“Mom bought some stuff so you could cook dinner,” Claire informed me, “It’s in the kitchen. She bought beef stew fixings so just do that, OK? Just beef stew and nothing funny.”
Nothing funny? Now, how would that go?
“A penguin, a rabbi and a beef stew walk into a bar…” Er, no.
“There was a beef stew from Nantucket…” Er, no.
“Take my beef stew. Please!” Er, no.
There’s nothing funny about beef stew but I knew what Claire was getting at. Funny would be beef stew with lemon grass. Funny would be beef stew and octopus. Funny would be beef stew and Red Dye Number 5; all of which I’ve probably tried over the years.
Unfunny beef stew would be the basic recipe:
Beef
Onions, carrots, potatoes, celery, turnip
Beef stock
Red wine
Herbs and spices (but nothing “funny” like curry powder or cinnamon)
Time. Two hours at least. Three even better.
“OK,” I said, “one unfunny beef stew coming up. Where’s the stuff?”
“In the kitchen, Dad-0, just rummage around. It’s pretty small. You shouldn’t have any trouble.”
Claire, my daughter, is a student at UT here in Austin. Her condo has the basics and for her the basics are: plate, cup, fork. It’s not quite that bad, but not like the Clean, Mean, Kitchen Machine I’m used to back in Houston where I have a specialty knife for every vegetable. The conversation went like this.
“Where do you keep your potato peeler?”
“Why would I need that?”
“Where do you keep your chef’s knife?”
“What’s a chef’s knife?”
“Never mind.”
Claire came into the kitchen, opened a little drawer and pulled out what she claimed was her kitchen knife.
“Here’s a knife,” she offered hopefully. The poor knife was small, dull and had seen better days.
I shook my head sadly, reached into my pocket and deftly flicked out my Benchmade Griptilian 551SBK.
It snapped loudly and Claire took a step backwards.
In my best Crocodile Dundee I said, “Now, darling, that’s a noife!”
“Whatever,” Claire returned to communicating with her 160 friends on Instant Message.
Griptilian looked up and said, “What’s up, Boss? We got a job to do? Cut a hawser? Open some cans of food? Slash a steel cable? Skin a buffalo?”
The Benchmade Griptilian is a way cool knife. Matte black, sharp as any Hatori Hanzo sword and tougher than nails, the Griptilian has gotten me out of several jams in the woods. One-handed action, locking blade, slip-proof grip, the Griptilian lives up to it’s name as an all-weather, all-terrain, all-purpose slicing machine.
I looked down at Griptilian who was vibrating with anticipation in my hand.
“Well,” I said, “we’ve got a job in front of us. We’ve got to peel and chop some carrots, skin a turnip and quarter some potatoes. Also, we’ve got a bit of sausage to slice.”
Griptilian blinked, “You’re kidding, aren’t you? You really need to cut an oil drum in half or slice down an oak tree. I’m right, huh, I’m right. We ain’t gonna peel no carrots. Tell me we ain’t gonna peel no carrots!”
“Hey, hey hey!” I gripped the knife tightly, “Calm down! Sometimes we have to do what we have to do. Some other time it’s teaching a grizzly some manners. This time it’s stew. We’ve got to make the stew and it’s got to be the best stew ever. I can’t do it alone, man! I need your help. Are you with me?”
Griptilian paused for a moment, searched his steely soul and, finally, I detected resignation.
“Yeah, man,” Griptilian conceded, “we got to do the big AND the small. But, we’re a team. We work together! I’m with you, man. Let’s do the stew!”
With fury we attacked the carrots, potatoes, turnip, celery, onions and sausage. Aromas began to drift through the condo and Claire commented that things were starting to smell good.
At last we scraped the remaining ingredients into the pot and paused for a short rest.
Griptilian looked around and said, “What are those?”
“Those over there?” I replied, “Those are fresh figs. They were on sale this morning and I thought I’d do something interesting with them.”
Griptilian looked at the simmering stew pot and chucked softly. “I suppose that would make the stew ‘funny’, you know, like funny-peculiar rather than funny-ha-ha.”
I regarded Griptilian and as if in a trance reached for the figs and began preparing them.
“Heh, heh, heh.” Griptilian was beside himself. “This makes it all worthwhile!”
