to get my bread started.”
(pause)
“What bread?”
“French bread! Baguettes! My specialty. I found a new baguette recipe that I want to try. Claims to make the bread, how do you English say, ze more airey, like ze cloudz.”
“Light would be good,” she said licking her front tooth.
I must say, the dentist did a fine job on that repair. You can hardly tell it was chipped.
“Hey, look over there, it’s La Madeline bakery. Why don’t we just stop in and buy some baguettes?”
“What?”, I was shocked, “buy bread when I can make it myself AND I have a new recipe? Sacre bleu, what a thought!” (I was getting into the French thing.)
We were getting close to La Madeline’s entrance.
“But, La Madeline’s bread is b…” she said hurriedly, biting off the last word.
“Buh, what? You said their bread is ‘buh’ and then stopped.”
I thought for a second then said, “Were you going to say their bread is ‘bitter?’ Or, was it ‘buttery?’ Can’t say I’ve experienced either. ‘Batter?” Their bread is batter? That doesn’t even make sense.”
Slowly a revelation began to dawn on me like biting into a mouldy chestnut or hearing a particularly bad mixed metaphor.
“You weren’t going to say, were you,” I said in my best Spanish Inquisitor’s voice, “you weren’t going to say that La Madeline’s bread was better, were you?”
Crickets chirped. Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled mournfully. A tumbleweed rolled by. Silence.
Choosing her words carefully she explained, “No, I wasn’t going to say that La Madeline’s bread is ‘better’ , per se , rather I was going to say that it would be a better use of your time to buy La Madeline’s admittedly inferior-to-yours bread so you could concentrate on the more intricate, delicate aspects of preparing Christmas dinner, without being distracted by unrising yeast, malfunctioning ovens and weevily flour. That’s what I was going to say.”
Ah.
Quickly, I turned into La Madeline’s entrance, cutting off only a couple of drivers who acknowledged my skillful maneuver with cheerful honking of horns and seasonal holiday hand waving.
“Merry Christmas to you, too!” I waved back excitedly.
“People are so nice this time of year,” I observed brightly.
As I strode into the bakery I thought of my wife’s incisive observation that buying French bread would be a better use of my time. Always thinking about me, I thought, how about that?
Later, with loaves in hand I returned to the truck.
“You were gone a long time. Was it crowded?”
“Nope, the place was mostly empty. I got to talk with the Master Baker Guy, Jean-Paul, or Pierre or something.”
“And?”
“Well, being somewhat of a master baker myself, I gave Jean-Paul or Pierre or something some of my baking tips and techniques. I don’t know how much he understood, being French and all, but I used my best French accent and I think he got the message.”
“And?”
“And, well, he listened attentively, although it was obvious he had something in the oven because he kept checking his watch, so I wrapped it up quickly, bought my loaves and left.”
“And?”
“And, as I was leaving he wished me a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. In French, no less! What a guy. I think he was grateful for my tips. He said, and I quote,”
“What a guy. We ought to come back here more often. Such a friendly place…”
“What’s the rush to get home?”
“I’ve got to get my bread started.”
(pause)
“What bread?”
“French bread! Baguettes! My specialty. I found a new baguette recipe that I want to try. Claims to make the bread, how do you English say, ze more airey, like ze cloudz.”
“Light would be good,” she said licking her front tooth.
I must say, the dentist did a fine job on that repair. You can hardly tell it was chipped.
“Hey, look over there, it’s La Madeline bakery. Why don’t we just stop in and buy some baguettes?”
“What?”, I was shocked, “buy bread when I can make it myself AND I have a new recipe? Sacre bleu, what a thought!” (I was getting into the French thing.)
We were getting close to La Madeline’s entrance.
“But, La Madeline’s bread is b…” she said hurriedly, biting off the last word.
“Buh, what? You said their bread is ‘buh’ and then stopped.”
I thought for a second then said, “Were you going to say their bread is ‘bitter?’ Or, was it ‘buttery?’ Can’t say I’ve experienced either. ‘Batter?” Their bread is batter? That doesn’t even make sense.”
Slowly a revelation began to dawn on me like biting into a mouldy chestnut or hearing a particularly bad mixed metaphor.
“You weren’t going to say, were you,” I said in my best Spanish Inquisitor’s voice, “you weren’t going to say that La Madeline’s bread was better, were you?”
Crickets chirped. Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled mournfully. A tumbleweed rolled by. Silence.
Choosing her words carefully she explained, “No, I wasn’t going to say that La Madeline’s bread is ‘better’ , per se , rather I was going to say that it would be a better use of your time to buy La Madeline’s admittedly inferior-to-yours bread so you could concentrate on the more intricate, delicate aspects of preparing Christmas dinner, without being distracted by unrising yeast, malfunctioning ovens and weevily flour. That’s what I was going to say.”
Ah.
Quickly, I turned into La Madeline’s entrance, cutting off only a couple of drivers who acknowledged my skillful maneuver with cheerful honking of horns and seasonal holiday hand waving.
“Merry Christmas to you, too!” I waved back excitedly.
“People are so nice this time of year,” I observed brightly.
As I strode into the bakery I thought of my wife’s incisive observation that buying French bread would be a better use of my time. Always thinking about me, I thought, how about that?
Later, with loaves in hand I returned to the truck.
“You were gone a long time. Was it crowded?”
“Nope, the place was mostly empty. I got to talk with the Master Baker Guy, Jean-Paul, or Pierre or something.”
“And?”
“Well, being somewhat of a master baker myself, I gave Jean-Paul or Pierre or something some of my baking tips and techniques. I don’t know how much he understood, being French and all, but I used my best French accent and I think he got the message.”
“And?”
“And, well, he listened attentively, although it was obvious he had something in the oven because he kept checking his watch, so I wrapped it up quickly, bought my loaves and left.”
“And?”
“And, as I was leaving he wished me a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. In French, no less! What a guy. I think he was grateful for my tips. He said, and I quote,”
Imbécile, ne laissez pas la porte frapper votre derrière comme vous partez.
“What a guy. We ought to come back here more often. Such a friendly place…”
Friday, December 23, 2005
Aftermath
Thanks to everyone around the world who celebrated Twelve Two Two with fondue. Here are some highlights.
First, thanks to s'kat for the link, description and pictures.
HoldTheRaisins also held a fondue with fun for all.
Here at Chez 12TuTuFondue we were visited by Pammer of Outside Voice shown here with the Old Hand in full Kroger regalia.
Everybody who attended Twelve Two Two Fondue II had a great time, wherever they were! Here's to next year!
First, thanks to s'kat for the link, description and pictures.
HoldTheRaisins also held a fondue with fun for all.
Here at Chez 12TuTuFondue we were visited by Pammer of Outside Voice shown here with the Old Hand in full Kroger regalia.
Everybody who attended Twelve Two Two Fondue II had a great time, wherever they were! Here's to next year!
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Fantasy Meets Reality
First, the news.
Twelve Two Two Fondue II is less than 24 hours away.
Host your own fondue party on December 22, to celebrate Twelve Two Two.
With that Claire and I went shopping for dinner and stuff for the party. After buying a Christmas tree and libations we ended up at the Kroger’s.
“Where’s the Old Hand?” Claire whispered.
“Nobody sees the Old Hand, Claire,” I replied, “he’s like Bigfoot or the Yeti. Mysterious, but there when you need him.”
“What about Carlos?”
“I haven’t seen Carlos, oh, wait, there he is!”
Sure enough, Carlos was just getting off shift and heading out the door.
“He’s cute.”
“If you like ruthless,” I recollected our past encounters.
“You know,” Claire continued, “this is a nice place, Kroger’s that is.”
I had to agree. Aside from the electrocution events of this summer my shopping experience had been, on the whole, positive.
Snapping back to reality I sprung into action.
“Claire, we have a fondue party to get ready for! We need a 100 pounds of cheese and fifty bottles of wine!”
We grabbed two shopping carts each and headed into the store. Victory would be ours.
Twelve Two Two Fondue II is less than 24 hours away.
Host your own fondue party on December 22, to celebrate Twelve Two Two.
With that Claire and I went shopping for dinner and stuff for the party. After buying a Christmas tree and libations we ended up at the Kroger’s.
“Where’s the Old Hand?” Claire whispered.
“Nobody sees the Old Hand, Claire,” I replied, “he’s like Bigfoot or the Yeti. Mysterious, but there when you need him.”
“What about Carlos?”
“I haven’t seen Carlos, oh, wait, there he is!”
Sure enough, Carlos was just getting off shift and heading out the door.
“He’s cute.”
“If you like ruthless,” I recollected our past encounters.
“You know,” Claire continued, “this is a nice place, Kroger’s that is.”
I had to agree. Aside from the electrocution events of this summer my shopping experience had been, on the whole, positive.
Snapping back to reality I sprung into action.
“Claire, we have a fondue party to get ready for! We need a 100 pounds of cheese and fifty bottles of wine!”
We grabbed two shopping carts each and headed into the store. Victory would be ours.
Monday, December 19, 2005
For Evan
Evan’s been working the meat counter for as long as I can remember. He’s outlasted all the checkers and sackers, and store managers, produce stockers and folks in the front and back office.
Evan is a survivor.
Evan is also a professional. His meat and fish counter is immaculate and always laid out in an interesting and entertaining fashion. Soon after we moved to this part of the world and started shopping, Evan recognized us as ‘regulars’ and began to greet us as we foraged for our daily fare.
Soon I learned that being asked which cut of meat I wanted was really a formality. I could say “that one”, pointing in a vague direction and Evan would instinctively grab the best cut on display.
So, it was somewhat of a surprise when I ordered a couple of filet mignons that Evan deviated from his normal routine. I could see two very El Primo cuts at the bottom of the tray, partly covered by decorations made of Romaine lettuce and red bell peppers carved into the shape of little palm trees.
Evan’s hand reached almost that far, but hesitated and picked a couple of steaks not quite as filet mignon-ish as the two choice cuts below.
“What about those?” I asked.
“What those?” Evan replied defensively, “you mean those dried up, old, yesterday cuts? You don’t want those.”
“They look pretty good to me,” I countered.
“Naw,” Evan looked around, “they’re not that great. I’ll probably wrap them up for myself so a customer doesn’t get disappointed.”
Evan looked pretty earnest and a little nervous at the same time. Obviously, he wanted those two cuts and I was raining on his parade.
I decided to play along and agreed to the cuts Evan selected for me. Relieved, Evan was chattier than usual as he weighed and wrapped the meat and wished me a Merry Christmas and a speedy checkout.
Later, I returned to the meat counter when Evan was in the back room and placed a second order.
Checkout was indeed speedy. Carlos had been promoted to Floor Supervisor and was working the checkers into a check-out frenzy. Hands were a blur and customers were being hurled through the lanes at a dizzying pace. Not that anybody minded. We all had places to go, things to do and people to see.
I made my way home, fired up the grill and created a splendid dinner with the Next-But-Perfect filets. Rave reviews, nevertheless.
Meanwhile, it was shift change at the meat counter…
“Checking out, Evan?” Chuck asked.
“Yep. Got plans for tonight. Green pepper encrusted filet mignons, Chalk Creek zinfandel, and some morel mushrooms that a friend of mine FedEx’d me from Oklahoma. I’ll do those in butter and brandy. Gizelle’s in town for the Southern Supermodel shoot and I’m certain those perfect filet mignons will really impress her. I’m counting on it, if you know what I mean.”
Evan pulled out the filet tray and reached under the Romaine camouflage.
His hand met bare tray, not filet.
Frantically, he hauled the tray out of the cooler and tossed lettuce and peppers left and right. Wide-eyed he looked around, searching.
“The steaks,” he managed to say, “they’re gone!”
“Yeah,” Chuck said, “some guy bought them earlier this evening.”
Evan stared at Chuck resolutely. “Really?” he said.
“Really.”
“Ratso rizzo.” Evan hung his head in resignation. His evening plans with Gizelle were dashed.
Evan sighed.
“I was hoping, you know…” his voice trailed off. Evan pulled on his coat, adjusted his cap and headed out the back door.
Chuck called after him, “Wait, Evan, I’ve got something for you.”
Evan turned around and Chuck handed him a package of meat, about two filet mignons in weight.
“What’s this?” Evan asked.
“Some guy bought those filets you were trying to save and told me to give them to you at the end of your shift. He didn’t want some doofus buying them by mistake because he knew they were special. Nice guy, huh?”
Through misty eyes Evan looked down at the package. Written along the side of the butcher paper was an inscription.
“Merry Christmas, Evan!” Signed “The Sackmeister.”
Evan showed the package to Chuck, “Look, the Sackmeister.”
“Yowza,” muttered Chuck, “that’s a pretty nice present. I didn’t know the Sackmeister had a heart.”
“I dunno,” Evan said, “this time of year does things to people. Good things, ya know?”
“Yeah, I guess,” agreed Chuck, “Merry Christmas, Evan!”
“Merry Christmas, Chuck. And Merry Christmas, Sackmeister, wherever your are!”
Evan is a survivor.
Evan is also a professional. His meat and fish counter is immaculate and always laid out in an interesting and entertaining fashion. Soon after we moved to this part of the world and started shopping, Evan recognized us as ‘regulars’ and began to greet us as we foraged for our daily fare.
Soon I learned that being asked which cut of meat I wanted was really a formality. I could say “that one”, pointing in a vague direction and Evan would instinctively grab the best cut on display.
So, it was somewhat of a surprise when I ordered a couple of filet mignons that Evan deviated from his normal routine. I could see two very El Primo cuts at the bottom of the tray, partly covered by decorations made of Romaine lettuce and red bell peppers carved into the shape of little palm trees.
Evan’s hand reached almost that far, but hesitated and picked a couple of steaks not quite as filet mignon-ish as the two choice cuts below.
“What about those?” I asked.
“What those?” Evan replied defensively, “you mean those dried up, old, yesterday cuts? You don’t want those.”
“They look pretty good to me,” I countered.
“Naw,” Evan looked around, “they’re not that great. I’ll probably wrap them up for myself so a customer doesn’t get disappointed.”
Evan looked pretty earnest and a little nervous at the same time. Obviously, he wanted those two cuts and I was raining on his parade.
I decided to play along and agreed to the cuts Evan selected for me. Relieved, Evan was chattier than usual as he weighed and wrapped the meat and wished me a Merry Christmas and a speedy checkout.
Later, I returned to the meat counter when Evan was in the back room and placed a second order.
Checkout was indeed speedy. Carlos had been promoted to Floor Supervisor and was working the checkers into a check-out frenzy. Hands were a blur and customers were being hurled through the lanes at a dizzying pace. Not that anybody minded. We all had places to go, things to do and people to see.
I made my way home, fired up the grill and created a splendid dinner with the Next-But-Perfect filets. Rave reviews, nevertheless.
Meanwhile, it was shift change at the meat counter…
“Checking out, Evan?” Chuck asked.
“Yep. Got plans for tonight. Green pepper encrusted filet mignons, Chalk Creek zinfandel, and some morel mushrooms that a friend of mine FedEx’d me from Oklahoma. I’ll do those in butter and brandy. Gizelle’s in town for the Southern Supermodel shoot and I’m certain those perfect filet mignons will really impress her. I’m counting on it, if you know what I mean.”
Evan pulled out the filet tray and reached under the Romaine camouflage.
His hand met bare tray, not filet.
Frantically, he hauled the tray out of the cooler and tossed lettuce and peppers left and right. Wide-eyed he looked around, searching.
“The steaks,” he managed to say, “they’re gone!”
“Yeah,” Chuck said, “some guy bought them earlier this evening.”
Evan stared at Chuck resolutely. “Really?” he said.
“Really.”
“Ratso rizzo.” Evan hung his head in resignation. His evening plans with Gizelle were dashed.
Evan sighed.
“I was hoping, you know…” his voice trailed off. Evan pulled on his coat, adjusted his cap and headed out the back door.
Chuck called after him, “Wait, Evan, I’ve got something for you.”
Evan turned around and Chuck handed him a package of meat, about two filet mignons in weight.
“What’s this?” Evan asked.
“Some guy bought those filets you were trying to save and told me to give them to you at the end of your shift. He didn’t want some doofus buying them by mistake because he knew they were special. Nice guy, huh?”
Through misty eyes Evan looked down at the package. Written along the side of the butcher paper was an inscription.
“Merry Christmas, Evan!” Signed “The Sackmeister.”
Evan showed the package to Chuck, “Look, the Sackmeister.”
“Yowza,” muttered Chuck, “that’s a pretty nice present. I didn’t know the Sackmeister had a heart.”
“I dunno,” Evan said, “this time of year does things to people. Good things, ya know?”
“Yeah, I guess,” agreed Chuck, “Merry Christmas, Evan!”
“Merry Christmas, Chuck. And Merry Christmas, Sackmeister, wherever your are!”
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Four Days, More Forks
Four days until Twelve Two Two Fondue II. Here’s the blueprint:
It’s a party!
You’re all invited!
Yes, everyone. All of you. Even you who are reading this now.
Fondue Party
Twelve Two Two Fondue II
December 22, 2005
7pm local time
At Your House
RSVP 12tutufondue
Send me pictures and descriptions of your party as it’s happening and I’ll post them on the site throughout the day. Here’s the address:
12tutufondue
“How many people have you invited for Thursday?”
“Uh, I dunno. A few?”
“What’s ‘a few?’”
“Well,” counting fast on fingers, “a dozen or couple of dozen?” I searched for the proper spin to this, “Give or take a couple of twenty. Or so.”
“I see,” said the Practical One, “and how many fondue forks do we have? Maybe 6 or 8?”
Being short of fondue forks was not so much a miscalculation as a little problem that ripened all too quickly. Fondue forks. Everybody sells fondue forks. Dime a dozen.
Or not.
It turns out that nobody sells fondue forks outside of an entire fondue set. Ratso rizzo, I was already thinking of how I could convince the Practical One that toothpicks could substitute as fine fondue forks. Very fine, indeed.
Then a little shop caught my eye. Coffee, Tea and Kitchen Stuff. An obscure specialty kitchen supply store.
I pulled in.
Entering the store I was greeted by a tall, bearded man wearing a chef’s apron and sporting a name tag that read:
Wolfgang
Obviously, I was fixated on the name tag because “Wolfgang’s” first words were:
“You’re wondering if my name is really Wolfgang, as in Wolfgang Puck, yes?”
“Yes,” I wimpered.
“Ah, I thought so. Wolfgang is not my name, it’s Ed, but it’s curious how many people come in the store, take one look at my name tag and walk straight out.” Ed paused. “Since you’re still here you must be desparate.”
I nodded.
“Well, what is it? Fruitcake tin? Jell-O mold? Perhaps a spatula?”
I pulled myself together, looked “Ed” in the eye and said, “Fondue forks. Lots and lots of fondue forks. Enough for all of Switzerland.”
Ed was taken aback. He had met a worthy opponent.
“Fondue forks? Hmmm, normally they don’t sell them outside of fondue sets. You wouldn’t be interested in a couple of hundred fondue sets would you?”
Not even resembling Bill Gates I replied, “No, I wouldn’t. If you don’t sell the forks stand-alone, I’ll just leave and go to Target. I’m sure they’ve got an entire Fondue Fork Department.”
I could tell Ed was shocked and embarrassed. Target! Fie on Target! A pox on Target! From the bowels of Hell I reach out and stab thee in the heart Target!
Ed breathed heavily, collected himself, brushed down his chef’s apron and mumbled something about “checking in the back.”
After much rattling around and clattering, boxes being ripped open and cursing, a much disheveled Ed returned with a plastic bag filled with fondue forks.
“Here,” he said and handed me the bag.
I looked inside and there must have been a hundred fondue forks. I asked, “So, what do I owe?”
“Nothing,” Ed replied, “today is Fondue Fork Day. All forks free. Yours. Go forth and multiply or whatever.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
As I moseyed out the door a lady entered, went up to Ed and asked if they sold fondue sets.
“Yes, we do,” Ed replied to her, he paused and looked in my direction, “but the forks are extra.”
I beat a hasty retreat.
It’s a party!
You’re all invited!
Yes, everyone. All of you. Even you who are reading this now.
Fondue Party
Twelve Two Two Fondue II
December 22, 2005
7pm local time
At Your House
RSVP 12tutufondue
Send me pictures and descriptions of your party as it’s happening and I’ll post them on the site throughout the day. Here’s the address:
12tutufondue
“How many people have you invited for Thursday?”
“Uh, I dunno. A few?”
“What’s ‘a few?’”
“Well,” counting fast on fingers, “a dozen or couple of dozen?” I searched for the proper spin to this, “Give or take a couple of twenty. Or so.”
“I see,” said the Practical One, “and how many fondue forks do we have? Maybe 6 or 8?”
Being short of fondue forks was not so much a miscalculation as a little problem that ripened all too quickly. Fondue forks. Everybody sells fondue forks. Dime a dozen.
Or not.
It turns out that nobody sells fondue forks outside of an entire fondue set. Ratso rizzo, I was already thinking of how I could convince the Practical One that toothpicks could substitute as fine fondue forks. Very fine, indeed.
Then a little shop caught my eye. Coffee, Tea and Kitchen Stuff. An obscure specialty kitchen supply store.
I pulled in.
Entering the store I was greeted by a tall, bearded man wearing a chef’s apron and sporting a name tag that read:
Wolfgang
Obviously, I was fixated on the name tag because “Wolfgang’s” first words were:
“You’re wondering if my name is really Wolfgang, as in Wolfgang Puck, yes?”
“Yes,” I wimpered.
“Ah, I thought so. Wolfgang is not my name, it’s Ed, but it’s curious how many people come in the store, take one look at my name tag and walk straight out.” Ed paused. “Since you’re still here you must be desparate.”
I nodded.
“Well, what is it? Fruitcake tin? Jell-O mold? Perhaps a spatula?”
I pulled myself together, looked “Ed” in the eye and said, “Fondue forks. Lots and lots of fondue forks. Enough for all of Switzerland.”
Ed was taken aback. He had met a worthy opponent.
“Fondue forks? Hmmm, normally they don’t sell them outside of fondue sets. You wouldn’t be interested in a couple of hundred fondue sets would you?”
Not even resembling Bill Gates I replied, “No, I wouldn’t. If you don’t sell the forks stand-alone, I’ll just leave and go to Target. I’m sure they’ve got an entire Fondue Fork Department.”
I could tell Ed was shocked and embarrassed. Target! Fie on Target! A pox on Target! From the bowels of Hell I reach out and stab thee in the heart Target!
Ed breathed heavily, collected himself, brushed down his chef’s apron and mumbled something about “checking in the back.”
After much rattling around and clattering, boxes being ripped open and cursing, a much disheveled Ed returned with a plastic bag filled with fondue forks.
“Here,” he said and handed me the bag.
I looked inside and there must have been a hundred fondue forks. I asked, “So, what do I owe?”
“Nothing,” Ed replied, “today is Fondue Fork Day. All forks free. Yours. Go forth and multiply or whatever.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
As I moseyed out the door a lady entered, went up to Ed and asked if they sold fondue sets.
“Yes, we do,” Ed replied to her, he paused and looked in my direction, “but the forks are extra.”
I beat a hasty retreat.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Free Bird
“Where you at?”
“I’m about 5 minutes from home. Just coming into the neighborhood.”
Much later…
“Where you at?”
“Almost home.”
“You said that 20 minutes ago. Where you been?”
Long pause.
“Free Bird.”
“The long version?”
“Yeah.”
“Was that you driving by the house three times?”
“Yeah.”
“What part did you get?”
“Rhythm air guitar.”
“So, that was you driving by the house, batting the steering wheel, eyes closed, like a lunatic strumming an air guitar.”
“Yeah.”
“Steering with your knees?”
“Sometimes.”
“Singing too loud?”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, where are you now?”
“In the driveway.”
“Should I come get you?”
“No. I’ll cool down in a few minutes and come in on my own.”
Free Bird. It should be a Controlled Substance.
“I’m about 5 minutes from home. Just coming into the neighborhood.”
Much later…
“Where you at?”
“Almost home.”
“You said that 20 minutes ago. Where you been?”
Long pause.
“Free Bird.”
“The long version?”
“Yeah.”
“Was that you driving by the house three times?”
“Yeah.”
“What part did you get?”
“Rhythm air guitar.”
“So, that was you driving by the house, batting the steering wheel, eyes closed, like a lunatic strumming an air guitar.”
“Yeah.”
“Steering with your knees?”
“Sometimes.”
“Singing too loud?”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, where are you now?”
“In the driveway.”
“Should I come get you?”
“No. I’ll cool down in a few minutes and come in on my own.”
Free Bird. It should be a Controlled Substance.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Home Office
“Yo, Mr. --------, nice apron! And hat! Is that a new hat?”
The Old Hand removed his hat, ran his finger across the embossed Kroger and carefully placed it back on his head, smoothing the bill in a practiced gesture.
“Yep,” the Old Hand replied, “the Home Office in Wilmington sent me this today. Spiffy, huh?”
The Old Hand performed a slow turn showing off his teal and maroon apron, festooned with “flair” buttons and his new salt ‘n’ pepper “golf” shirt.
Carlos let out with a low whistle of approval. “Yeah, man, that’s way cool. From Ohio you say? That’s weird.”
“What’s weird?” the Old Hand replied.
“Well, I got this in the mail today,” Carlos explained, and he turned to show the Old Hand his new, black apron (festooned with flair), white shirt and tan hat.
“Cool,” intoned the Old Hand.
“Wait, there’s more,” Carlos continued, and he reached his hand into his pocket and produced a handful of Kroger key rings. Primo booty by any standard.
“Check this out!” and Carlos offered the Kroger key rings for inspection.
The Old Hand examined the key rings impassively, reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of his own Kroger key rings.
“Where’d you get this stuff,” they both asked simultaneously.
“The home office in Ohio,” they both answered simultaneously.
“How weird is that?” one of them said.
Carlos frowned. “Hey,” he said, “you haven’t seen the Sackmeister lately, have you?”
“Naw,” replied the Old Hand, “not since you gave him that shellacking the other day. He’s been pretty low key.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Carlos mused, “the Sackmeister will be back, that’s for sure but right now we need to be thankful for Christmas Present. And Christmas presents.” Carlos chuckled at his own bon mot.
The Old Hand nodded. “Yes, and I for one would like to thank the Kroger Home Office in Wilmington, Ohio for these fine gifts. How about you, Carlos?”
Carlos looked up and beamed, “Right on, Mr. -------, those guys are the best. I mean, what a thoughtful gesture.”
Carlos turned away and wiped his eye, “Allergies,” he said.
“Yeah, I know,” the Old Hand said and placed his hand on Carlos’ shoulder.
Meanwhile, far, far away…
The Sackmeister typed in “moron-seeking rockets” and pressed RETURN. Twelve hits. Moron seeking this. Moron seeking that. No moron seeking rockets.
Dang.
The Sackmeister clicked on eBay and entered a search: Kroger aprons Ohio.
200 hits.
Ah, so.
The Old Hand removed his hat, ran his finger across the embossed Kroger and carefully placed it back on his head, smoothing the bill in a practiced gesture.
“Yep,” the Old Hand replied, “the Home Office in Wilmington sent me this today. Spiffy, huh?”
The Old Hand performed a slow turn showing off his teal and maroon apron, festooned with “flair” buttons and his new salt ‘n’ pepper “golf” shirt.
Carlos let out with a low whistle of approval. “Yeah, man, that’s way cool. From Ohio you say? That’s weird.”
“What’s weird?” the Old Hand replied.
“Well, I got this in the mail today,” Carlos explained, and he turned to show the Old Hand his new, black apron (festooned with flair), white shirt and tan hat.
“Cool,” intoned the Old Hand.
“Wait, there’s more,” Carlos continued, and he reached his hand into his pocket and produced a handful of Kroger key rings. Primo booty by any standard.
“Check this out!” and Carlos offered the Kroger key rings for inspection.
The Old Hand examined the key rings impassively, reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of his own Kroger key rings.
“Where’d you get this stuff,” they both asked simultaneously.
“The home office in Ohio,” they both answered simultaneously.
“How weird is that?” one of them said.
Carlos frowned. “Hey,” he said, “you haven’t seen the Sackmeister lately, have you?”
“Naw,” replied the Old Hand, “not since you gave him that shellacking the other day. He’s been pretty low key.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Carlos mused, “the Sackmeister will be back, that’s for sure but right now we need to be thankful for Christmas Present. And Christmas presents.” Carlos chuckled at his own bon mot.
The Old Hand nodded. “Yes, and I for one would like to thank the Kroger Home Office in Wilmington, Ohio for these fine gifts. How about you, Carlos?”
Carlos looked up and beamed, “Right on, Mr. -------, those guys are the best. I mean, what a thoughtful gesture.”
Carlos turned away and wiped his eye, “Allergies,” he said.
“Yeah, I know,” the Old Hand said and placed his hand on Carlos’ shoulder.
Meanwhile, far, far away…
The Sackmeister typed in “moron-seeking rockets” and pressed RETURN. Twelve hits. Moron seeking this. Moron seeking that. No moron seeking rockets.
Dang.
The Sackmeister clicked on eBay and entered a search: Kroger aprons Ohio.
200 hits.
Ah, so.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Cheese Fondue
I cook from the hip. “Iron Chef” is my favorite TV show because their experience is my daily life. What’s in the fridge? What can I do with it to make a meal?
That’s it. Give me some stuff and I’ll figure out what to do with it.
That said, I do use cookbooks and have a nice, growing collection of ideas and wisdom from the Great and the Unknown.
One book I like in particular is “Cooking for You” by Robert Carrier.
And, today’s recipe for cheese fondue comes from page 155 of his book. Here’s the blueprint:
This is a basic, cheese fondue recipe. Cut the French loaf into one-inch cubes and dip the bread into the cheese to coat.
Serve with lots of wine and Cuka Rocka playing on the stereo.
That’s it. Give me some stuff and I’ll figure out what to do with it.
That said, I do use cookbooks and have a nice, growing collection of ideas and wisdom from the Great and the Unknown.
One book I like in particular is “Cooking for You” by Robert Carrier.
And, today’s recipe for cheese fondue comes from page 155 of his book. Here’s the blueprint:
1 lb cheese (8 oz Gruyere, 8 oz Emmenthal) grated
1 teaspoon cornflour (corn starch)
1 clove garlic
half pint dry white wine
salt/pepper/nutmeg
1. Toss grated cheese with cornflour.
2. Rub inside of Fondue Pot with garlic. Add white wine and cook until wine starts to bubble.
3. Add cheese gradually and blend, stirring continuously, until smooth.
4. Add grated nutmeg, salt, pepper
5. Serve with chunks of French bread
This is a basic, cheese fondue recipe. Cut the French loaf into one-inch cubes and dip the bread into the cheese to coat.
Serve with lots of wine and Cuka Rocka playing on the stereo.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Global Fondue Event
Public Safety Announcement
Christmas season or not I’m going to install moron-seeking rockets on my car, and I’m going to use them. If you resemble that remark then you might consider staying off the roads for the next few days because I’ve got one nerve left and you’re standing on it.
Thank you for your attention, short span and all.
Seven days and counting
It’s a party!
You’re all invited!
Yes, everyone. All of you. Even you who are reading this now.
Here’s the blueprint.
Send me pictures and descriptions of your party as it’s happening and I’ll post them on the site throughout the day. Here’s the address:
12tutufondue
People from all over the World have replied with plans for hosting their own parties. Join in the fun.
Check out the original entry for this blog on December 20, 2004, A Fondue Happening.
Christmas season or not I’m going to install moron-seeking rockets on my car, and I’m going to use them. If you resemble that remark then you might consider staying off the roads for the next few days because I’ve got one nerve left and you’re standing on it.
Thank you for your attention, short span and all.
Seven days and counting
It’s a party!
You’re all invited!
Yes, everyone. All of you. Even you who are reading this now.
Here’s the blueprint.
Fondue Party
Twelve Two Two Fondue II
December 22, 2005
7pm local time
At Your House
RSVP 12tutufondue
Send me pictures and descriptions of your party as it’s happening and I’ll post them on the site throughout the day. Here’s the address:
12tutufondue
People from all over the World have replied with plans for hosting their own parties. Join in the fun.
Check out the original entry for this blog on December 20, 2004, A Fondue Happening.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Possum
Hank eyed the possum.
Ms. Possum eyed Hank.
Hank looked around to make sure his retreat path was clear.
Ms. Possum didn’t look around. She was backed into a corner of the deck.
Hank didn’t look happy.
Ms. Possum didn’t look happy. Ms. Possum sneered showing rows of sharp, white teeth.
Hank swallowed hard and gripped the broom tightly.
“I’ll just nudge her out of this corner and she’ll trot over to the steps and down the deck?” Hank meant that to be a confident statement of intent and purpose, but, his voice raised an octave or two, it came out a question.
“You go, girl, I mean, Hank,” I offered from a safe vantage point. I wasn’t going to mess with a cornered possum. I was content to go inside, close the door and turn in for the night knowing that Ms. Possum would be long gone in the morning.
Not Hank. Ms. Possum must go. Now.
“They don’t bite, do they?”
“Only when cornered or provoked, Hank, and by the looks of things you’ve got two-out-of-two.”
I decided to turn up the heat a little, “They can jump 15 feet and run 40 miles an hour. They can outrun a horse, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” Hank replied uncertainly, “Maybe if I just nudge it a bit it will get the hint.”
Gingerly, Hank offered the broom to Ms. Possum as if he were selling it.
“Good evening, Ms. Possum! Could I interest you in this Fine Broom? Yes, indeed, it’s a Fine Broom and a Fine day for Sweeping. A fine day for sweeping, yes m’am!”
Ms. Possum grinned at the prospect of a new broom. Why, she nearly split her face in two she grinned so wide. As her mouth grew larger from furry ear to furry ear, her lips pulled back in a rigor mortis expression exposing rows or razor sharp, pearly white teeth, moonlight reflecting in dripping saliva. Her eyes became large, sparkling, obsidian discs. Raising up on her legs, her fur standing on end Ms. Possum expressed her appreciation of the Fine Broom by exhaling a great sigh, her eyes becoming larger, her grin even wider.
“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!” exclaimed Ms. Possum.
“Yaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!” exclaimed Hank.
Suddenly, Hank forgot the rest of Salesmanship 101, “Closing the Deal” and beat a hasty retreat. Stage Left. He shot through the cabin door and closed it with a slam. Snick! The door locked.
Safe inside Hank returned the broom to the cupboard and joined us for some coffee by the fire.
None of us spoke for a while.
Finally, Hank observed, “That possum was pretty scared, poor critter.”
We sipped our coffee.
Hank continued, “I figger the best thing to do is let it calm down and we’ll deal with it in the morning. When it’s calmed down, that is.”
And with that Hank checked his watch, mumbled something about having to get up in the morning, long day, things to do, and shuffled off to his bunk.
After Hank settled down and we heard snoring noises, I gathered up a banana, part of a granola bar and some grapes, and put them in a small dish.
I went out on the deck. Ms. Possum was still backed into the corner licking her hind foot. Her tail twitched lazily.