Time went by. I adjusted the liquid so the stew wouldn’t dry out and the natives in the condo grew restless. Finally, I turned down the heat to low simmer, grilled some French bread and garlic, tossed an impromptu salad and called “Dinner Time.”
Through the ensuing gnashing, slurping and yum-yum noises, Claire of the sensitive palate noted that the stew was very good, but there was something, just something she couldn’t quite place. A little sweet…maybe the sausage.
“Anyway,” she concluded, “it couldn’t be anything ‘funny’ because I don’t have anything funny to put in! Nope, nothing but ordinary meat and potatoes stew with nothing funny!”
I felt my pocket vibrate as Griptilian shook with laughter.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Lovely Rita
Recipe for Drink the Hurricane:
2 ounces amber rum
1/4 cup passion fruit juice
1 teaspoon superfine sugar
1/2 teaspoon grenadine
Juice of 1/2 lime
Cherries and orange slice to garnish
Ice cubes
In a cocktail shaker mix the first three ingredients to dissolve the sugar, stir in the grenadine and lime juice, add ice, shake and strain.
Recipe for Rita the Hurricane
1 spouse
1 surly teenager
2 cats
1 large hurricane, category 4-5
1 landfall projected at Houston
In the house find and pack important papers and move stuff away from windows. Pack some clothes. Pack cats in pet carriers. Load papers clothes and cats into Ford Explorer. Load laptop computers and back-up hard drive into Honda Accord. After flipping a coin, load surly teenager into either Explorer or Accord. (Tails, you lose!) Drive to Austin at the leisurely pace of 10 mph. Arrive at 3am, unpack contents, and pour into bed. Sleep until noon.
Reporting from Austin in the foremath* of Hurricane Rita I can tell you that to really appreciate the ability to travel from A to B at 70 miles per hour, you have to spend a few hours traveling from A to B at 10 miles per hour.
Interstate 10, normally a kill or be killed sort of highway where one can easily get passed by a pick-up truck doing in excess of 100 miles per hour…towing a trailer full of motorcycles… slowed to a standstill as nearly a million people moved out of Houston. The procession was orderly but slow. Occasionally, a half-wit would cut across the median or try to drive on the shoulder to get ahead, but for the most part people were resigned to creeping along at our sedate pace. Record high temperatures and humidity made for a sweltering night and numbers of cars were pulled over to the side of the road, overheated. Wrecks were frequent as the traffic would occasionally pulse to a speed of 30-40 mph, and then slow suddenly to a standstill and the unobservant would find themselves crashing into the car in front of them.
Ambulances came up behind us in convoy transporting the ill to hospitals out of harms way. A few nitwits tried to follow the ambulance convoys and, hopefully, those morons were dealt with appropriately down the road.
Surprisingly, most people continued to head west towards San Antonio when we got to the turn off to Austin. Once we got on Highway 71 traffic cleared and we drove to Austin at a normal speed, for Texas, of 75 mph and only wiped out a couple of armadillos along the way. Although we arrived in Austin at 3am, the roads were busy; filled with drunks and evacuees, I suspect. We navigated our way through the University of Texas campus, and to our daughter’s condo on the west side.
Once “home” and settled the cats behaved predictably. Nobbs, the Dustbin King, wandered around for a few minutes, found a soft spot and went to sleep. Sandy, the Worrier, slinked from room to room and finally found a place under a bed. He’s still there.
Word from Home
Reporting from Sugar Land, J told us that estimates for driving to Austin had risen to 15 hours. J, having decided to “ride the storm out” made a trip to the supermarket to pick up a few items to tide them over until Sunday.
The shelves were bare. People were behaving somewhat less than civil and with all checkout lines open, a rare event in itself, it still took over 90 minutes to get out of the store.
The neighborhood is quiet. A few residents have boarded their windows, but the local hardware stores ran out of lumber on Monday.
J reports that they’re just sitting around waiting for the winds to pick up on Friday afternoon.
Word from Austin
H reports that gas stations are running low on fuel possibly because of the influx of people from Houston who are preparing for the return journey. In the supermarket the shelves were bare of water, canned meat and cereal.
H exclaimed, “Why are people buying up all this stuff here in Austin? We’re 150 miles from the storm. They’re buying everything cannable.”
“They’re buying everything cannibal,” I heard.
“Gee, I thought they’d wait a week before going cannibal.”
*they always write "aftermath" so I figured...