I put down the bowl of food, and peeling the banana, ate half of it while Ms. Possum dived into the grapes.
“That ‘Gaaaaaaaahh’ thing was brilliant,” I said, “you really had old Hank going.”
Ms. Possum looked up, grape juice dripping off her pointy little chin and wheezed a little possum-laugh, her shoulders hunching up and down in mirth.
We chatted for a while, and then I said my ‘good nights’, went inside, and turned out the deck light.
Ms. Possum finished her snack, washed out the bowl, and took the granola bar home to surprise the kids. And, she had a tale to tell.
Didn’t we all!
Ms. Possum eyed Hank.
Hank looked around to make sure his retreat path was clear.
Ms. Possum didn’t look around. She was backed into a corner of the deck.
Hank didn’t look happy.
Ms. Possum didn’t look happy. Ms. Possum sneered showing rows of sharp, white teeth.
Hank swallowed hard and gripped the broom tightly.
“I’ll just nudge her out of this corner and she’ll trot over to the steps and down the deck?” Hank meant that to be a confident statement of intent and purpose, but, his voice raised an octave or two, it came out a question.
“You go, girl, I mean, Hank,” I offered from a safe vantage point. I wasn’t going to mess with a cornered possum. I was content to go inside, close the door and turn in for the night knowing that Ms. Possum would be long gone in the morning.
Not Hank. Ms. Possum must go. Now.
“They don’t bite, do they?”
“Only when cornered or provoked, Hank, and by the looks of things you’ve got two-out-of-two.”
I decided to turn up the heat a little, “They can jump 15 feet and run 40 miles an hour. They can outrun a horse, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” Hank replied uncertainly, “Maybe if I just nudge it a bit it will get the hint.”
Gingerly, Hank offered the broom to Ms. Possum as if he were selling it.
“Good evening, Ms. Possum! Could I interest you in this Fine Broom? Yes, indeed, it’s a Fine Broom and a Fine day for Sweeping. A fine day for sweeping, yes m’am!”
Ms. Possum grinned at the prospect of a new broom. Why, she nearly split her face in two she grinned so wide. As her mouth grew larger from furry ear to furry ear, her lips pulled back in a rigor mortis expression exposing rows or razor sharp, pearly white teeth, moonlight reflecting in dripping saliva. Her eyes became large, sparkling, obsidian discs. Raising up on her legs, her fur standing on end Ms. Possum expressed her appreciation of the Fine Broom by exhaling a great sigh, her eyes becoming larger, her grin even wider.
“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!” exclaimed Ms. Possum.
“Yaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!” exclaimed Hank.
Suddenly, Hank forgot the rest of Salesmanship 101, “Closing the Deal” and beat a hasty retreat. Stage Left. He shot through the cabin door and closed it with a slam. Snick! The door locked.
Safe inside Hank returned the broom to the cupboard and joined us for some coffee by the fire.
None of us spoke for a while.
Finally, Hank observed, “That possum was pretty scared, poor critter.”
We sipped our coffee.
Hank continued, “I figger the best thing to do is let it calm down and we’ll deal with it in the morning. When it’s calmed down, that is.”
And with that Hank checked his watch, mumbled something about having to get up in the morning, long day, things to do, and shuffled off to his bunk.
After Hank settled down and we heard snoring noises, I gathered up a banana, part of a granola bar and some grapes, and put them in a small dish.
I went out on the deck. Ms. Possum was still backed into the corner licking her hind foot. Her tail twitched lazily.
I put down the bowl of food, and peeling the banana, ate half of it while Ms. Possum dived into the grapes.
“That ‘Gaaaaaaaahh’ thing was brilliant,” I said, “you really had old Hank going.”
Ms. Possum looked up, grape juice dripping off her pointy little chin and wheezed a little possum-laugh, her shoulders hunching up and down in mirth.
We chatted for a while, and then I said my ‘good nights’, went inside, and turned out the deck light.
Ms. Possum finished her snack, washed out the bowl, and took the granola bar home to surprise the kids. And, she had a tale to tell.
Didn’t we all!
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Twilight Zone Returns
Camera zooms in on a blue Ford Explorer cruising down the highway on a calm day with blue skies, green pastures and McDonalds at every mile.
Camera angle switches to an interior view of a driver enjoying music on the radio, rapping his fingers on the steering more or less in time with the music, singing embarrassingly loudly more or less in tune with the music.
Voice over narrative by Rod Serling: This is Bill. Returning home from an ordinary weekend get-away that included some camping, a fire on the beach, hot dogs, potato salad and the other little diversions that comprise recreation in the Twenty-first Century. Bill is heading home. He has a full tank of gas, he knows the way and he’s looking forward to that hot shower that awaits him at the termination of his journey. What Bill doesn’t realize is that his next stop won’t be home. Not on this highway. This highway leads to another dimension of sight and sound. On this highway Bill’s next stop will be…The Twilight Zone.
Dum dum dummmmmmmmm…diddily dump de dump. (Bongo music)
Background
When I was a kid I watched The Twilight Zone every Friday night and it used to creep me out.
I watched it, anyway.
Like a moth to a flame I was drawn to tales of the weird and weird tales. Twists of fate, the unexpected turn of events, the shock, the horror, the anticipation that something strange was going to happen.
In retrospect, Twilight Zone was never about horror. The monsters were in our own minds, not on the screen. We anticipated the worst. We anticipated something shocking. It was psychological. The stories were all fake. This stuff didn’t really happen.
Or did it?
In the Twilight Zone episode 91, “Little Girl Lost” (March 16, 1962) (Thank you, Google!) a little girl disappears through the wall under her bed into the Fourth Dimension. She’s there one minute and gone the next. Through the wall into a rift opened up into the Fourth Dimension.
I’m convinced that’s where single socks go.
I’m also convinced that a rift into the Forth Dimension swallowed a chestnut many years ago and a cell phone antenna today.
Years ago, as a college student, I was sorting chestnuts to roast. I was looking for chestnuts that were rotten or full of mold. At one point I dropped a chestnut and it rolled “somewhere.” Now, “somewhere” wasn’t a Great Where because I was in a dorm room, a concrete cube 10 by 10 by 10 with a single door. I heard the chestnut hit the floor, roll for a while, then…nothing.
I figured the chestnut rolled under the bed I was sitting near. Nope. We searched the room for a while and never found the nut. Eventually, we were distracted by beer and forgot about the disappearing chestnut.
A few weeks later, however, was the end of term and as we cleaned out the dorm room I was reminded of the Lost Chestnut and kept a sharp eye out for it. We all did. Finally, the dorm cell was totally empty of everything: beds, desks, chairs, carpets, kegs and the pesky nuclear reactor that we could never get going above 25%.
No chestnut.
It simply wasn’t there. It’s like it bounced twice, rolled a bit, and disappeared into the Fourth Dimension.
Today
Today I was unpacking the blue Ford Explorer from a weekend of camping, fires on the beach, hot dogs, potato salad and a generally great time. I used my cell phone several times during the journey from the Wilderness to Civilization, so I know the cell phone sported its little nubby antenna.
I returned home to my house, apparently my house, not the Fourth Dimensional house, enjoyed a hot shower and prepared a nice lunch. Then I went out to put the camping stuff away.
That’s when I whacked my cell phone. It was a little whack. Just getting too close to the car or the wall or what I was carrying or whatever. I felt a whack where my cell phone lives on my hip.
Shortly later, like a minute, I noticed that my cell phone antenna, that little stubby thing that sticks up on a Motorola cell phone, was gone.
What?
Gone. Missing. Absent. Detached.
I looked around and found nothing that resembled the grey, rubber antenna. I searched under the car, around the carport and in the flower bed.
No antenna.
“It has to be in this general area,” I thought.
But it wasn’t. I searched for an hour. Under the car. I moved the car. Under the Explorer. I moved the Explorer. In the grass. In the flowers. I looked in my pockets. Under my belt. In the cell phone holster. I expanded the search to the kitchen, bathroom and pool.
No antenna.
Finally, I gave up. It’s gone. Disappeared. In the Fourth Dimension. It was getting late and I had used up two sets of AA batteries searching the carport and flower beds.
Finally, I decided that this (and other) problem was best resolved by a good night’s sleep. As I drifted into the Land of Nod I distinctly heard the Antenna and the Chestnut.
“Yo, Antenna, Wazzzzzup?” Chestnut said enthusiastically.
“Not much, Chestmeister, just got here,” replied Antenna, “what’s with all the socks?”
Meanwhile
Meanwhile back in the Third Dimension the following conversation is occurring.
“Is that a coat hanger sticking up out of your cell phone?”
“Yeah, it’s all the rage. I’m surprised you don’t have one.”
Epilogue
Exit one Bill. Denier of Reality. He lost a chestnut and a cell phone antenna into the Fourth Dimension. Bill denies this and continues to pretend that the chestnut and antenna went “somewhere.”
To Bill, they went “somewhere” but we know that Somewhere is signposted: The Twilight Zone.
Camera angle switches to an interior view of a driver enjoying music on the radio, rapping his fingers on the steering more or less in time with the music, singing embarrassingly loudly more or less in tune with the music.
Voice over narrative by Rod Serling: This is Bill. Returning home from an ordinary weekend get-away that included some camping, a fire on the beach, hot dogs, potato salad and the other little diversions that comprise recreation in the Twenty-first Century. Bill is heading home. He has a full tank of gas, he knows the way and he’s looking forward to that hot shower that awaits him at the termination of his journey. What Bill doesn’t realize is that his next stop won’t be home. Not on this highway. This highway leads to another dimension of sight and sound. On this highway Bill’s next stop will be…The Twilight Zone.
Dum dum dummmmmmmmm…diddily dump de dump. (Bongo music)
Background
When I was a kid I watched The Twilight Zone every Friday night and it used to creep me out.
I watched it, anyway.
Like a moth to a flame I was drawn to tales of the weird and weird tales. Twists of fate, the unexpected turn of events, the shock, the horror, the anticipation that something strange was going to happen.
In retrospect, Twilight Zone was never about horror. The monsters were in our own minds, not on the screen. We anticipated the worst. We anticipated something shocking. It was psychological. The stories were all fake. This stuff didn’t really happen.
Or did it?
In the Twilight Zone episode 91, “Little Girl Lost” (March 16, 1962) (Thank you, Google!) a little girl disappears through the wall under her bed into the Fourth Dimension. She’s there one minute and gone the next. Through the wall into a rift opened up into the Fourth Dimension.
I’m convinced that’s where single socks go.
I’m also convinced that a rift into the Forth Dimension swallowed a chestnut many years ago and a cell phone antenna today.
Years ago, as a college student, I was sorting chestnuts to roast. I was looking for chestnuts that were rotten or full of mold. At one point I dropped a chestnut and it rolled “somewhere.” Now, “somewhere” wasn’t a Great Where because I was in a dorm room, a concrete cube 10 by 10 by 10 with a single door. I heard the chestnut hit the floor, roll for a while, then…nothing.
I figured the chestnut rolled under the bed I was sitting near. Nope. We searched the room for a while and never found the nut. Eventually, we were distracted by beer and forgot about the disappearing chestnut.
A few weeks later, however, was the end of term and as we cleaned out the dorm room I was reminded of the Lost Chestnut and kept a sharp eye out for it. We all did. Finally, the dorm cell was totally empty of everything: beds, desks, chairs, carpets, kegs and the pesky nuclear reactor that we could never get going above 25%.
No chestnut.
It simply wasn’t there. It’s like it bounced twice, rolled a bit, and disappeared into the Fourth Dimension.
Today
Today I was unpacking the blue Ford Explorer from a weekend of camping, fires on the beach, hot dogs, potato salad and a generally great time. I used my cell phone several times during the journey from the Wilderness to Civilization, so I know the cell phone sported its little nubby antenna.
I returned home to my house, apparently my house, not the Fourth Dimensional house, enjoyed a hot shower and prepared a nice lunch. Then I went out to put the camping stuff away.
That’s when I whacked my cell phone. It was a little whack. Just getting too close to the car or the wall or what I was carrying or whatever. I felt a whack where my cell phone lives on my hip.
Shortly later, like a minute, I noticed that my cell phone antenna, that little stubby thing that sticks up on a Motorola cell phone, was gone.
What?
Gone. Missing. Absent. Detached.
I looked around and found nothing that resembled the grey, rubber antenna. I searched under the car, around the carport and in the flower bed.
No antenna.
“It has to be in this general area,” I thought.
But it wasn’t. I searched for an hour. Under the car. I moved the car. Under the Explorer. I moved the Explorer. In the grass. In the flowers. I looked in my pockets. Under my belt. In the cell phone holster. I expanded the search to the kitchen, bathroom and pool.
No antenna.
Finally, I gave up. It’s gone. Disappeared. In the Fourth Dimension. It was getting late and I had used up two sets of AA batteries searching the carport and flower beds.
Finally, I decided that this (and other) problem was best resolved by a good night’s sleep. As I drifted into the Land of Nod I distinctly heard the Antenna and the Chestnut.
“Yo, Antenna, Wazzzzzup?” Chestnut said enthusiastically.
“Not much, Chestmeister, just got here,” replied Antenna, “what’s with all the socks?”
Meanwhile
Meanwhile back in the Third Dimension the following conversation is occurring.
“Is that a coat hanger sticking up out of your cell phone?”
“Yeah, it’s all the rage. I’m surprised you don’t have one.”
Epilogue
Exit one Bill. Denier of Reality. He lost a chestnut and a cell phone antenna into the Fourth Dimension. Bill denies this and continues to pretend that the chestnut and antenna went “somewhere.”
To Bill, they went “somewhere” but we know that Somewhere is signposted: The Twilight Zone.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Not the Santa!
My favorite time of the year is here: Christmastime!
Christmas lover; I am fond of Christmas. I like the music, the food, the spirit and, well, the whole thing. Bring it on, I’m ready!
Which is to say I’m never ready. Occasionally I’ve been “ready,” but generally it’s Christmas Here I come Ready or Not. I’ve learned not to mind but just let the season flow around me and soak it all in.
And that reminds me, you’re all invited to host a fondue party at your house on Thursday, December 22. Send me email updates and pictures as your party is happening and by hook and by crook I’ll post them here.
Global Fondue Party.
OK, back to Christmas.
“It’s a Wonderful Life” with James Stewart, I can watch that at least once, maybe twice if I’m cooking and only see bits and pieces. “Simpson’s Christmas”, a classic. All of them; I’m sure there’s been more than one. “Charlie Brown Christmas” I’ll listen to for the music but I’m not likely to plop down and watch it from start to finish.
As for Christmas music I can listen to it year round. It really puts me in a good mood at this time of year, though. Manheim Steamroller, Liz Story, Cambridge Singers…I’m all over it.
Now, lest we think that I’m a total pushover let’s spend a moment in the reality of the season. I went to the Mall this weekend. I usually avoid the Mall and I REALLY avoid the mall between October and February. However, this weekend I needed a particular item only available at the Mall so I went.
Big mistake. I won’t go into the details but they involved parking, parking, parking, crowds, crowds crowds and kiosk vendors selling flying things that basically scare the hell out of me. Who are these people and why are they selling this stuff? Score for me, I got my cell phone belt clip and beat a hasty retreat. That’s it for the year.
One of my favorite TV shows was Dinosaurs, about a dinosaur family and a rip-off of the Honeymooners. The baby dinosaur would often whack his father on the head with a spoon and exclaim “Not the Mama! Not the Mama!”
I sympathize with Baby D looking next door. Not the Santa! Not the Santa!
The Neighbor’s Christmas Display. If there’s not a law against inflatable, lit from inside, plastic Santas and Snowmen, there should be. At the very least there should be a hunting season on these gaudy, offensive blights and the owners should be required to fill them with hydrogen gas so they explode magnificently when shot.
“Come on, kids, let’s go see the lights and shoot us some snowmen!”
“Yeaaaaa!”
These monstrosities rise from the lawn at dusk like Yule time zombies glowing and swaying in the wind, maniacal, rigor mortis grins fixed on their cheap, plastic faces and proclaim to the world “Crass is good!”
Finally, I’m a terrible shopper. That is, I’m terrible at figuring out what to get for someone else.
In a perfect world everybody would get a quad processor Macintosh G5 with dual 30” monitors and 10 Tb of disc storage. And that’s just for email.
A few years ago I gave my daughter a really cool stapler. Metallic silver, ergonomic design and a Swingline, too! I’m hoping this year she’ll start speaking to me again. You’d think she’d appreciate quality, but noooooo.
Nobody gave me a stapler. I dropped hints, yes I did. Oh, well. There’s always this year.
Christmas lover; I am fond of Christmas. I like the music, the food, the spirit and, well, the whole thing. Bring it on, I’m ready!
Which is to say I’m never ready. Occasionally I’ve been “ready,” but generally it’s Christmas Here I come Ready or Not. I’ve learned not to mind but just let the season flow around me and soak it all in.
And that reminds me, you’re all invited to host a fondue party at your house on Thursday, December 22. Send me email updates and pictures as your party is happening and by hook and by crook I’ll post them here.
Global Fondue Party.
OK, back to Christmas.
“It’s a Wonderful Life” with James Stewart, I can watch that at least once, maybe twice if I’m cooking and only see bits and pieces. “Simpson’s Christmas”, a classic. All of them; I’m sure there’s been more than one. “Charlie Brown Christmas” I’ll listen to for the music but I’m not likely to plop down and watch it from start to finish.
As for Christmas music I can listen to it year round. It really puts me in a good mood at this time of year, though. Manheim Steamroller, Liz Story, Cambridge Singers…I’m all over it.
Now, lest we think that I’m a total pushover let’s spend a moment in the reality of the season. I went to the Mall this weekend. I usually avoid the Mall and I REALLY avoid the mall between October and February. However, this weekend I needed a particular item only available at the Mall so I went.
Big mistake. I won’t go into the details but they involved parking, parking, parking, crowds, crowds crowds and kiosk vendors selling flying things that basically scare the hell out of me. Who are these people and why are they selling this stuff? Score for me, I got my cell phone belt clip and beat a hasty retreat. That’s it for the year.
One of my favorite TV shows was Dinosaurs, about a dinosaur family and a rip-off of the Honeymooners. The baby dinosaur would often whack his father on the head with a spoon and exclaim “Not the Mama! Not the Mama!”
I sympathize with Baby D looking next door. Not the Santa! Not the Santa!
The Neighbor’s Christmas Display. If there’s not a law against inflatable, lit from inside, plastic Santas and Snowmen, there should be. At the very least there should be a hunting season on these gaudy, offensive blights and the owners should be required to fill them with hydrogen gas so they explode magnificently when shot.
“Come on, kids, let’s go see the lights and shoot us some snowmen!”
“Yeaaaaa!”
These monstrosities rise from the lawn at dusk like Yule time zombies glowing and swaying in the wind, maniacal, rigor mortis grins fixed on their cheap, plastic faces and proclaim to the world “Crass is good!”
Finally, I’m a terrible shopper. That is, I’m terrible at figuring out what to get for someone else.
In a perfect world everybody would get a quad processor Macintosh G5 with dual 30” monitors and 10 Tb of disc storage. And that’s just for email.
A few years ago I gave my daughter a really cool stapler. Metallic silver, ergonomic design and a Swingline, too! I’m hoping this year she’ll start speaking to me again. You’d think she’d appreciate quality, but noooooo.
Nobody gave me a stapler. I dropped hints, yes I did. Oh, well. There’s always this year.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Sackmeister
At the supermarket there are many roles played. Some people are simply customers, oblivious to the world around them, just getting by, trying to avoid hassle.
There are those who work in the supermarket. Shelf stockers, the meat and fish people, the produce managers, janitors and last but not least, the people you see at the end of your shopping experience: Checkers and Sackers.
Checkers are the people who scan your merchandise glacially or, if you’re very lucky, with some modicum of efficiency.
Sackers are the people who place frozen turkeys on top of bread and eggs, glacially or if you’re very lucky, with some modicum of efficiency.
Rarely, an individual will rise to the pinnacle of the profession and become a Master Checker or a Master Sacker.
But, the ultimate accolade, the highest honor, the Palm d’Or is accorded only to the very few. And in the sacking profession that would be the Sackmeister. An individual so skilled at bagging groceries that he has transcended into legend.
I’m the Sackmeister.
I’m the King of Sacking.
When I walk into Kroger’s the sack boys cower in my presence because they know, instinctively, that
I. Am. The. Sackmeister.
What that means is that I can beat the Checker. Any Checker. Always. Without fail. My hands are a blur when sacking groceries, my eyes swiveling like the Terminator’s scanning for the next item. I anticipate. I snatch. I sack. I am victorious.
I am the Sackmeister.
When I’m sacking by the time the checkout printer spits out the receipt I’ve got all the groceries sacked up and in the cart.
The conveyer belt loops its endless life empty. The checker is finishing his business at the cash register and I’m standing at the end of the counter, arms folder, supercilious smile on my face, gloating. Waiting on you, Dude, I imply. The Sackmeister always waits on the Checker. The Checker never waits on the Sackmeister.
Then I do the Beat the Checker Dance out the store. The other sackers form a bridge line, arms outstretched in reverence as I cruise out into the parking lot.
“Who IS that guy?” I once heard.
“He’s the fastest sacker on the planet,” a colleague whispered, “Never been beaten by a Checker. Never.”
“Not even by the Old Hand?”
“Shhhh! We don’t speak of the Old Hand and the Sackmeister together. That’s just wrong. I mean, that’s like saying Starsky beat Hutch or Yogi beat Boo Boo or Sonny beat Cher. That’s just wrong.”
I pushed my cart to my car that was parked in the special spot marked for the “Sackmeister.” Lovingly, I polished the little plaque that identified my special parking place.
“Like candy from a baby,” I thought, “like candy from a baby.”
Later, after Thanksgiving, I needed a major shop. I was out of a lot of standard items like armadillo shells, and weevils had gotten into my special Hungarian hot paprika, so that needed replenishing. Also, I cooked up all my specialty vegetables: Sonoran chipotle, southern collard greens, Klingon gaqh and Italian cheese.
I made a list, grabbed my sacker gloves off the hook, put on my shades and drove into battle.
Word must have leaked out. When I arrived at Kroger’s the lot was nearly empty. Not a problem since I owned a reserved parking spot. I eased into my Sackmeister stall and paused to reflect on my shopping strategy. A key strategy to winning is to arrange items in the cart in a particular order designed to slow down or confuse the Checker.
Easy stuff up front, weird vegetables at the back. Hide a few items below the main basket and buy a greeting card for Amy; those always take extra time to scan.
I cruised through the store like a demon possessed picking out Kroger Card Special items on instinct. Case of dog food half price. I don’t have a dog, but half price is half price. I was thinking of tacos for the soccer team picnic. Yeah, that would work nicely.
Finally, cart piled high, I approached the checkout lines.
Whoa, baby, I’m in luck! Nine lines open! I’ve never seen so many check-out lane lights lit. (Try saying THAT three times!) Glad I brought my shades.
As I cruised up to Lane 3, the light went off. Sorry, closed.
I moved to Lane 5 and the light went off. Sorry, closed.
As I looked up, all the lights blinked off one after another until only Lane 8 was open.
I cruised up to Lane 8 and as I swiveled around the magazine rack I came face to face with Carlos, aka Spot Boy. Carlos was in great form tonight sporting a zit the size of Rhode Island smack dab in the middle of his forehead. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use this cheap trick, but something told me that tonight was going to be just a little different.
Carlos looked at me, stretched out his hands and cracked his adolescent knuckles loudly. With the back of his hand he tossed his greasy hair and locked eyes with mine.
“Ah, it’s you,” he said as if he didn’t know, “All the sackers are on break. Pity. You’ll have to sack your own groceries.”
He paused, then spat out, “Up to it, Old Man?”
I fixed Carlos with my steely gaze and smoothly pulled out my Binford 3000 Sacker Gloves from my back pocket and slowly pulled them on. The Cordovian leather hugged my muscled fingers and I pulled the Velcro tight around my wrist. The theme song from “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” played in the background. Whoo-eee-whooooo, wha-wah-wahhhhhh.
My spurs clinked and my boots beat a sad tattoo as I strode to the sacking position.
Not breaking his gaze Carlos sprayed Windex on the scanner and wiped the glass surface with a practiced hand, clockwise three times then counterclockwise twice. Carlos was a pro.
“Yeah, Carlos, I think I’m up to it,” I sneered as I fanned the plastic bags and loosened my neck muscles.
“Ready when you are…Carlos.” I was in a crouch, shades down, feet firmly planted, bags open. Ready.
“Oh, by the way, Carlos,” I injected, “nice spot!” I pointed to my forehead.
Carlos looked self-conscious. Rattled he instinctively placed his hand on his forehead directly over the Cyclopsian zit dominating his skull.
This was my advantage! With Carlos focused on his blemish he would be unfocused on scanning groceries and that was an edge, however slim. But in the Olympian event of grocery sacking, every advantage, however cheap, was an advantage. It was survival of the fittest and the sneakiest. I knew Spot Boy’s Achilles’ Heel was his forehead.
Then Carlos grinned a face-splitting grin, dug his fingers under the volcanic eruption and ripped it off. Ewwww, I thought, how gross!
What? Instead of cascades of pus running down his face his forehead was as smooth as an overripe mango. It was apparent that the giant pimple was a ruse. A diversion. Carlos planned the whole thing!
“Fake zit, loser!” Carlos spat, and with that started zinging cans, boxes and packages across the scanner like a demon possessed.
I confess I was caught off guard. Gloating over my zit reference I missed the first three cans and nearly dropped a package of bacon on the floor. Two bags of flour piled up against the rail as 40 cans of cat foot came streaming down the belt. I was behind. That would have been all she wrote, but I compensated with a double axel, pike position and bagged like a man possessed.
I switched to Riverdance mode as Clint Eastwood became a giant Leprechaun.
Next came the wine bottles but I was ready with a special wine box that I produced from under the counter. Zip zip zip and I was done.
Carlos’ hands were a blur as he scanned product after product. Anticipating the vegetable produce at the back of the cart, Carlos activated his Heads-Up display of produce numbers and began to key in items before he weighed them. Whoa, this guy was good!
My game plan is to bank on a slowdown as the checker gets to produce. One call to the manager and I’ve won!
“Lane 8 needs a product code for Peruvian Llama hooves.” Ah, sweet victory would be mine.
But, Carlos with his Heads-Up produce display had the entire catalog in front of him.
It was going to be close.
Check, check, check. Carlos threw llama hooves, Mongolian turnips, purple sage blossoms and Not Too Hot peppers without so much as a flinch.
I was getting behind.
By the time I had the Pima fava beans in my grasp, Carlos was pressing the total button.
The receipt ticked out of the printer. Hastily, I sacked the fava beans and slam-dunked them in to the cart.
I heard a rip.
Looking around there must have been fractions of a second between the time I dunked the beans into the cart and the receipt was torn from the printer.
The store manager watched us from the balcony above. His was the final decision.
I felt confident I had won. Carlos looked worried, then he brightened somewhat. Pointing to the counter he positively beamed.
What? I thought.
And there, nestled against the wine bottle bags at the far end of the checkout counter lay a single kumquat, tiny and orange. Unmoving. I had failed to pack an item. It’s possible that Carlos won. Dejectedly, I picked up the kumquat and dropped in a bag, tossed it into the cart.
“Miss sacking something?”, Carlos sneered.
Yes, so I had. I was done for. In my confusion I couldn’t even remember buying kumquats.
I looked up as Caesar Gaius Krogerus gave me the thumbs down.
Defeated I pushed my cart through the door amid the shouting and derision of the Kroger employees.
“Ya, boo!” they shouted as they threw vegetables and fruit at me.
In the parking lot as I loaded my shopping into the car, including some extra fruits and vegetables I hadn’t purchased, (thank you Kroger staff!) The store manager was already removing my special sign. In its place read “Carlos – Kroger Employee of the Month”
The store manager smiled.
I got nose to nose with him and in my best Austrian accent said
“I’ll be back.”
Yes, I’ll be back, Carlos. You don’t beat the Sackmeister by a kumquat. No, revenge will be mine!
As I drove through the parking lot to the exit I passed the Old Hand who was on break, Starbucks grande in his hand, munching on a kumquat.
The Old Hand waved, and smiled wryly.
There are those who work in the supermarket. Shelf stockers, the meat and fish people, the produce managers, janitors and last but not least, the people you see at the end of your shopping experience: Checkers and Sackers.
Checkers are the people who scan your merchandise glacially or, if you’re very lucky, with some modicum of efficiency.
Sackers are the people who place frozen turkeys on top of bread and eggs, glacially or if you’re very lucky, with some modicum of efficiency.
Rarely, an individual will rise to the pinnacle of the profession and become a Master Checker or a Master Sacker.
But, the ultimate accolade, the highest honor, the Palm d’Or is accorded only to the very few. And in the sacking profession that would be the Sackmeister. An individual so skilled at bagging groceries that he has transcended into legend.
I’m the Sackmeister.
I’m the King of Sacking.
When I walk into Kroger’s the sack boys cower in my presence because they know, instinctively, that
I. Am. The. Sackmeister.
What that means is that I can beat the Checker. Any Checker. Always. Without fail. My hands are a blur when sacking groceries, my eyes swiveling like the Terminator’s scanning for the next item. I anticipate. I snatch. I sack. I am victorious.
I am the Sackmeister.
When I’m sacking by the time the checkout printer spits out the receipt I’ve got all the groceries sacked up and in the cart.
The conveyer belt loops its endless life empty. The checker is finishing his business at the cash register and I’m standing at the end of the counter, arms folder, supercilious smile on my face, gloating. Waiting on you, Dude, I imply. The Sackmeister always waits on the Checker. The Checker never waits on the Sackmeister.
Then I do the Beat the Checker Dance out the store. The other sackers form a bridge line, arms outstretched in reverence as I cruise out into the parking lot.
“Who IS that guy?” I once heard.
“He’s the fastest sacker on the planet,” a colleague whispered, “Never been beaten by a Checker. Never.”
“Not even by the Old Hand?”
“Shhhh! We don’t speak of the Old Hand and the Sackmeister together. That’s just wrong. I mean, that’s like saying Starsky beat Hutch or Yogi beat Boo Boo or Sonny beat Cher. That’s just wrong.”
I pushed my cart to my car that was parked in the special spot marked for the “Sackmeister.” Lovingly, I polished the little plaque that identified my special parking place.
“Like candy from a baby,” I thought, “like candy from a baby.”
Later, after Thanksgiving, I needed a major shop. I was out of a lot of standard items like armadillo shells, and weevils had gotten into my special Hungarian hot paprika, so that needed replenishing. Also, I cooked up all my specialty vegetables: Sonoran chipotle, southern collard greens, Klingon gaqh and Italian cheese.
I made a list, grabbed my sacker gloves off the hook, put on my shades and drove into battle.
Word must have leaked out. When I arrived at Kroger’s the lot was nearly empty. Not a problem since I owned a reserved parking spot. I eased into my Sackmeister stall and paused to reflect on my shopping strategy. A key strategy to winning is to arrange items in the cart in a particular order designed to slow down or confuse the Checker.
Easy stuff up front, weird vegetables at the back. Hide a few items below the main basket and buy a greeting card for Amy; those always take extra time to scan.
I cruised through the store like a demon possessed picking out Kroger Card Special items on instinct. Case of dog food half price. I don’t have a dog, but half price is half price. I was thinking of tacos for the soccer team picnic. Yeah, that would work nicely.
Finally, cart piled high, I approached the checkout lines.
Whoa, baby, I’m in luck! Nine lines open! I’ve never seen so many check-out lane lights lit. (Try saying THAT three times!) Glad I brought my shades.
As I cruised up to Lane 3, the light went off. Sorry, closed.
I moved to Lane 5 and the light went off. Sorry, closed.
As I looked up, all the lights blinked off one after another until only Lane 8 was open.
I cruised up to Lane 8 and as I swiveled around the magazine rack I came face to face with Carlos, aka Spot Boy. Carlos was in great form tonight sporting a zit the size of Rhode Island smack dab in the middle of his forehead. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use this cheap trick, but something told me that tonight was going to be just a little different.
Carlos looked at me, stretched out his hands and cracked his adolescent knuckles loudly. With the back of his hand he tossed his greasy hair and locked eyes with mine.
“Ah, it’s you,” he said as if he didn’t know, “All the sackers are on break. Pity. You’ll have to sack your own groceries.”
He paused, then spat out, “Up to it, Old Man?”
I fixed Carlos with my steely gaze and smoothly pulled out my Binford 3000 Sacker Gloves from my back pocket and slowly pulled them on. The Cordovian leather hugged my muscled fingers and I pulled the Velcro tight around my wrist. The theme song from “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” played in the background. Whoo-eee-whooooo, wha-wah-wahhhhhh.
My spurs clinked and my boots beat a sad tattoo as I strode to the sacking position.
Not breaking his gaze Carlos sprayed Windex on the scanner and wiped the glass surface with a practiced hand, clockwise three times then counterclockwise twice. Carlos was a pro.
“Yeah, Carlos, I think I’m up to it,” I sneered as I fanned the plastic bags and loosened my neck muscles.
“Ready when you are…Carlos.” I was in a crouch, shades down, feet firmly planted, bags open. Ready.
“Oh, by the way, Carlos,” I injected, “nice spot!” I pointed to my forehead.
Carlos looked self-conscious. Rattled he instinctively placed his hand on his forehead directly over the Cyclopsian zit dominating his skull.
This was my advantage! With Carlos focused on his blemish he would be unfocused on scanning groceries and that was an edge, however slim. But in the Olympian event of grocery sacking, every advantage, however cheap, was an advantage. It was survival of the fittest and the sneakiest. I knew Spot Boy’s Achilles’ Heel was his forehead.
Then Carlos grinned a face-splitting grin, dug his fingers under the volcanic eruption and ripped it off. Ewwww, I thought, how gross!
What? Instead of cascades of pus running down his face his forehead was as smooth as an overripe mango. It was apparent that the giant pimple was a ruse. A diversion. Carlos planned the whole thing!
“Fake zit, loser!” Carlos spat, and with that started zinging cans, boxes and packages across the scanner like a demon possessed.
I confess I was caught off guard. Gloating over my zit reference I missed the first three cans and nearly dropped a package of bacon on the floor. Two bags of flour piled up against the rail as 40 cans of cat foot came streaming down the belt. I was behind. That would have been all she wrote, but I compensated with a double axel, pike position and bagged like a man possessed.
I switched to Riverdance mode as Clint Eastwood became a giant Leprechaun.
Next came the wine bottles but I was ready with a special wine box that I produced from under the counter. Zip zip zip and I was done.
Carlos’ hands were a blur as he scanned product after product. Anticipating the vegetable produce at the back of the cart, Carlos activated his Heads-Up display of produce numbers and began to key in items before he weighed them. Whoa, this guy was good!
My game plan is to bank on a slowdown as the checker gets to produce. One call to the manager and I’ve won!
“Lane 8 needs a product code for Peruvian Llama hooves.” Ah, sweet victory would be mine.
But, Carlos with his Heads-Up produce display had the entire catalog in front of him.
It was going to be close.