2 ounces amber rum
1/4 cup passion fruit juice
1 teaspoon superfine sugar
1/2 teaspoon grenadine
Juice of 1/2 lime
Cherries and orange slice to garnish
Ice cubes
In a cocktail shaker mix the first three ingredients to dissolve the sugar, stir in the grenadine and lime juice, add ice, shake and strain.
Recipe for Rita the Hurricane
1 spouse
1 surly teenager
2 cats
1 large hurricane, category 4-5
1 landfall projected at Houston
In the house find and pack important papers and move stuff away from windows. Pack some clothes. Pack cats in pet carriers. Load papers clothes and cats into Ford Explorer. Load laptop computers and back-up hard drive into Honda Accord. After flipping a coin, load surly teenager into either Explorer or Accord. (Tails, you lose!) Drive to Austin at the leisurely pace of 10 mph. Arrive at 3am, unpack contents, and pour into bed. Sleep until noon.
Reporting from Austin in the foremath* of Hurricane Rita I can tell you that to really appreciate the ability to travel from A to B at 70 miles per hour, you have to spend a few hours traveling from A to B at 10 miles per hour.
Interstate 10, normally a kill or be killed sort of highway where one can easily get passed by a pick-up truck doing in excess of 100 miles per hour…towing a trailer full of motorcycles… slowed to a standstill as nearly a million people moved out of Houston. The procession was orderly but slow. Occasionally, a half-wit would cut across the median or try to drive on the shoulder to get ahead, but for the most part people were resigned to creeping along at our sedate pace. Record high temperatures and humidity made for a sweltering night and numbers of cars were pulled over to the side of the road, overheated. Wrecks were frequent as the traffic would occasionally pulse to a speed of 30-40 mph, and then slow suddenly to a standstill and the unobservant would find themselves crashing into the car in front of them.
Ambulances came up behind us in convoy transporting the ill to hospitals out of harms way. A few nitwits tried to follow the ambulance convoys and, hopefully, those morons were dealt with appropriately down the road.
Surprisingly, most people continued to head west towards San Antonio when we got to the turn off to Austin. Once we got on Highway 71 traffic cleared and we drove to Austin at a normal speed, for Texas, of 75 mph and only wiped out a couple of armadillos along the way. Although we arrived in Austin at 3am, the roads were busy; filled with drunks and evacuees, I suspect. We navigated our way through the University of Texas campus, and to our daughter’s condo on the west side.
Once “home” and settled the cats behaved predictably. Nobbs, the Dustbin King, wandered around for a few minutes, found a soft spot and went to sleep. Sandy, the Worrier, slinked from room to room and finally found a place under a bed. He’s still there.
Word from Home
Reporting from Sugar Land, J told us that estimates for driving to Austin had risen to 15 hours. J, having decided to “ride the storm out” made a trip to the supermarket to pick up a few items to tide them over until Sunday.
The shelves were bare. People were behaving somewhat less than civil and with all checkout lines open, a rare event in itself, it still took over 90 minutes to get out of the store.
The neighborhood is quiet. A few residents have boarded their windows, but the local hardware stores ran out of lumber on Monday.
J reports that they’re just sitting around waiting for the winds to pick up on Friday afternoon.
Word from Austin
H reports that gas stations are running low on fuel possibly because of the influx of people from Houston who are preparing for the return journey. In the supermarket the shelves were bare of water, canned meat and cereal.
H exclaimed, “Why are people buying up all this stuff here in Austin? We’re 150 miles from the storm. They’re buying everything cannable.”
“They’re buying everything cannibal,” I heard.
“Gee, I thought they’d wait a week before going cannibal.”
*they always write "aftermath" so I figured...
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Mushrooms Part One
My shopping lists are pathetic. The one today read as follows:
Tide
Black Peppercorns
Cat Chow
Dinner
The first three items are pretty straightforward. The last item is a problem I haven’t been able to solve yet.
Dinner.
What does that mean? Steak, chicken, pork or fish? Stir fry or bar-b-que? Salad, pasta, rice or potatoes?
Dinner. What’s up with that?
Tonight as I was cruising the vegetable section of Kroger’s, pushing a sane cart that actually went in the direction I willed it to go, I thought “Mushrooms.” Yeah, that’s the ticket, mushrooms. A reader sent me a recipe that used mushrooms and, darn it, it’s too bad I don’t have a copy of that recipe with me, but I recall it had mushrooms and different kinds.