Check, check, check. Carlos threw llama hooves, Mongolian turnips, purple sage blossoms and Not Too Hot peppers without so much as a flinch.
I was getting behind.
By the time I had the Pima fava beans in my grasp, Carlos was pressing the total button.
The receipt ticked out of the printer. Hastily, I sacked the fava beans and slam-dunked them in to the cart.
I heard a rip.
Looking around there must have been fractions of a second between the time I dunked the beans into the cart and the receipt was torn from the printer.
The store manager watched us from the balcony above. His was the final decision.
I felt confident I had won. Carlos looked worried, then he brightened somewhat. Pointing to the counter he positively beamed.
What? I thought.
And there, nestled against the wine bottle bags at the far end of the checkout counter lay a single kumquat, tiny and orange. Unmoving. I had failed to pack an item. It’s possible that Carlos won. Dejectedly, I picked up the kumquat and dropped in a bag, tossed it into the cart.
“Miss sacking something?”, Carlos sneered.
Yes, so I had. I was done for. In my confusion I couldn’t even remember buying kumquats.
I looked up as Caesar Gaius Krogerus gave me the thumbs down.
Defeated I pushed my cart through the door amid the shouting and derision of the Kroger employees.
“Ya, boo!” they shouted as they threw vegetables and fruit at me.
In the parking lot as I loaded my shopping into the car, including some extra fruits and vegetables I hadn’t purchased, (thank you Kroger staff!) The store manager was already removing my special sign. In its place read “Carlos – Kroger Employee of the Month”
The store manager smiled.
I got nose to nose with him and in my best Austrian accent said
“I’ll be back.”
Yes, I’ll be back, Carlos. You don’t beat the Sackmeister by a kumquat. No, revenge will be mine!
As I drove through the parking lot to the exit I passed the Old Hand who was on break, Starbucks grande in his hand, munching on a kumquat.
The Old Hand waved, and smiled wryly.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Air Apparent
When did they start selling air?
“They” are gas station owners. I’m sorry, “service station proprietors.” No longer is a gas station a place to fill up the vehicle, check the oil, clean the windshield and maybe get a soda pop to go. Nope. Long gone.
Service stations have gone up market. Now, they all have convenience stores. Convenience, indeed. In addition to gourmet gasoline these new service stations proffer more than watered-down, generic soda pop. At the very least a Starbucks kiosk will be nearby. Not content with day-old tuna wrapped in cellophane the modern service station will offer a selection of croissant sandwiches with watercress and Parma ham. I say, would you happen to have any Grey Poupon?
It was only a matter of time, I guess, before they discovered they could sell air.
Air and water used to be free services. Well-used, dented machines set off from the main car court in a dim location, you could always rely on them to pump up that nearly flat tire, or quench a leaky radiator. Just pull in, do your business and get back on the road.
Simple. And free. After all, the planet is three-quarters covered with water and enveloped under 50 miles or so of air.
Today I discovered I had a slow leak in one of my tires. Not a big deal, yet, but it was looking a bit flat and I couldn’t do anything about it until next week so I figured I’d air it up and watch it a few days. Tire problems tend to ripen quickly. I set my procrastination meter to “Medium” and headed off to Perry’s Service for some air.
Perry’s used to be called the “59 Exit Service” but that was when it was a gas station. Now that it’s a “service” station it was renamed Perry’s. Not only did they change the name, but they started charging for air.
“Seventy-five cents? For air?” I exclaimed in outrage as I pulled up to the shiny new air and water machines, “That’s outrageous!”
I looked around for someone to yell at. I knew I shouldn’t have left that participle hanging at the end of the previous sentence, but I was feeling a little dangerous at that moment. I get edgy with my prose when I’m huntin’ bear.
Presently, a well-dressed young man strolled out of the convenience store heading in my direction.
“Good afternoon, sir, air service for one?” he bowed low.
“Er, I just want to pump up my tire. It’s a little flat, you see.”
“Ah, quite. Do you have a reservation?”
“For air? No I don’t have a reservation. I just want some air. Not for me. For my tire. There, the going-flat-thing on my car.”
I was getting a little exasperated.
“On moment, sir, let me check my appointment book.”
“Appointment book?” I thought, “For air?”
“Right, sir, you’re in luck. Just pull up right here, oh, I see you’re way ahead of me, sir! Sir knows best, doesn’t he?”
He handed me a menu.
“A menu? For air? I just want air. In the tire. How difficult is that?”
Undeterred, the Air Waiter proceeded to tell me about the daily specials.
“You are in luck today, sir, as we have some spectacular offerings. First, we have fresh south Texas air, 78 percent nitrogen, 21 percent oxygen with just a hint of argon. That’s served at 30 pounds per square inch on a bed of Vulcanized rubber.”
“Next, we have a rare Washington State air tanked in from the Columbia River served with a twist of krypton and a helium glaze.”
“We also offer an imported French aire, 2003, estate bottled with, how do you say, je ne say qua, a strong hydrogen sulphide finish.”
“And, finally, we have Austin Statehouse air that’s usually served hot, but we present it filleted of Blarney at 32 pounds per square inch with neon relish.”
I gazed at the menu and made my selection.
“I’ll have the Combination Number 5: atmosphere l’ordinnaire at 35 pounds per square inch, grande Starbucks coffee of the day and tuna sandwich au cellophane.”
Air Waiter stared at me with quiet resignation. “One of ‘those’,” he was surly thinking. Quickly, he wrote my order, pumped up my tire and strode off to the store for my coffee and sandwich.
Returning without my sandwich, Air Waiter informed me that the tuna was “off”, and presented me with a rain check.
“Do I have to come back when it rains?” I offered jokingly.
Air Waiter turned on his heel and marched back to the convenience store.
“Pardon me for breathing,” I muttered as I got back in my car. I took a swig of the coffee. Lukewarm.
On the way home I rolled down all the windows and opened up the moon roof. I put in a Kate Bush CD and cranked up “Breathing” to an obscene volume. Bathed in air I took in a great lungful and exhaled lustily, spewing carbon dioxide into the atmosphere with gay abandon.
“Better take advantage of this while it’s still free,” I thought and headed back to the house to enjoy the remaining hours of my weekend.
“They” are gas station owners. I’m sorry, “service station proprietors.” No longer is a gas station a place to fill up the vehicle, check the oil, clean the windshield and maybe get a soda pop to go. Nope. Long gone.
Service stations have gone up market. Now, they all have convenience stores. Convenience, indeed. In addition to gourmet gasoline these new service stations proffer more than watered-down, generic soda pop. At the very least a Starbucks kiosk will be nearby. Not content with day-old tuna wrapped in cellophane the modern service station will offer a selection of croissant sandwiches with watercress and Parma ham. I say, would you happen to have any Grey Poupon?
It was only a matter of time, I guess, before they discovered they could sell air.
Air and water used to be free services. Well-used, dented machines set off from the main car court in a dim location, you could always rely on them to pump up that nearly flat tire, or quench a leaky radiator. Just pull in, do your business and get back on the road.
Simple. And free. After all, the planet is three-quarters covered with water and enveloped under 50 miles or so of air.
Today I discovered I had a slow leak in one of my tires. Not a big deal, yet, but it was looking a bit flat and I couldn’t do anything about it until next week so I figured I’d air it up and watch it a few days. Tire problems tend to ripen quickly. I set my procrastination meter to “Medium” and headed off to Perry’s Service for some air.
Perry’s used to be called the “59 Exit Service” but that was when it was a gas station. Now that it’s a “service” station it was renamed Perry’s. Not only did they change the name, but they started charging for air.
“Seventy-five cents? For air?” I exclaimed in outrage as I pulled up to the shiny new air and water machines, “That’s outrageous!”
I looked around for someone to yell at. I knew I shouldn’t have left that participle hanging at the end of the previous sentence, but I was feeling a little dangerous at that moment. I get edgy with my prose when I’m huntin’ bear.
Presently, a well-dressed young man strolled out of the convenience store heading in my direction.
“Good afternoon, sir, air service for one?” he bowed low.
“Er, I just want to pump up my tire. It’s a little flat, you see.”
“Ah, quite. Do you have a reservation?”
“For air? No I don’t have a reservation. I just want some air. Not for me. For my tire. There, the going-flat-thing on my car.”
I was getting a little exasperated.
“On moment, sir, let me check my appointment book.”
“Appointment book?” I thought, “For air?”
“Right, sir, you’re in luck. Just pull up right here, oh, I see you’re way ahead of me, sir! Sir knows best, doesn’t he?”
He handed me a menu.
“A menu? For air? I just want air. In the tire. How difficult is that?”
Undeterred, the Air Waiter proceeded to tell me about the daily specials.
“You are in luck today, sir, as we have some spectacular offerings. First, we have fresh south Texas air, 78 percent nitrogen, 21 percent oxygen with just a hint of argon. That’s served at 30 pounds per square inch on a bed of Vulcanized rubber.”
“Next, we have a rare Washington State air tanked in from the Columbia River served with a twist of krypton and a helium glaze.”
“We also offer an imported French aire, 2003, estate bottled with, how do you say, je ne say qua, a strong hydrogen sulphide finish.”
“And, finally, we have Austin Statehouse air that’s usually served hot, but we present it filleted of Blarney at 32 pounds per square inch with neon relish.”
I gazed at the menu and made my selection.
“I’ll have the Combination Number 5: atmosphere l’ordinnaire at 35 pounds per square inch, grande Starbucks coffee of the day and tuna sandwich au cellophane.”
Air Waiter stared at me with quiet resignation. “One of ‘those’,” he was surly thinking. Quickly, he wrote my order, pumped up my tire and strode off to the store for my coffee and sandwich.
Returning without my sandwich, Air Waiter informed me that the tuna was “off”, and presented me with a rain check.
“Do I have to come back when it rains?” I offered jokingly.
Air Waiter turned on his heel and marched back to the convenience store.
“Pardon me for breathing,” I muttered as I got back in my car. I took a swig of the coffee. Lukewarm.
On the way home I rolled down all the windows and opened up the moon roof. I put in a Kate Bush CD and cranked up “Breathing” to an obscene volume. Bathed in air I took in a great lungful and exhaled lustily, spewing carbon dioxide into the atmosphere with gay abandon.
“Better take advantage of this while it’s still free,” I thought and headed back to the house to enjoy the remaining hours of my weekend.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Thanksgiving, I think
Not that there's sibling rivalry in the house, but...
Overheard at the Thanksgiving dinner table.
"See? I am the favorite child."
"You're the favored child."
"oh."
I'm glad we got that cleared up.
Overheard at the Thanksgiving dinner table.
"See? I am the favorite child."
"You're the favored child."
"oh."
I'm glad we got that cleared up.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Wanted: Smart Oven
I haven’t baked bread for a while and I thought that while I was home on Thanksgiving Vacation I’d fire up the old oven, get the yeast a-going and fill the house with yummy bread baking smells.
I rummaged around and found all my old friends in the kitchen: large bowl, yeast, salt, Kitchen Aid mixer, baguette pan and favorite recipe.
I got to work.
The yeast bubbled nicely, very happy to be back in service. Kitchen Aid performed a Steamboat Willie dance on the countertop and the oven beeped cheerfully announcing it was hot to trot! The dough rose favorably; I punched it down, formed baguettes and laid them in the baguette pan.
Finally, it was showtime! In the oven they went and I set the timer for intervals at which I’d spray the loaves with water to develop a crusty crust.
At last spray, I set the timer for 21 minutes and settled down with a good book (Victoria’s Secret Christmas Catalog) for a brief “read.”
BeeeeeP! Ah, smelled good and I opened the oven to remove golden baguettes…
…only they weren’t golden. They were barely tan. In fact, they were downright pale.
WTF?
I checked the oven.
It was OFF.
OFF? OFF?!?!? What OFF?
True, the oven temperature was about 200, a far cry from the 400 bread baking temperature.
Then I realized what was going on. When I turned off the oven timer after the final spray I must have hit the main oven OFF button by mistake and the oven obeyed.
This is why I need a Smart Oven. I need an oven that will have a conversation with me.
“Yo, Baker Boy, you just put that bread in. Do you really want to turn off the heat? ‘cause that’s gonna make a mess of your bread.”
That would have been a big help.
As it turns out, I reset the oven, resprayed the bread, popped them in for 15 minutes and they came out OK.
I’m calling it Twice Cooked Bread.
Uh, yeah, that’s the ticket. I MEANT to do that. Yeah.
I rummaged around and found all my old friends in the kitchen: large bowl, yeast, salt, Kitchen Aid mixer, baguette pan and favorite recipe.
I got to work.
The yeast bubbled nicely, very happy to be back in service. Kitchen Aid performed a Steamboat Willie dance on the countertop and the oven beeped cheerfully announcing it was hot to trot! The dough rose favorably; I punched it down, formed baguettes and laid them in the baguette pan.
Finally, it was showtime! In the oven they went and I set the timer for intervals at which I’d spray the loaves with water to develop a crusty crust.
At last spray, I set the timer for 21 minutes and settled down with a good book (Victoria’s Secret Christmas Catalog) for a brief “read.”
BeeeeeP! Ah, smelled good and I opened the oven to remove golden baguettes…
…only they weren’t golden. They were barely tan. In fact, they were downright pale.
WTF?
I checked the oven.
It was OFF.
OFF? OFF?!?!? What OFF?
True, the oven temperature was about 200, a far cry from the 400 bread baking temperature.
Then I realized what was going on. When I turned off the oven timer after the final spray I must have hit the main oven OFF button by mistake and the oven obeyed.
This is why I need a Smart Oven. I need an oven that will have a conversation with me.
“Yo, Baker Boy, you just put that bread in. Do you really want to turn off the heat? ‘cause that’s gonna make a mess of your bread.”
That would have been a big help.
As it turns out, I reset the oven, resprayed the bread, popped them in for 15 minutes and they came out OK.
I’m calling it Twice Cooked Bread.
Uh, yeah, that’s the ticket. I MEANT to do that. Yeah.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Twelve Two Two Fondue II
It’s a party!
You’re all invited!
Yes, everyone. All of you. Even you who are reading this now.
Here’s the blueprint.
Send me pictures and descriptions of your party as it’s happening and I’ll post them on the site throughout the day. Here’s the address:
12tutufondue@gmail.com
I hope to spark a Global Party in Celebration of Fondue, Friends, Family and Fun.
Check out the original entry for this blog on December 20, 2004, A Fondue Happening.
Woo Hoo! Par-TAY!
The P is for party, and the A is for all night! (clap clap)
The R is for rhythm, and the T is for tonight! (clap clap)
The Y is for you, and you know what to do so let’s
PAAAAAAAAAAARTY! (don’t let your momma know)
PAAAAAAAAAAARTY! (cause she won’t let you go)
PAAAAAAAAAAARTY! (all right all right all right!)
You’re all invited!
Yes, everyone. All of you. Even you who are reading this now.
Here’s the blueprint.
Fondue Party
Twelve Two Two Fondue II
December 22, 2005
7pm local time
At Your House
Send me pictures and descriptions of your party as it’s happening and I’ll post them on the site throughout the day. Here’s the address:
12tutufondue@gmail.com
I hope to spark a Global Party in Celebration of Fondue, Friends, Family and Fun.
Check out the original entry for this blog on December 20, 2004, A Fondue Happening.
Woo Hoo! Par-TAY!
The P is for party, and the A is for all night! (clap clap)
The R is for rhythm, and the T is for tonight! (clap clap)
The Y is for you, and you know what to do so let’s
PAAAAAAAAAAARTY! (don’t let your momma know)
PAAAAAAAAAAARTY! (cause she won’t let you go)
PAAAAAAAAAAARTY! (all right all right all right!)
Monday, November 21, 2005
Thanks
Tonight I’d like to take a moment to thank all the people who stop by to read this blog and to acknowledge a few people who I don’t know and I’ve never met.
How strange is that?
I use a device called “StatCounter” to provide me with some statistics on my blog. It’s a clever piece of code and it provides me with a wealth of interesting information. It would be easy to get hooked on StatCounter, and maybe I am.
Earlier this year I thought StatCounter had gone beserk when my page hit number jumped by 6,000 in one day.
The Day of the Dooce.
Google “dooced” if you’re interested in that story and check out the Urban Dictionary, definition 3.
StatCounter also provides a little information about visitors, mainly through the ISP’s they use to access the Internet.
Although I’ll undoubtedly miss some people using today’s data only, I’d like to thank some of the people who visit this site regularly and I’m just going to acknowledge those StatCounter entries that show over a hundred visits. It boggles my mind, but here goes.
Thank you Atlanta and Billings and Little Rock and Ontario, Canada and New Rochelle and Anaheim and York, Pa, and Beaverton, Or, and a special thanks to Soddy Daisy, Tennessee just because I think the name is so cool.
Speaking of cool, I have documented readers from every continent on the planet including Antarctica. Here’s to you, Genevieve, doing your job on the end of the planet in conditions that would break most of us.
Thanks to all of you. You are my inspiration.
Tomorrow, an announcement and an opportunity. Get your calendars ready. Pencils ready to reserve a special date. If you can guess what I’ve got planned, well, there is no prize, just the satisfaction of being a good guesser. Sorry.
Anyway, until tomorrow.
How strange is that?
I use a device called “StatCounter” to provide me with some statistics on my blog. It’s a clever piece of code and it provides me with a wealth of interesting information. It would be easy to get hooked on StatCounter, and maybe I am.
Earlier this year I thought StatCounter had gone beserk when my page hit number jumped by 6,000 in one day.
The Day of the Dooce.
Google “dooced” if you’re interested in that story and check out the Urban Dictionary, definition 3.
StatCounter also provides a little information about visitors, mainly through the ISP’s they use to access the Internet.
Although I’ll undoubtedly miss some people using today’s data only, I’d like to thank some of the people who visit this site regularly and I’m just going to acknowledge those StatCounter entries that show over a hundred visits. It boggles my mind, but here goes.
Thank you Atlanta and Billings and Little Rock and Ontario, Canada and New Rochelle and Anaheim and York, Pa, and Beaverton, Or, and a special thanks to Soddy Daisy, Tennessee just because I think the name is so cool.
Speaking of cool, I have documented readers from every continent on the planet including Antarctica. Here’s to you, Genevieve, doing your job on the end of the planet in conditions that would break most of us.
Thanks to all of you. You are my inspiration.
Tomorrow, an announcement and an opportunity. Get your calendars ready. Pencils ready to reserve a special date. If you can guess what I’ve got planned, well, there is no prize, just the satisfaction of being a good guesser. Sorry.
Anyway, until tomorrow.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
GASP-acho
Today I received a cookbook in the mail to review. It was a nice book and I gave it a favorable review. One of the recipes brought back memories of the dangers of excess.
Gazpacho.
I learned to make Gazpacho from Pete the Gazpacho Master. I bow to his greatness. As an acolyte of Peter the Great I have come close to the exquisiteness of his vegetableness, but never quite met the bar he set all those years ago.
In short, Gazpacho is a cold, vegetable soup. Initially I was put off by all three words.
Cold.
Vegetable.
Soup.
Years previously I had an unfortunate and most remarkably bad, so bad it’s etched into my brain to this very day, of a cold, vegetable soup albeit consisting mostly of cantaloupe, a vegetable I would dispense with if I were King of the Vegetables.
OK, the purists will claim that the cantaloupe is a gourd or a pumpkin or a fruit or some kind of cow, but I don’t care. To me cantaloupe is survival food. If there’s nothing remaining to eat, and that includes family members, pets and the Pool Dude, I’ll munch on a cantaloupe. But, not until then.
Anyway, it was with some trepidation that I helped create a Gazpacho those many years ago. We chopped tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, Spanish onions, green onions, cucumber, celery and probably some other veggies I don’t remember. We added a can of beef consume, which, for a vegetable dish I though a bit strange, but in it went. Then some ketchup, hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, garlic, salt and possibly some other spices that I don’t remember, either.
The point is that once you have the basics, the details don’t matter all that much. Don’t have cucumber? Don’t add it!
The key was to chop everything very fine. And this is where I have come into conflict with Gazpacho recipes. Most recipes I’ve read call for a food processor. I tried this once and the result was this thick, yucky vegetable mess.
I repeat. I was unimpressed with the food processor, pureed version of Gazpacho. No character.
So, getting back to the gasp part, there are two features of Gazpacho that warrant attention: spices and time.
On the spice front, adding jalapenos, hot sauce and something called Wicked Death is excessive. This combination results in a GASP-acho that’s entertaining, but not very edible. If you’re serving it to your in-laws then I’d recommend a double dose of Wicked Death; the entertainment value is high.
But, if you’re making Gazpacho for yourself, avoid the Death and go for flavor.
That’s where time comes in. In my experience the Gaz is best after 24 hours but falls off quickly after that. Fresh Gaz is a little thin on flavor, and after a day or so it becomes soggy and a bit ripe.
I’d go for overnight. Make it in the afternoon and serve it the next day for dinner.
Finally, my chopped versus food processor rant.
Food processors will smooth things out and turn your Gaz into pablum.
I like the edginess of hand-cut vegetables. Individual chunks of vegie goodness give the Gaz character and makes it interesting to eat.
That’s my opinion and I’m sticking to it.
Gazpacho.
I learned to make Gazpacho from Pete the Gazpacho Master. I bow to his greatness. As an acolyte of Peter the Great I have come close to the exquisiteness of his vegetableness, but never quite met the bar he set all those years ago.
In short, Gazpacho is a cold, vegetable soup. Initially I was put off by all three words.
Cold.
Vegetable.
Soup.
Years previously I had an unfortunate and most remarkably bad, so bad it’s etched into my brain to this very day, of a cold, vegetable soup albeit consisting mostly of cantaloupe, a vegetable I would dispense with if I were King of the Vegetables.
OK, the purists will claim that the cantaloupe is a gourd or a pumpkin or a fruit or some kind of cow, but I don’t care. To me cantaloupe is survival food. If there’s nothing remaining to eat, and that includes family members, pets and the Pool Dude, I’ll munch on a cantaloupe. But, not until then.
Anyway, it was with some trepidation that I helped create a Gazpacho those many years ago. We chopped tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, Spanish onions, green onions, cucumber, celery and probably some other veggies I don’t remember. We added a can of beef consume, which, for a vegetable dish I though a bit strange, but in it went. Then some ketchup, hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, garlic, salt and possibly some other spices that I don’t remember, either.
The point is that once you have the basics, the details don’t matter all that much. Don’t have cucumber? Don’t add it!
The key was to chop everything very fine. And this is where I have come into conflict with Gazpacho recipes. Most recipes I’ve read call for a food processor. I tried this once and the result was this thick, yucky vegetable mess.
I repeat. I was unimpressed with the food processor, pureed version of Gazpacho. No character.
So, getting back to the gasp part, there are two features of Gazpacho that warrant attention: spices and time.
On the spice front, adding jalapenos, hot sauce and something called Wicked Death is excessive. This combination results in a GASP-acho that’s entertaining, but not very edible. If you’re serving it to your in-laws then I’d recommend a double dose of Wicked Death; the entertainment value is high.
But, if you’re making Gazpacho for yourself, avoid the Death and go for flavor.
That’s where time comes in. In my experience the Gaz is best after 24 hours but falls off quickly after that. Fresh Gaz is a little thin on flavor, and after a day or so it becomes soggy and a bit ripe.
I’d go for overnight. Make it in the afternoon and serve it the next day for dinner.
Finally, my chopped versus food processor rant.
Food processors will smooth things out and turn your Gaz into pablum.
I like the edginess of hand-cut vegetables. Individual chunks of vegie goodness give the Gaz character and makes it interesting to eat.
That’s my opinion and I’m sticking to it.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Chili Reception
“Hey, I’m going to make chili tonight if that’s alright by you,” said the Voice.
What’s not to like about an offer like that, you say? Let me tell you. That simple sentence is a loaded minefield. One false step and, Boom! Here’s the analysis:
There are several responses to this statement, each with its own consequence.
Coward that I am, I chose answer “d” and awaited the moment the ticking stopped.
After much clanking around in the kitchen all went quiet for about half an hour. Tick, tick, tick, tick…
Then…
“Sweetie?”
“Yes, light of my life?”
“Would you please check the chili and adjust the seasoning? It seems sort of bland to me.”
…tick, tick, tick…Boom!
Lifting the lid I could detect chili powder, a little garlic and not much else. Water, tomatoes, onions; it all looked very unhappy. Yep, a bad case of bland. This was a chili emergency. Quickly, I added a can of tomato paste, a little salt, pinch of sugar, ton of garlic powder. Still, something was lacking. I knew the answer but I enquired.
“Dumplings, did you add any cumin?” I asked as I shook several tablespoons of cumin into the chili. It was already looking happier.
“Cumin? Oh, no, never. I hate cumin. Always have. I’d never put cumin in chili.”
Well, this response gave me a severe case of whiplash. What? I’ve been loading down my Prize Winning Chili with cumin for years. Decades, even.
“What do you mean no cumin, Sweetie Pie? I’ve been putting cumin in chili for 20 years! After all that time how can you say you’re off cumin?”
“I’ve had it up to here with cumin,” raising her palm to her nose.
“Now you tell me?”
“Better late than never.”
“You’ve had it up to here with cumin,” and I placed my palm against my nose, meanwhile shaking cumin into the chili for all I was worth.
“Yep, that’s about it.”
“I see. OK. Well, I’ll get back to adjusting the spices in the chili, and, uh, I’ll skip the cumin this time. Yessiree, no cumin. Nope, this is a Cumin Free Zone.”
I lifted the lid and took a deep whiff of the chili. Pure cumin. Glorious cumin. Forbidden cumin! Thinking fast I asked myself, I said “Self, what’s the opposite of cumin?” and self answered “Nutmeg.”
So, I dumped a load of nutmeg into the chili, gave it a stir and let it ripen for an hour.
Much later as the chili was served there were purring noises coming from around the table.
“Hey, Dad, best chili ever!”
“Don’t thank me,” I said, “it’s Mom’s chili.”
The Voice looked up after serving herself seconds and said, “And you know the best thing? After all these years he finally learned to get the spices right. No cumin!”
…tick, tick, tick, tick…Dud.
What’s not to like about an offer like that, you say? Let me tell you. That simple sentence is a loaded minefield. One false step and, Boom! Here’s the analysis:
“Hey” – friendly attention getter. Warning! Will Robinson! Danger! Danger!
“I’m going to make chili tonight” – Establishing the playing field. Do you want to play? (see above warning)
“if that’s alright by you.” – Translation: Do these pants make my butt look big?
There are several responses to this statement, each with its own consequence.
a. “Noooooooo! Get out of the kitchen right now!” Boom!
b. “Thanks, honey, but how about I make the chili?” Boom!
c. “Uh, didn’t you make chili last year?” Boom!
d. “Thanks, that would be nice.” Tick, tick, tick tick…
Coward that I am, I chose answer “d” and awaited the moment the ticking stopped.
After much clanking around in the kitchen all went quiet for about half an hour. Tick, tick, tick, tick…
Then…
“Sweetie?”
“Yes, light of my life?”
“Would you please check the chili and adjust the seasoning? It seems sort of bland to me.”
…tick, tick, tick…Boom!
Lifting the lid I could detect chili powder, a little garlic and not much else. Water, tomatoes, onions; it all looked very unhappy. Yep, a bad case of bland. This was a chili emergency. Quickly, I added a can of tomato paste, a little salt, pinch of sugar, ton of garlic powder. Still, something was lacking. I knew the answer but I enquired.
“Dumplings, did you add any cumin?” I asked as I shook several tablespoons of cumin into the chili. It was already looking happier.
“Cumin? Oh, no, never. I hate cumin. Always have. I’d never put cumin in chili.”
Well, this response gave me a severe case of whiplash. What? I’ve been loading down my Prize Winning Chili with cumin for years. Decades, even.
“What do you mean no cumin, Sweetie Pie? I’ve been putting cumin in chili for 20 years! After all that time how can you say you’re off cumin?”
“I’ve had it up to here with cumin,” raising her palm to her nose.
“Now you tell me?”
“Better late than never.”
“You’ve had it up to here with cumin,” and I placed my palm against my nose, meanwhile shaking cumin into the chili for all I was worth.
“Yep, that’s about it.”
“I see. OK. Well, I’ll get back to adjusting the spices in the chili, and, uh, I’ll skip the cumin this time. Yessiree, no cumin. Nope, this is a Cumin Free Zone.”
I lifted the lid and took a deep whiff of the chili. Pure cumin. Glorious cumin. Forbidden cumin! Thinking fast I asked myself, I said “Self, what’s the opposite of cumin?” and self answered “Nutmeg.”
So, I dumped a load of nutmeg into the chili, gave it a stir and let it ripen for an hour.
Much later as the chili was served there were purring noises coming from around the table.
“Hey, Dad, best chili ever!”
“Don’t thank me,” I said, “it’s Mom’s chili.”
The Voice looked up after serving herself seconds and said, “And you know the best thing? After all these years he finally learned to get the spices right. No cumin!”
…tick, tick, tick, tick…Dud.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Jade West
When I was a student in college I never went anywhere without wearing my Jade East. I’d get half-way to class, realize I’d forgotten to put it on and go BACK to my dorm to correct that sad situation. Serious stuff.
Jade East is a men’s cologne that used to come in a bamboo-shaped bottle that was way cool. Now, it comes in an ordinary bottle which reduces its coolness factor to zero, according to me.
All of us alpha apes back then had our own scent. Joe was Hai Karate, Dennis was Old Spice and Al was Right Guard.
Al didn’t get many dates.
As time went on the idea of having a scent made less and less sense until finally, at long last, we became scentless and senseless. It just became unimportant to smell special. It became more important not to smell bad. So, I guess that particular bar of life was lowered a few notches.
And, that brings us to the present and my quest for shoes this weekend.
My destination was the shoe department at Dillard’s where I bought my previous pair of Ecco’s about 5 years ago. Finally, the Ecco’s gave up the ghost, so to speak, bless their soles.
Standing between me and the shoe department, to my horror, was a gauntlet of Scent Ladies armed with bottles of the latest and greatest. As I walked briskly through the minefield of myrrh each Scent Lady offered her wares trying to bark louder than her competitor on either side.
“Jaguar?”
“No, thanks.”
“Tommy?”
“No, thanks.”
“Apollo?”
“No.”
“Virile?”
“I’m not sure, let me check. Nope.”
Finally, I made it to the sanctuary of the shoe department. The Shoe Dude came up to me and asked “May I help you?”
Ah, a question I could answer. “Yes. I like your hair and the fact you have no scent. Now, I’d like a pair of Ecco Tracks, size 45 European, brown suede, Gore-Tex.”
Shoe Dude pondered this request and replied, “Could I interest you in some Clarke’s?”
I leaned in close, almost nose to nose and hissed:
“What do you think, punk? You have to ask yourself this question. Am I feeling lucky today? Well, punk, are you feeling lucky?”
Shoe Dude, obviously a Clint Eastwood fan, swallowed hard, turned slowly and walked briskly into the back room. Presently, he returned with a box of shoes exactly as ordered.
“You want to try these on?”, he asked weakly.
“Nope. You done good, kid.” I paid for the shoes and headed back out through the Gauntlet of Scent. With a new pair of shoes I was feeling my oats and my good mood was not going to be dampened by the Scent Squad.
“Beachboy?”
“No, thanks.”
“Kachina?”
“No, thanks. But I’ll try Pork Bar-b-Que if you have it. No? Pity.”
“Irresistible?”
“Why, yes. I am.”
I snatched a plastic rose out of a nearby display, grabbed the Scent Lady around the waist and with head held high, back straight and knees bent proceeded to tango around Men’s Scent, through Men’s Ties, passing through Men’s Shoes and almost mowing down Shoe Dude, and finally through Men’s Suits, pausing to dip several times to great applause from shoppers, and back to Men’s Scent.
Breathless, Scent Lady gazed at me, her eyes limpid pools of blue and asked –
“When will I see you again?”
“That, my dear, was the title of my favorite soul song from the 70’s.”
I gave my self a squirt of Irresistible and headed off into the sunset. A good day, by all accounts.
Jade East is a men’s cologne that used to come in a bamboo-shaped bottle that was way cool. Now, it comes in an ordinary bottle which reduces its coolness factor to zero, according to me.
All of us alpha apes back then had our own scent. Joe was Hai Karate, Dennis was Old Spice and Al was Right Guard.
Al didn’t get many dates.
As time went on the idea of having a scent made less and less sense until finally, at long last, we became scentless and senseless. It just became unimportant to smell special. It became more important not to smell bad. So, I guess that particular bar of life was lowered a few notches.
And, that brings us to the present and my quest for shoes this weekend.
My destination was the shoe department at Dillard’s where I bought my previous pair of Ecco’s about 5 years ago. Finally, the Ecco’s gave up the ghost, so to speak, bless their soles.
Standing between me and the shoe department, to my horror, was a gauntlet of Scent Ladies armed with bottles of the latest and greatest. As I walked briskly through the minefield of myrrh each Scent Lady offered her wares trying to bark louder than her competitor on either side.
“Jaguar?”
“No, thanks.”
“Tommy?”
“No, thanks.”
“Apollo?”
“No.”
“Virile?”
“I’m not sure, let me check. Nope.”
Finally, I made it to the sanctuary of the shoe department. The Shoe Dude came up to me and asked “May I help you?”
Ah, a question I could answer. “Yes. I like your hair and the fact you have no scent. Now, I’d like a pair of Ecco Tracks, size 45 European, brown suede, Gore-Tex.”
Shoe Dude pondered this request and replied, “Could I interest you in some Clarke’s?”
I leaned in close, almost nose to nose and hissed:
“What do you think, punk? You have to ask yourself this question. Am I feeling lucky today? Well, punk, are you feeling lucky?”
Shoe Dude, obviously a Clint Eastwood fan, swallowed hard, turned slowly and walked briskly into the back room. Presently, he returned with a box of shoes exactly as ordered.
“You want to try these on?”, he asked weakly.
“Nope. You done good, kid.” I paid for the shoes and headed back out through the Gauntlet of Scent. With a new pair of shoes I was feeling my oats and my good mood was not going to be dampened by the Scent Squad.
“Beachboy?”
“No, thanks.”
“Kachina?”
“No, thanks. But I’ll try Pork Bar-b-Que if you have it. No? Pity.”
“Irresistible?”
“Why, yes. I am.”
I snatched a plastic rose out of a nearby display, grabbed the Scent Lady around the waist and with head held high, back straight and knees bent proceeded to tango around Men’s Scent, through Men’s Ties, passing through Men’s Shoes and almost mowing down Shoe Dude, and finally through Men’s Suits, pausing to dip several times to great applause from shoppers, and back to Men’s Scent.
Breathless, Scent Lady gazed at me, her eyes limpid pools of blue and asked –
“When will I see you again?”
“That, my dear, was the title of my favorite soul song from the 70’s.”
I gave my self a squirt of Irresistible and headed off into the sunset. A good day, by all accounts.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Talent for Teeth
There’s an old joke about a patient who’s concerned about an upcoming procedure. He asks his doctor –
“After this is over will I be able to play the violin?”