So, I headed to the mushroom section, picked up a couple of packages of this and that mushroom, some shallots, garlic, heavy cream, bacon and some other stuff and I thought I was good to go.
When I got home I checked the recipe and discovered that the recipe was Chestnuts and Mushrooms.
Ah, chestnuts. Not to appear for a couple of months unless I go to Williams-Sonoma and buy a jar of expensive French chestnuts. Chestnuts. Rats. I’ve even got an Italian Chestnut knife just laying in the drawer. Alas.
What to do, what to do?
Well, I had all the ingredients for a mushroom something or another so I set off, fired up my favorite sauté pan and created a mushroom soup. Here is the blueprint:
Lots of mushrooms
Butter
Shallots, chopped
Brandy for Fooming
Sherry for taste
Heavy cream to kill you
Water to thin it a bit
Black pepper
I sautéed the mushrooms in butter, flamed them in brandy, reduced the mixture, added some sherry, reduced it further, added some water and cooked it until about half the water was gone, added the cream and simmered for 20 minutes or so.
Meanwhile, I cut some slices from an Italian bread loaf we had lying around just about to go mouldy, toasted them and topped them with a slice of brie.
To serve I ladled the mushroom soup into a bowl, and topped it with the brie toast which acted like a crouton.
Well received.
I’ll keep this recipe in anticipation of chestnuts.
On a personal note, since we’ve been painting the kitchen we’ve been ordering food in. Tonight’s food I cooked myself, although it was enlightening that my son said that we should “order this soup more often.”
Out of the mouths of babes.
Tide
Black Peppercorns
Cat Chow
Dinner
The first three items are pretty straightforward. The last item is a problem I haven’t been able to solve yet.
Dinner.
What does that mean? Steak, chicken, pork or fish? Stir fry or bar-b-que? Salad, pasta, rice or potatoes?
Dinner. What’s up with that?
Tonight as I was cruising the vegetable section of Kroger’s, pushing a sane cart that actually went in the direction I willed it to go, I thought “Mushrooms.” Yeah, that’s the ticket, mushrooms. A reader sent me a recipe that used mushrooms and, darn it, it’s too bad I don’t have a copy of that recipe with me, but I recall it had mushrooms and different kinds.
So, I headed to the mushroom section, picked up a couple of packages of this and that mushroom, some shallots, garlic, heavy cream, bacon and some other stuff and I thought I was good to go.
When I got home I checked the recipe and discovered that the recipe was Chestnuts and Mushrooms.
Ah, chestnuts. Not to appear for a couple of months unless I go to Williams-Sonoma and buy a jar of expensive French chestnuts. Chestnuts. Rats. I’ve even got an Italian Chestnut knife just laying in the drawer. Alas.
What to do, what to do?
Well, I had all the ingredients for a mushroom something or another so I set off, fired up my favorite sauté pan and created a mushroom soup. Here is the blueprint:
Lots of mushrooms
Butter
Shallots, chopped
Brandy for Fooming
Sherry for taste
Heavy cream to kill you
Water to thin it a bit
Black pepper
I sautéed the mushrooms in butter, flamed them in brandy, reduced the mixture, added some sherry, reduced it further, added some water and cooked it until about half the water was gone, added the cream and simmered for 20 minutes or so.
Meanwhile, I cut some slices from an Italian bread loaf we had lying around just about to go mouldy, toasted them and topped them with a slice of brie.
To serve I ladled the mushroom soup into a bowl, and topped it with the brie toast which acted like a crouton.
Well received.
I’ll keep this recipe in anticipation of chestnuts.
On a personal note, since we’ve been painting the kitchen we’ve been ordering food in. Tonight’s food I cooked myself, although it was enlightening that my son said that we should “order this soup more often.”
Out of the mouths of babes.
Play Ball
“Woo hoo!,” I shouted, “good goal!”
The soccer game shifted rapidly from one end of the field to the other. The forward received the pass and deftly made his way through several defenders and hooked the ball into the net from an impossible angle. He looked pleased, as so he should. It was a great shot.
Although I’m not a great sports fan, I do enjoy watching athletics. It’s always exciting to see the impossible shot made, the impossible catch caught, and all that stuff.
I was still clapping when the Dad came over to my chair.
“What’s up?” he said.
“Man,” I enthused, “did you see that goal? The kid bent it like Beckham right into the corner. Perfect!”
“You’re not supposed to cheer when the enemy scores,” Dad continued, “it ain’t natural.”
He had a point, there. The score had been against our team. Our defenders were defenseless against the powerful and skillful forward who had chucked the ball into our net. Still, it was a beautiful shot and inspiring to watch.
“Yeah, well it ain’t natural that my middle finger don’t bend, see?” and with that, Dad burst into tears and sloped off to his chair to cry on the shoulder of his sympathetic wife, the Team Mother.
OK, that last part didn’t happen. But, I thought it Real Hard! What actually happened is that I turned up the volume on my iPod and mumbled “whatever.”
I’m not a sports fan in that I don’t have teams that I live and die for, but I enjoy a good game no matter who’s playing. Come on, is that a crime? I’ll admit that I’m partial to the UT Longhorns and the KU Jayhawks because my daughters go to those schools, yet I’d be equally supportive if they were Aggies and Cornhuskers.
So, you might guess that living in Houston I’m only marginally aware of the happenings with the Rockets, Astros and Texans and you’d be right, except when I’m able to get tickets.
When I get tickets to a game, especially – most especially – when they are free tickets I become the Number One Fan. I’ll wear the funny hat, I’ll buy the programs, I’ll wave the giant foam “We’re Number One!” hand and do all the crazy things real fans do. I’ll do the wave, dance in the stands and buy $7 beer without a second thought.
Thus it was yesterday when Helen called and said “Hey, do you have anything going on Saturday night? Larry has a couple of Astros tickets for us, if you want to go.”
Larry, I thought. Slowly I turned and mentally envisioned Maria’s sandwich that wasn’t on my desk. The vision soon faded and a pair of Astro tickets appeared!
“Woo, go Astros!” I shouted, “Does that mean we’re gonna do the wave an drink excessively expensive beer and sit on hard seats while being attacked by mosquitoes and wondering if our car wheels will still be there when the game’s over? Is that what it means?”
“Well, yeah,” Helen replied.
“OK, I’m in! What time?”
Saturday dawned and Helen set off early to do Soccer things. I spent the day working on websites, which is just as tiring as running around a soccer pitch as centre referee, I assure you. By Astros time I was tired of uploading web components and looked forward to a few hours in a hard seat drinking excessively expensive beer.
We set off to the ballpark and after navigating through Houston’s finest road works, one way street system and downtown parking lots, made our way to the stadium and found our seats. Oh, yeah, we took out a mortgage for a couple of beers along the way. Because of the Houston Traffic Experience we arrived at the bottom of the second inning and Larry and his lovely wife were waiting for us.
“We thought you weren’t coming,” Larry said.
“Are you kidding?” I replied, “We wouldn’t miss an Astros game for the world. Especially if you’re buying the tickets.”
Larry eyed my beer. “When’s the first payment due?” he asked.
“Next month. And I got a good rate.”
“Bonus.”
Larry had arranged the Astros to play an easy team, the Milwaukee Brewers. Ironic, considering the price of beers. Fortunately, the Brewers were up, or down, to standard and we came away with a 7-0 victory.
All in all it was a good game with exciting moments, and a technical part that I didn’t understand until I read about it on the Houston Chronicle website later in the evening. Apparently, the pitcher tried to throw someone out on First Base, but was called “balk” by the Third Base Umpire. Chaos ensued for a few minutes, but the Astros ended up with a score. The Brewers were doomed by one misstep after another.
The Brewers made a few good plays and I cheered them on. So did Larry; he enjoys a good play no matter who makes it.
Larry and I are like-minded when it comes to sports and, apparently, sandwiches.
The soccer game shifted rapidly from one end of the field to the other. The forward received the pass and deftly made his way through several defenders and hooked the ball into the net from an impossible angle. He looked pleased, as so he should. It was a great shot.
Although I’m not a great sports fan, I do enjoy watching athletics. It’s always exciting to see the impossible shot made, the impossible catch caught, and all that stuff.
I was still clapping when the Dad came over to my chair.
“What’s up?” he said.
“Man,” I enthused, “did you see that goal? The kid bent it like Beckham right into the corner. Perfect!”
“You’re not supposed to cheer when the enemy scores,” Dad continued, “it ain’t natural.”
He had a point, there. The score had been against our team. Our defenders were defenseless against the powerful and skillful forward who had chucked the ball into our net. Still, it was a beautiful shot and inspiring to watch.