The doctor, trying to reassure her patient replies, “Why, yes, of course you’ll be able to play the violin.”
“Great,” the patient replies, “I’ve always wanted to play the violin!”
ha ha
I actually pulled that joke on a real doctor as I lay on a gurney prepped for an emergency appendectomy. Never miss a chance to be a smart-ass. I always say that.
To the question posed by me, my doctor, whose name is Hatchet by the way (would I kid you about something this serious?), replied –
“Well, that all depends. Do you play the violin now?”
Trapped like a rat I improvised.
“No, I don’t.” I paused for effect then said, “How about the accordion?”
Hatchet stared at me in such a way that I began to regret crossing swords with a man who was soon be wielding a scalpel over my unconscious body.
Finally, he said, “Yes, you’ll be able to play the accordion. As well as anybody.”
I guess old Hatchet wasn’t a Lawrence Welk fan. Good for him!
So, as I was having my crowns fitted today I mused (aloud, apparently) that wouldn’t it be great that after one had a crown fitted one would develop a new talent.
“Like what?” Doc asked.
“Murfff furg aggl arp.”
Why dentists have to ask you an essay question after stuffing your mouth full of stainless steel and cotton I will never know.
Patooie!
“Well, like tap dancing. Wouldn’t it be cool that after you fit the crown, I get out of the chair and can tap dance like Gene Kelly.”
“Or paint like van Gogh? “
“Yeah, now you’re cooking, Doc! Or sing like Pavarotti.”
“Or party like Paris Hilton.”
“Talent, Doc. I said acquire a talent, not a curse.”
“Perhaps there’s not much difference,” Doc mused philosophically.
I decided to take the theme even further. After all, I was being fitted with two crowns.
“Suppose two crowns gave you two talents, but they were at odds. Lumberjack and exotic dancer, for example.”
“Pig farmer and chef.”
“No, Bobby Flay has already done that. Haven’t checked his teeth, though.”
“Here. Bite down on this until I tell you to stop.”
Doc jammed a bale of cotton in my mouth.
“So,” Doc asked, “how ‘bout those Rockets? In 500 words or less I’d like to hear your analysis of the upcoming season.”
Doc folded his arms, sat down on his stool and, arching his eyebrows in anticipation, awaited my reply.
Thoughtfully and with expert knowledge of the NBA I replied –
“Mffph um arpp eff ithh ummmp. Frmrrrre, yoww foomp pfufff ifft luffft fummm.”
“Exactly and well put. I agree completely. Let’s get this bale out of your mouth. Check the fit. Bite down. Good. El perfecto. Youredonepayathefrontdeskseeyoulater.byebye.”
And in a flourish Doc was gone to his next appointment.
As I was walking to the receptionist’s desk to check out I met my hygienist in the hallway. On impulse, I snatched a plastic flower from a nearby display, grasped the hygienist around the waist and with head held high, back straight and knees bent, tangoed towards the front desk.
The hygienist was a good tango dancer. I reckoned she’d had a crown or two. We circled through the waiting room a couple of times, performed some deep dips in the hallway and finally, to thunderous applause, made our finale at the front door.
I bid my partner adieu and headed out to the truck with an overwhelming urge to locate some goats.
Goat herding. I’ve always wanted to do that but never had the talent. Somehow, now I had talent galore. I could herd goats. I felt it in my bones. By Hercules, I could be the greatest goat herder ever!
Not only that, I’ll teach them the tango. Step step dip! Step step dip! The whole flock whirling and dipping down the greeny, grassy hillside.
It will be grand!
“After this is over will I be able to play the violin?”
The doctor, trying to reassure her patient replies, “Why, yes, of course you’ll be able to play the violin.”
“Great,” the patient replies, “I’ve always wanted to play the violin!”
ha ha
I actually pulled that joke on a real doctor as I lay on a gurney prepped for an emergency appendectomy. Never miss a chance to be a smart-ass. I always say that.
To the question posed by me, my doctor, whose name is Hatchet by the way (would I kid you about something this serious?), replied –
“Well, that all depends. Do you play the violin now?”
Trapped like a rat I improvised.
“No, I don’t.” I paused for effect then said, “How about the accordion?”
Hatchet stared at me in such a way that I began to regret crossing swords with a man who was soon be wielding a scalpel over my unconscious body.
Finally, he said, “Yes, you’ll be able to play the accordion. As well as anybody.”
I guess old Hatchet wasn’t a Lawrence Welk fan. Good for him!
So, as I was having my crowns fitted today I mused (aloud, apparently) that wouldn’t it be great that after one had a crown fitted one would develop a new talent.
“Like what?” Doc asked.
“Murfff furg aggl arp.”
Why dentists have to ask you an essay question after stuffing your mouth full of stainless steel and cotton I will never know.
Patooie!
“Well, like tap dancing. Wouldn’t it be cool that after you fit the crown, I get out of the chair and can tap dance like Gene Kelly.”
“Or paint like van Gogh? “
“Yeah, now you’re cooking, Doc! Or sing like Pavarotti.”
“Or party like Paris Hilton.”
“Talent, Doc. I said acquire a talent, not a curse.”
“Perhaps there’s not much difference,” Doc mused philosophically.
I decided to take the theme even further. After all, I was being fitted with two crowns.
“Suppose two crowns gave you two talents, but they were at odds. Lumberjack and exotic dancer, for example.”
“Pig farmer and chef.”
“No, Bobby Flay has already done that. Haven’t checked his teeth, though.”
“Here. Bite down on this until I tell you to stop.”
Doc jammed a bale of cotton in my mouth.
“So,” Doc asked, “how ‘bout those Rockets? In 500 words or less I’d like to hear your analysis of the upcoming season.”
Doc folded his arms, sat down on his stool and, arching his eyebrows in anticipation, awaited my reply.
Thoughtfully and with expert knowledge of the NBA I replied –
“Mffph um arpp eff ithh ummmp. Frmrrrre, yoww foomp pfufff ifft luffft fummm.”
“Exactly and well put. I agree completely. Let’s get this bale out of your mouth. Check the fit. Bite down. Good. El perfecto. Youredonepayathefrontdeskseeyoulater.byebye.”
And in a flourish Doc was gone to his next appointment.
As I was walking to the receptionist’s desk to check out I met my hygienist in the hallway. On impulse, I snatched a plastic flower from a nearby display, grasped the hygienist around the waist and with head held high, back straight and knees bent, tangoed towards the front desk.
The hygienist was a good tango dancer. I reckoned she’d had a crown or two. We circled through the waiting room a couple of times, performed some deep dips in the hallway and finally, to thunderous applause, made our finale at the front door.
I bid my partner adieu and headed out to the truck with an overwhelming urge to locate some goats.
Goat herding. I’ve always wanted to do that but never had the talent. Somehow, now I had talent galore. I could herd goats. I felt it in my bones. By Hercules, I could be the greatest goat herder ever!
Not only that, I’ll teach them the tango. Step step dip! Step step dip! The whole flock whirling and dipping down the greeny, grassy hillside.
It will be grand!
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Special
“Today’s special is roast haunch of prairie dog with a poblano-raspberry sauce accompanied by pineapple potatoes and gratin au gratin. We also have a chicken fried chicken with French fried fries and deep fat fried deep fat, au gratin. Finally, we have the Chef’s bucket o’ soup, and house salad, au gratin.”
Gazing at the menu, I said, “I think I’ll have the snapper with crab and shrimp, and a Caesar salad.”
[crickets chirping]
[tumbleweeds rolling down the street]
[winter wind noises]
[coyote howls]
“’scuse me?”
“What?”
“’scuse me. Do you not want one of the specials that Chef Ptomaine created specially for you today? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, I’d like the snapper.”
“Well, that’s your choice. Sir. Just so you understand. That’s. Your. Choice. Sir.”
I had a bad feeling about this exchange but I was in a hurry and I just wanted a light lunch. Nothing fancy. A little fish and a salad. How tough is that?
Later, the waitperson appeared by the table, empty-handed.
“Chef informs me we’re out of snapper.”
I checked my watch. Time was a’wastin’.
“I’ll just have the Caesar Salad, then.”
“You don’t want one of the specials?”
“No, just the Caesar Salad. That will be fine.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“Yes, (Attila) that is my final answer.”
I sat there and focused on my watch. I calculated my travel time back to the complex. I calculated the heat death of the Universe. I wondered which would come first.
Finally, a Kitchen Server appeared.
“Prairie Dog haunch and Caesar Salad?”
“No, sorry, snapper and the salad. No haunch.”
“What do you mean, no haunch? I’ve got it right here. It’s cooked and everything.”
“No haunch. Just snapper and salad. I didn’t order haunch. But, you’re out of snapper so it’s just salad. Leave the salad and all will be cool.”
The Kitchen Server was clearly out of his depth.
“What do you mean ‘no haunch’? Do you think these things grow on trees? Do you think Chef Ptomaine prepares these exquisite, succulent, morsels for free?”
“Sorry, but I ordered snapper and a salad. You’re out of snapper, so I just want the salad. Cancel the snapper. No snapper.”
Kitchen Server retreated with haunch and salad, only to appear somewhat later.
“Prairie dog?” he offered hopefully.
“No,” I replied, “Caesar Salad.”
“Chef cooked this special. Tastes like snapper.”
“No, thanks”
“OK, well, I don’t know quite what to do. I mean I’ve brought out haunch after haunch and, like, there’s no satisfying you. What do you want, man, what do you want?”
“Just bring me a Caesar Salad in the next 2 minutes and I’ll gobble it down, leave you an obscenely large tip and get the hell out of here!”
“Right, Sir, that’s clear enough. I’m on it! Back in a flash.”
And, with that the waitperson plus haunch disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and hibernated for awhile.
Finally, the waitperson appeared.
Empty handed.
“Regarding your order, sir.”
“Yes?” I looked expectantly?
“The kitchen informs me that we’re out of snapper. Now, we’re out of haunch.”
He paused.
“And,” I pressed?
“Regarding your Caesar Salad, sir.”
“Yes?”
“We’re out.”
Gazing at the menu, I said, “I think I’ll have the snapper with crab and shrimp, and a Caesar salad.”
[crickets chirping]
[tumbleweeds rolling down the street]
[winter wind noises]
[coyote howls]
“’scuse me?”
“What?”
“’scuse me. Do you not want one of the specials that Chef Ptomaine created specially for you today? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, I’d like the snapper.”
“Well, that’s your choice. Sir. Just so you understand. That’s. Your. Choice. Sir.”
I had a bad feeling about this exchange but I was in a hurry and I just wanted a light lunch. Nothing fancy. A little fish and a salad. How tough is that?
Later, the waitperson appeared by the table, empty-handed.
“Chef informs me we’re out of snapper.”
I checked my watch. Time was a’wastin’.
“I’ll just have the Caesar Salad, then.”
“You don’t want one of the specials?”
“No, just the Caesar Salad. That will be fine.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“Yes, (Attila) that is my final answer.”
I sat there and focused on my watch. I calculated my travel time back to the complex. I calculated the heat death of the Universe. I wondered which would come first.
Finally, a Kitchen Server appeared.
“Prairie Dog haunch and Caesar Salad?”
“No, sorry, snapper and the salad. No haunch.”
“What do you mean, no haunch? I’ve got it right here. It’s cooked and everything.”
“No haunch. Just snapper and salad. I didn’t order haunch. But, you’re out of snapper so it’s just salad. Leave the salad and all will be cool.”
The Kitchen Server was clearly out of his depth.
“What do you mean ‘no haunch’? Do you think these things grow on trees? Do you think Chef Ptomaine prepares these exquisite, succulent, morsels for free?”
“Sorry, but I ordered snapper and a salad. You’re out of snapper, so I just want the salad. Cancel the snapper. No snapper.”
Kitchen Server retreated with haunch and salad, only to appear somewhat later.
“Prairie dog?” he offered hopefully.
“No,” I replied, “Caesar Salad.”
“Chef cooked this special. Tastes like snapper.”
“No, thanks”
“OK, well, I don’t know quite what to do. I mean I’ve brought out haunch after haunch and, like, there’s no satisfying you. What do you want, man, what do you want?”
“Just bring me a Caesar Salad in the next 2 minutes and I’ll gobble it down, leave you an obscenely large tip and get the hell out of here!”
“Right, Sir, that’s clear enough. I’m on it! Back in a flash.”
And, with that the waitperson plus haunch disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and hibernated for awhile.
Finally, the waitperson appeared.
Empty handed.
“Regarding your order, sir.”
“Yes?” I looked expectantly?
“The kitchen informs me that we’re out of snapper. Now, we’re out of haunch.”
He paused.
“And,” I pressed?
“Regarding your Caesar Salad, sir.”
“Yes?”
“We’re out.”
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Got the Edge
I pulled Griptilian out of the drawer and clipped him to my belt. The Benchmade folding knife with locking blade and sure-grip handle snuggled against my hip. Griptilian is one sharp dude.
He woke up and yawned a big ole yawn.
“What’s up, Boss,” he asked, “we going somewhere?”
“Yep,” I replied, “big weekend. We’re on staff at the Outdoor Skills Leadership Training weekend. We’re cooking for the staff.”
“Cool beans,” Griptilian offered.
“Hopefully not,” I countered, “I bought extra jalapenos.”
“Cool beans,” Griptilian repeated. “Hey, maybe those wild jalapenos need to learn who’s boss, huh? I could do that.”
“Sure thing, Grip. Sure thing. You just hunker down and relax. We’ll be on the road soon.”
With that I finished packing up the truck, loaded up all the food and training materials and headed out into the sunset for a weekend of training, camping and fun.
We arrived at the campsite and set up our tent. Griptilian made himself useful cleaning up a few pieces of frayed rope and slicing a sheet of plastic in half. Not a stretch, but Griptilian reveled in being useful. The camp pulled itself together and soon people were drifting to their tents for the night.
Clear and cool, perfect sleeping weather, we decided to call it a night, too; tomorrow we had a lot to do.
Dawn broke like it always does, too early, but we were already up and getting the coffee on. Soon the staffers appeared and hung around the Chuck Box area where the good smells were coming from. Griptilian was still snoozing which was fine by me.
Breakfast was a simple affair: scrambled eggs and smoked sausage with warm flour tortillas, salsa and cheese. Fresh fruit, juice and coffee rounded out the menu. Griptilian slept through it all as I used the kitchen knives from my chef’s kit to prepare breakfast. I have a couple of Chicago Cutlery knives and a special Japanese blade for the heavy duty work.
There were no complaints from the participants, just yummy noises. My favorite.
When I’m the staff cook I take no chances. Sure, the District quartermaster is going to provide me kitchen gear, but, you know, it’s not quite the same using other people’s stuff when you cook. So, I bring my own kit: knives, peelers, a whisk, serving spoons and that sort of stuff. I store it in a very cool chef’s roll up bag that keeps everything neat and tidy, but at fingertip’s reach. Just pull the string and the bag unrolls to reveal a bunch of pouches where my tools rest, waiting for their opportunity to spring into action.
Mid-morning on Saturday Tom started to lay out his training session on knife safety.
Tom’s the Expert.
I like to pretend I’m an expert and show him a thing or two. Usually, that’s a big disaster. After all, Tom’s the Expert and I’m the Pretender. Cue the Platters.
This weekend, though, I struck it rich.
“Hey, Tom, did I ever show you my Griptilian? Locking blade using an AXIS mechanism and, oh, so sharp. Matte black. Sure-grip grip. Ambidextrous control. It’s a very safe tool. Did I mention sharp?
Tom was interested. “Oh, yeah, that’s a very nice knife.”
I felt Griptilian purr on my hip.
“Hey, would you mind if I used it in my demonstration?”
Griptilian nearly jumped off my belt in anticipation. “No, I don’t mind at all. Here.” I slipped Griptilian off my belt and placed him on the demonstration table among the other knives on display. Griptilian was definitely the coolest knife there, and he knew it. I thought I detected a little gleam from his blade.
“Hey, Tom, I’ve got another knife you might be interested in. It’s one I use for cooking. A Japanese santoku. What do you think?”
“Sure, bring it out. I’m always interested in showing specialty tools.”
The santoku is a nice knife. Meaning “three things” it’s the Japanese equivalent of a chef’s knife, good with vegetables, fish and meat. Can you say “way sharp?”
To describe my santoku is to describe every blade that was made and not made by Hatori Hanzo. Priceless.
I opened my cooking kit and pulled out the santoku. Schwinggggg! It gleamed in the sun catching the attention of those who were standing around. There were lots of Ohhs and Ahhs. The schwingggggg faded and it was silent.
I placed the santoku on the demonstration next to Griptilian.
Griptilian said, “Psst. Hey, Boss! Who’s the cutie?”
“Cutie,” I asked?
“Oh, yeah, man, she’s sharp and I mean way sharp. If you get my drift.”
“She?” I had never thought of the santoku as “she” but Griptilian seemed quite animated.
Later, Griptilian informed me, man to man, like, that the santoku’s name was Gin-Suki, meaning “beloved silver” and I must admit the name fit. Sleek and bright, the santoku was the sharpest and best balanced knife in my cooking collection. All other knives, even my workhorse Chicago Cutlery were flint tools by comparison.
She was a beauty all right. Griptilian was clearly captivated. And, then I got busy preparing lunch, demonstrating cooking techniques and started working getting dinner ready. Thoughts of Griptilian and Gin-suki faded away.
Dinner was a splendid affair, cooked in a Dutch oven. Smoked chicken enchiladas with a chipotle cream sauce, charo beans, green salad with Mexican goat cheese and an apple/pear/mango crumble, also cooked in a Dutch oven.
You know, it would be embarrassing to most people to get proposals of marriage at a training weekend like this, but having cooked for the staff in the past I’m used to the offers.
Later that night I asked Tom where my knives ended up.
“Oh, I saw you were busy,” Tom said, “so I stuck them in your chef’s bag. Figured you’d find them in the morning.”
“No prob,” I said, “just so long as they’re safe for the night.”
And, with that I headed over to my tent for a nice sleep. It had been a long day, all that cooking and other activities. I looked forward to a little shut-eye. Sleep came fast and I was out until sunrise.
Dawn arrived about two hours earlier than it should, and, as an aside, when I’m in control of the Universe I’ll fix that problem. I was up to get the coffee and staff breakfast going.
Rummaging around in my chef’s kit looking for a knife to open the bacon I found something unexpected.
A small, folding knife, barely two inches long.
Hmm, I thought, haven’t seen this before. I wonder where it came from?
I pulled it out and opened the blade. Wow! A folding santoku knife! It was a small blade, but santoku in shape. The locking mechanism was AXIS, patented by Benchmade. It was cool beyond belief.
Then it cried. Not a very loud cry, but a little wimper-cry.
“Oh, little bitty knifey, do you want something to cut,” I asked?
I grabbed a packet of bacon and ran the little knife blade across the top. It cut through like butter.
The crying stopped and the little knife settled down in my palm and went to sleep.
At that moment Griptilian peeked out of one of the pouches in the chef’s kit.
“Yo, Boss,” Griptilian yawned, “morning already? Where’d the night go?”
Gin-suki stretched next to Griptilian, looked up and said “Ohayou-gozaimasu!”
“Genki-desu,” I bowed.
I looked at Griptilian and said, “You have some ‘splainin’ to do, Bud.” Griptilian blushed a matte pink.
I placed the folding santoku next to Gin-suki and closed the pouch. That was enough excitement for one day. The bacon was starting to cook and I had work to do.
Then it hit me. Hey, I’m a grandpa. And I felt proud.
He woke up and yawned a big ole yawn.
“What’s up, Boss,” he asked, “we going somewhere?”
“Yep,” I replied, “big weekend. We’re on staff at the Outdoor Skills Leadership Training weekend. We’re cooking for the staff.”
“Cool beans,” Griptilian offered.
“Hopefully not,” I countered, “I bought extra jalapenos.”
“Cool beans,” Griptilian repeated. “Hey, maybe those wild jalapenos need to learn who’s boss, huh? I could do that.”
“Sure thing, Grip. Sure thing. You just hunker down and relax. We’ll be on the road soon.”
With that I finished packing up the truck, loaded up all the food and training materials and headed out into the sunset for a weekend of training, camping and fun.
We arrived at the campsite and set up our tent. Griptilian made himself useful cleaning up a few pieces of frayed rope and slicing a sheet of plastic in half. Not a stretch, but Griptilian reveled in being useful. The camp pulled itself together and soon people were drifting to their tents for the night.
Clear and cool, perfect sleeping weather, we decided to call it a night, too; tomorrow we had a lot to do.
Dawn broke like it always does, too early, but we were already up and getting the coffee on. Soon the staffers appeared and hung around the Chuck Box area where the good smells were coming from. Griptilian was still snoozing which was fine by me.
Breakfast was a simple affair: scrambled eggs and smoked sausage with warm flour tortillas, salsa and cheese. Fresh fruit, juice and coffee rounded out the menu. Griptilian slept through it all as I used the kitchen knives from my chef’s kit to prepare breakfast. I have a couple of Chicago Cutlery knives and a special Japanese blade for the heavy duty work.
There were no complaints from the participants, just yummy noises. My favorite.
When I’m the staff cook I take no chances. Sure, the District quartermaster is going to provide me kitchen gear, but, you know, it’s not quite the same using other people’s stuff when you cook. So, I bring my own kit: knives, peelers, a whisk, serving spoons and that sort of stuff. I store it in a very cool chef’s roll up bag that keeps everything neat and tidy, but at fingertip’s reach. Just pull the string and the bag unrolls to reveal a bunch of pouches where my tools rest, waiting for their opportunity to spring into action.
Mid-morning on Saturday Tom started to lay out his training session on knife safety.
Tom’s the Expert.
I like to pretend I’m an expert and show him a thing or two. Usually, that’s a big disaster. After all, Tom’s the Expert and I’m the Pretender. Cue the Platters.
This weekend, though, I struck it rich.
“Hey, Tom, did I ever show you my Griptilian? Locking blade using an AXIS mechanism and, oh, so sharp. Matte black. Sure-grip grip. Ambidextrous control. It’s a very safe tool. Did I mention sharp?
Tom was interested. “Oh, yeah, that’s a very nice knife.”
I felt Griptilian purr on my hip.
“Hey, would you mind if I used it in my demonstration?”
Griptilian nearly jumped off my belt in anticipation. “No, I don’t mind at all. Here.” I slipped Griptilian off my belt and placed him on the demonstration table among the other knives on display. Griptilian was definitely the coolest knife there, and he knew it. I thought I detected a little gleam from his blade.
“Hey, Tom, I’ve got another knife you might be interested in. It’s one I use for cooking. A Japanese santoku. What do you think?”
“Sure, bring it out. I’m always interested in showing specialty tools.”
The santoku is a nice knife. Meaning “three things” it’s the Japanese equivalent of a chef’s knife, good with vegetables, fish and meat. Can you say “way sharp?”
To describe my santoku is to describe every blade that was made and not made by Hatori Hanzo. Priceless.
I opened my cooking kit and pulled out the santoku. Schwinggggg! It gleamed in the sun catching the attention of those who were standing around. There were lots of Ohhs and Ahhs. The schwingggggg faded and it was silent.
I placed the santoku on the demonstration next to Griptilian.
Griptilian said, “Psst. Hey, Boss! Who’s the cutie?”
“Cutie,” I asked?
“Oh, yeah, man, she’s sharp and I mean way sharp. If you get my drift.”
“She?” I had never thought of the santoku as “she” but Griptilian seemed quite animated.
Later, Griptilian informed me, man to man, like, that the santoku’s name was Gin-Suki, meaning “beloved silver” and I must admit the name fit. Sleek and bright, the santoku was the sharpest and best balanced knife in my cooking collection. All other knives, even my workhorse Chicago Cutlery were flint tools by comparison.
She was a beauty all right. Griptilian was clearly captivated. And, then I got busy preparing lunch, demonstrating cooking techniques and started working getting dinner ready. Thoughts of Griptilian and Gin-suki faded away.
Dinner was a splendid affair, cooked in a Dutch oven. Smoked chicken enchiladas with a chipotle cream sauce, charo beans, green salad with Mexican goat cheese and an apple/pear/mango crumble, also cooked in a Dutch oven.
You know, it would be embarrassing to most people to get proposals of marriage at a training weekend like this, but having cooked for the staff in the past I’m used to the offers.
Later that night I asked Tom where my knives ended up.
“Oh, I saw you were busy,” Tom said, “so I stuck them in your chef’s bag. Figured you’d find them in the morning.”
“No prob,” I said, “just so long as they’re safe for the night.”
And, with that I headed over to my tent for a nice sleep. It had been a long day, all that cooking and other activities. I looked forward to a little shut-eye. Sleep came fast and I was out until sunrise.
Dawn arrived about two hours earlier than it should, and, as an aside, when I’m in control of the Universe I’ll fix that problem. I was up to get the coffee and staff breakfast going.
Rummaging around in my chef’s kit looking for a knife to open the bacon I found something unexpected.
A small, folding knife, barely two inches long.
Hmm, I thought, haven’t seen this before. I wonder where it came from?
I pulled it out and opened the blade. Wow! A folding santoku knife! It was a small blade, but santoku in shape. The locking mechanism was AXIS, patented by Benchmade. It was cool beyond belief.
Then it cried. Not a very loud cry, but a little wimper-cry.
“Oh, little bitty knifey, do you want something to cut,” I asked?
I grabbed a packet of bacon and ran the little knife blade across the top. It cut through like butter.
The crying stopped and the little knife settled down in my palm and went to sleep.
At that moment Griptilian peeked out of one of the pouches in the chef’s kit.
“Yo, Boss,” Griptilian yawned, “morning already? Where’d the night go?”
Gin-suki stretched next to Griptilian, looked up and said “Ohayou-gozaimasu!”
“Genki-desu,” I bowed.
I looked at Griptilian and said, “You have some ‘splainin’ to do, Bud.” Griptilian blushed a matte pink.
I placed the folding santoku next to Gin-suki and closed the pouch. That was enough excitement for one day. The bacon was starting to cook and I had work to do.
Then it hit me. Hey, I’m a grandpa. And I felt proud.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
50,000
Congratulations to 12tutufondue for receiving it’s 50,000th page hit.
The Lucky Winner is a Firefox user from Corbin, Kentucky accessing the Internet through Charter Communications.
Thank you, Kentucky, we are very proud.
And if you, Lucky User, from Corbin, Kentucky think that you were the person to tipped the scales at 9:10 PM CST arriving from FoodPornWatch, let us know and we’ll send you a special gift of appreciation your way.
Woo Hoo! 50,000!
The Lucky Winner is a Firefox user from Corbin, Kentucky accessing the Internet through Charter Communications.
Thank you, Kentucky, we are very proud.
And if you, Lucky User, from Corbin, Kentucky think that you were the person to tipped the scales at 9:10 PM CST arriving from FoodPornWatch, let us know and we’ll send you a special gift of appreciation your way.
Woo Hoo! 50,000!
Sonoma Storm
Williams-Sonoma is desperate. They want me to buy something. Anything. This week I’ve received a Williams-Sonoma catalog
Every
Single
Day
It’s Thursday and I have four different catalogs.
What’s with those guys? One catalog would be just fine. Each catalog has basically the same stuff: tableware, kitchenware, cleaningware and werewolfware.
I laid the catalogs out on my kitchen table, appropriately, and went through them page by page. OK, I had a lot of time last night. Indulge me.
The only thing that differed was food. Each catalog offered a bunch of food: cakes, pastries, meats, cheeses and all sorts of stuff. That stuff was different, to some degree, in each catalog.
But, the stuff I was interested in, knives, bowls, knives and knives were the same in each one. I checked the prices, too, and no discounts.
Where’s the Christmas Spirit?
Tomorrow I expect to receive my post-Halloween pre-Thanksgiving Williams-Sonoma catalog extraordinaire with no discounts on knives but plenty of food I don’t want.
Actually, it’s plenty of food I do want but don’t need. Of course, I don’t need another knife, either, but that’s another story!
Every
Single
Day
It’s Thursday and I have four different catalogs.
What’s with those guys? One catalog would be just fine. Each catalog has basically the same stuff: tableware, kitchenware, cleaningware and werewolfware.
I laid the catalogs out on my kitchen table, appropriately, and went through them page by page. OK, I had a lot of time last night. Indulge me.
The only thing that differed was food. Each catalog offered a bunch of food: cakes, pastries, meats, cheeses and all sorts of stuff. That stuff was different, to some degree, in each catalog.
But, the stuff I was interested in, knives, bowls, knives and knives were the same in each one. I checked the prices, too, and no discounts.
Where’s the Christmas Spirit?
Tomorrow I expect to receive my post-Halloween pre-Thanksgiving Williams-Sonoma catalog extraordinaire with no discounts on knives but plenty of food I don’t want.
Actually, it’s plenty of food I do want but don’t need. Of course, I don’t need another knife, either, but that’s another story!
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
King for a Day
I got crowned today.
Twice.
Believe me, it was not my idea. In fact, I have been putting off getting my aged back teeth crowned for eight years.
Finally, my dentist said:
“Well, you’ve lost a filling and that old tooth is about half filling and we can’t replace it because it would be a Super Fund site. All that Mercury. You need a new tooth.”
Prior to my current dentist, my previous dentist wanted to crown all my teeth, twice. Every year. I didn’t buy it, literally.
But, with bits dropping out it was time to bite the bullet, fix the bite and move on down the road to Crownsville.
To be honest, I was worried about two things. First, the ripping out, shaping, grinding, drilling and chipping away at my very own, home-grown tooth. And, second, I was worried about the “fit” because I have all these crowned cow-orkers who complain around the coffee pot about their bad-fitting crowns.
Next to bad soccer referees, bad fitting crowns is the Number Two topic of conversation at work.
To cut a long story short, the crowning experience wasn’t that bad. My dentist apparently paid attention in class, unlike yours truly, and did a fantastic job of removing the old tooth and replacing it with a new tooth.
Feels good as new.
My dentist is an artist. He fixed something that was going to cause me some pain and I’m good to go for years.
So I said, Doc, I’ve got this employee of mine who’s been giving me a hard time. Do you think…
Twice.
Believe me, it was not my idea. In fact, I have been putting off getting my aged back teeth crowned for eight years.
Finally, my dentist said:
“Well, you’ve lost a filling and that old tooth is about half filling and we can’t replace it because it would be a Super Fund site. All that Mercury. You need a new tooth.”
Prior to my current dentist, my previous dentist wanted to crown all my teeth, twice. Every year. I didn’t buy it, literally.
But, with bits dropping out it was time to bite the bullet, fix the bite and move on down the road to Crownsville.
To be honest, I was worried about two things. First, the ripping out, shaping, grinding, drilling and chipping away at my very own, home-grown tooth. And, second, I was worried about the “fit” because I have all these crowned cow-orkers who complain around the coffee pot about their bad-fitting crowns.
Next to bad soccer referees, bad fitting crowns is the Number Two topic of conversation at work.
To cut a long story short, the crowning experience wasn’t that bad. My dentist apparently paid attention in class, unlike yours truly, and did a fantastic job of removing the old tooth and replacing it with a new tooth.
Feels good as new.
My dentist is an artist. He fixed something that was going to cause me some pain and I’m good to go for years.
So I said, Doc, I’ve got this employee of mine who’s been giving me a hard time. Do you think…
Monday, October 31, 2005
BlueToothed
BlueTooth is the greatest technology not to catch on in the Twenty-First Century.
No kidding.
BlueTooth has been around for almost as long as its Viking namesake Blue Tooth. We all hope his name was due to being smacked in the face during a fierce battle and not due to a piece of spinach on his front tooth that his colleagues were either too polite, or terrified, to point out.
Yet, BlueTooth isn’t everywhere. It should be, it’s that cool.
All my clothes should have BlueTooth built in. All I’d have to do is pick out a shirt from my closet and it would communicate to all the matching garments which would light up. I’d dearly pay for such technology if only to never again hear:
“You’re not going to wear that shirt with those pants, are you? Seriously, now, you’re kidding, right?”
Yep, BlueTooth could be my salvation.
Those BlueTooth cell phone headsets are pretty cool, too. Talk about the Star Wars look! How cool is that? Well, it’s that cool. I wear one of those headsets even though my phone doesn’t support BlueTooth. I like walking around with a piece of blinking plastic in my ear.
It’s a babe magnet, too.
However, BlueTooth has its own pitfalls as illustrated by this conversation I had just the other day. It went something like this:
“Hey, how’s it going?”
“Er, fine. OK, I guess.”
“Yeah, yeah, OK, uh-huh. Whatcha doing for lunch?”
“Oh, I dunno. Grab a sandwich, I guess.”
“Uh-huh, yeah, OK. What’s happening at Bob’s house this weekend?”
“Bob? Uh, which Bob is that? I think there’s a BBQ planned.”
“Yeah, right, OK, uh-huh. When you getting off work?”
“Well, the usual time, I guess, around 5. Why do you ask?”
“Hey, honey, I can hardly hear you. I’ve got some weird-o jabbering away right in my ear. Inconsiderate creep. Call me back later.”
And with that, the stranger strode off purposefully to the salad bar. I overheard him say to a workmate
“See that guy there? He was yaking in my ear while I was on the phone. How rude is that?”
I’d been BlueToothed. How rude is that?
No kidding.
BlueTooth has been around for almost as long as its Viking namesake Blue Tooth. We all hope his name was due to being smacked in the face during a fierce battle and not due to a piece of spinach on his front tooth that his colleagues were either too polite, or terrified, to point out.
Yet, BlueTooth isn’t everywhere. It should be, it’s that cool.
All my clothes should have BlueTooth built in. All I’d have to do is pick out a shirt from my closet and it would communicate to all the matching garments which would light up. I’d dearly pay for such technology if only to never again hear:
“You’re not going to wear that shirt with those pants, are you? Seriously, now, you’re kidding, right?”
Yep, BlueTooth could be my salvation.
Those BlueTooth cell phone headsets are pretty cool, too. Talk about the Star Wars look! How cool is that? Well, it’s that cool. I wear one of those headsets even though my phone doesn’t support BlueTooth. I like walking around with a piece of blinking plastic in my ear.
It’s a babe magnet, too.
However, BlueTooth has its own pitfalls as illustrated by this conversation I had just the other day. It went something like this:
“Hey, how’s it going?”
“Er, fine. OK, I guess.”
“Yeah, yeah, OK, uh-huh. Whatcha doing for lunch?”
“Oh, I dunno. Grab a sandwich, I guess.”
“Uh-huh, yeah, OK. What’s happening at Bob’s house this weekend?”
“Bob? Uh, which Bob is that? I think there’s a BBQ planned.”
“Yeah, right, OK, uh-huh. When you getting off work?”
“Well, the usual time, I guess, around 5. Why do you ask?”
“Hey, honey, I can hardly hear you. I’ve got some weird-o jabbering away right in my ear. Inconsiderate creep. Call me back later.”
And with that, the stranger strode off purposefully to the salad bar. I overheard him say to a workmate
“See that guy there? He was yaking in my ear while I was on the phone. How rude is that?”
I’d been BlueToothed. How rude is that?
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