“Yeah, well it ain’t natural that my middle finger don’t bend, see?” and with that, Dad burst into tears and sloped off to his chair to cry on the shoulder of his sympathetic wife, the Team Mother.
OK, that last part didn’t happen. But, I thought it Real Hard! What actually happened is that I turned up the volume on my iPod and mumbled “whatever.”
I’m not a sports fan in that I don’t have teams that I live and die for, but I enjoy a good game no matter who’s playing. Come on, is that a crime? I’ll admit that I’m partial to the UT Longhorns and the KU Jayhawks because my daughters go to those schools, yet I’d be equally supportive if they were Aggies and Cornhuskers.
So, you might guess that living in Houston I’m only marginally aware of the happenings with the Rockets, Astros and Texans and you’d be right, except when I’m able to get tickets.
When I get tickets to a game, especially – most especially – when they are free tickets I become the Number One Fan. I’ll wear the funny hat, I’ll buy the programs, I’ll wave the giant foam “We’re Number One!” hand and do all the crazy things real fans do. I’ll do the wave, dance in the stands and buy $7 beer without a second thought.
Thus it was yesterday when Helen called and said “Hey, do you have anything going on Saturday night? Larry has a couple of Astros tickets for us, if you want to go.”
Larry, I thought. Slowly I turned and mentally envisioned Maria’s sandwich that wasn’t on my desk. The vision soon faded and a pair of Astro tickets appeared!
“Woo, go Astros!” I shouted, “Does that mean we’re gonna do the wave an drink excessively expensive beer and sit on hard seats while being attacked by mosquitoes and wondering if our car wheels will still be there when the game’s over? Is that what it means?”
“Well, yeah,” Helen replied.
“OK, I’m in! What time?”
Saturday dawned and Helen set off early to do Soccer things. I spent the day working on websites, which is just as tiring as running around a soccer pitch as centre referee, I assure you. By Astros time I was tired of uploading web components and looked forward to a few hours in a hard seat drinking excessively expensive beer.
We set off to the ballpark and after navigating through Houston’s finest road works, one way street system and downtown parking lots, made our way to the stadium and found our seats. Oh, yeah, we took out a mortgage for a couple of beers along the way. Because of the Houston Traffic Experience we arrived at the bottom of the second inning and Larry and his lovely wife were waiting for us.
“We thought you weren’t coming,” Larry said.
“Are you kidding?” I replied, “We wouldn’t miss an Astros game for the world. Especially if you’re buying the tickets.”
Larry eyed my beer. “When’s the first payment due?” he asked.
“Next month. And I got a good rate.”
“Bonus.”
Larry had arranged the Astros to play an easy team, the Milwaukee Brewers. Ironic, considering the price of beers. Fortunately, the Brewers were up, or down, to standard and we came away with a 7-0 victory.
All in all it was a good game with exciting moments, and a technical part that I didn’t understand until I read about it on the Houston Chronicle website later in the evening. Apparently, the pitcher tried to throw someone out on First Base, but was called “balk” by the Third Base Umpire. Chaos ensued for a few minutes, but the Astros ended up with a score. The Brewers were doomed by one misstep after another.
The Brewers made a few good plays and I cheered them on. So did Larry; he enjoys a good play no matter who makes it.
Larry and I are like-minded when it comes to sports and, apparently, sandwiches.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Wet Paint
The house is full of wet paint. It smells like paint. Cans of paint. If I survive the night I’ll be able to tell people at work tomorrow how cool my house smelled.
The painter was still working when I got home. He’s put in long hours because he’s a very detailed person. When I caught him tonight he was cleaning his brush and wrapping it up for the night.
“Good brush?” I asked.
“Not bad,” he replied, “I’ve had it a few years.”
In a previous life a painter once told me that a good brush will last a lifetime if you take care of it, “Like a good woo-mahn,” he went on to say.
“Like a good woo-mahn,” I said out loud.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said, “frog in my throat.”
I asked him what the secret was to painting with enamel paint and not leaving streaks, drips, gaps and all the other stuff I’ve experienced painting with enamel.
He said that you have to clean off all the dust, prepare the surface with a cleaning solution, fill the gaps, sand the rough spots then, finally, use your 20 years of experience to apply the paint properly.
Ah, so. 20 years. Got it. That explains why when I was 15 I couldn’t paint worth a damn. It doesn’t explain, however, the subsequent years.
The kitchen is more or less back in order, although since we had to take stuff out of the cupboards it’s a great time to reorganize and put stuff where I really want stuff to be put.
Easier said than done.
When we first moved to this house we decided to put stuff where we expected to find it. So, the big pots went in the left-hand cupboard, the small pots to the right, most used tools to the right and infrequently used tools to the left.
Then a strange thing happened. I started cooking on the left side of the range, and moved SOME of the most frequently used tools to the left. However, after they got washed they sometimes got moved to the right.
Chaos reigned. It became hunt, hunt, hunt for the Italian chestnut knife. And the Swiss Army potato peeler was sometimes on the left and sometimes on the right.
Now, we have the opportunity to start over. We’ll have a family meeting and decide where the tools should go once and for all.
Are we nuts? I’m beginning to suspect as much. There was a time when I didn’t even have an Italian chestnut knife.
I’ll be the first to confess that I am a kitchen gadget addict. I love the right tool for the right job. Off the top of my head here are some of the specialized tools I use:
Wine bottle foil remover – Screwpull
Strawberry huller
Poultry needle
Taco bender
Ravioli stamp
Pastry scraper
Chinese dumpling press
Laguiole corkscrew
Hatori Hanzo Japanese knife set – that’s what I call sharp.
Pastry blender
Swiss Army peeler
Garlic smasher
Cherry pitter
Chopsticks – I can cook just about anything with chopsticks
Orange rinder
Pastry wheel
Oh, and the Italian chestnut knife? You’re wondering what that’s for? Well, it’s for inscribing a little “X” on chestnuts before you roast them so the nuts don’t explode in the oven. It looks a bit like a linoleum knife, only smaller and with a blade like a hawk’s beak.
If I had to rate my specialized tools in order of favoriteness I would say, and this is tough, like rating my kids in 1-2-3 order (OK, that’s not a good example!) but like rating my favorite food because it will change as my whims change. Anyway, my favorite tools at this moment are:
Swiss Army peeler – it’s just too cool.
Laguiole corkscrew – a pleasure to use.
Japanese knife set – can’t get enough of “too sharp”
Chopsticks – why didn’t I discover these sooner?
The painter was still working when I got home. He’s put in long hours because he’s a very detailed person. When I caught him tonight he was cleaning his brush and wrapping it up for the night.
“Good brush?” I asked.
“Not bad,” he replied, “I’ve had it a few years.”
In a previous life a painter once told me that a good brush will last a lifetime if you take care of it, “Like a good woo-mahn,” he went on to say.
“Like a good woo-mahn,” I said out loud.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said, “frog in my throat.”
I asked him what the secret was to painting with enamel paint and not leaving streaks, drips, gaps and all the other stuff I’ve experienced painting with enamel.
He said that you have to clean off all the dust, prepare the surface with a cleaning solution, fill the gaps, sand the rough spots then, finally, use your 20 years of experience to apply the paint properly.
Ah, so. 20 years. Got it. That explains why when I was 15 I couldn’t paint worth a damn. It doesn’t explain, however, the subsequent years.
The kitchen is more or less back in order, although since we had to take stuff out of the cupboards it’s a great time to reorganize and put stuff where I really want stuff to be put.
Easier said than done.
When we first moved to this house we decided to put stuff where we expected to find it. So, the big pots went in the left-hand cupboard, the small pots to the right, most used tools to the right and infrequently used tools to the left.
Then a strange thing happened. I started cooking on the left side of the range, and moved SOME of the most frequently used tools to the left. However, after they got washed they sometimes got moved to the right.
Chaos reigned. It became hunt, hunt, hunt for the Italian chestnut knife. And the Swiss Army potato peeler was sometimes on the left and sometimes on the right.
Now, we have the opportunity to start over. We’ll have a family meeting and decide where the tools should go once and for all.
Are we nuts? I’m beginning to suspect as much. There was a time when I didn’t even have an Italian chestnut knife.
I’ll be the first to confess that I am a kitchen gadget addict. I love the right tool for the right job. Off the top of my head here are some of the specialized tools I use:
Wine bottle foil remover – Screwpull
Strawberry huller
Poultry needle
Taco bender
Ravioli stamp
Pastry scraper
Chinese dumpling press
Laguiole corkscrew
Hatori Hanzo Japanese knife set – that’s what I call sharp.
Pastry blender
Swiss Army peeler
Garlic smasher
Cherry pitter
Chopsticks – I can cook just about anything with chopsticks
Orange rinder
Pastry wheel
Oh, and the Italian chestnut knife? You’re wondering what that’s for? Well, it’s for inscribing a little “X” on chestnuts before you roast them so the nuts don’t explode in the oven. It looks a bit like a linoleum knife, only smaller and with a blade like a hawk’s beak.
If I had to rate my specialized tools in order of favoriteness I would say, and this is tough, like rating my kids in 1-2-3 order (OK, that’s not a good example!) but like rating my favorite food because it will change as my whims change. Anyway, my favorite tools at this moment are:
Swiss Army peeler – it’s just too cool.
Laguiole corkscrew – a pleasure to use.
Japanese knife set – can’t get enough of “too sharp”
Chopsticks – why didn’t I discover these sooner?
Monday, September 12, 2005
Mayday! Kitchen Down!
We're painting the kitchen. I use the term "we" loosely since I am not part of "we."
The "we" part of the equation are the fine folks of ABS Improvements who are actually doing the work that would take a century to ripen on my scale. Yea, ABS!
As I wrote before, ABS has all the things I don't have: tools, skill and experience. Actually, I have *some* of the tools but not nearly as many tools as ABS has. Yeah, those guys are way cool.
Knowing that the kitchen would be out of action and knowing that I had a Scout meeting and knowing that the chance of dinner was very, very remote, Larry and I had lunch at a local Mexican restaurant.
I bought.
Yes, I know that Larry ate Maria's sandwich, the bastard, and I know what a glutton he is. I resemble that remark, too. However, Larry is such good company he's worth twice the price of lunch. Also, he speaks Spanish and when he orders at a Mexican restaurant it's pure poetry. I usually point and say I'll have that. Pointing. Larry, on the other hand, will make love to the waiter putting the emphasis on the right syllable.
I put the em-PHASIS on the wrong sy-LLABLE.
In short, the tacos al carbon were tender, well carboned, and tasty. Pico de gallo was fresh. All in all, a good meal.
After I paid for lunch Larry made a comment.
"La Hacienda does a great lunch, but you know, the best lunch I've had all month was the sandwich in your office.
Where did you get that?"
Slowly I turned...
The "we" part of the equation are the fine folks of ABS Improvements who are actually doing the work that would take a century to ripen on my scale. Yea, ABS!
As I wrote before, ABS has all the things I don't have: tools, skill and experience. Actually, I have *some* of the tools but not nearly as many tools as ABS has. Yeah, those guys are way cool.
Knowing that the kitchen would be out of action and knowing that I had a Scout meeting and knowing that the chance of dinner was very, very remote, Larry and I had lunch at a local Mexican restaurant.
I bought.
Yes, I know that Larry ate Maria's sandwich, the bastard, and I know what a glutton he is. I resemble that remark, too. However, Larry is such good company he's worth twice the price of lunch. Also, he speaks Spanish and when he orders at a Mexican restaurant it's pure poetry. I usually point and say I'll have that. Pointing. Larry, on the other hand, will make love to the waiter putting the emphasis on the right syllable.
I put the em-PHASIS on the wrong sy-LLABLE.
In short, the tacos al carbon were tender, well carboned, and tasty. Pico de gallo was fresh. All in all, a good meal.
After I paid for lunch Larry made a comment.
"La Hacienda does a great lunch, but you know, the best lunch I've had all month was the sandwich in your office.
Where did you get that?"
Slowly I turned...
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Cart Wheel
How many of you have pulled out a shopping cart, noticed that someone left a plastic bag or a newspaper advertisement or some other innocuous piece of debris in the cart, pushed the cart into the foyer and grabbed another one? You! Yeah, you. I’m looking at you because I’ve seen you do it. You know who you are.
So, this afternoon I’m going to be in and out. Fast. No browsing. I have my list and I plan to use it. Ten minutes, max.
I entered Kroger’s through the automatic doors that always remind me of the Starship Enterprise. Sometimes I think “Scotty, status report!” Sometimes aloud.
“Mommy, that man is talking to himself.”
“Don’t stare, sweetie, maybe he has one of those cell phone ear things.” Or maybe not, Mommy’s thinking.
The cart with a waded up, empty, vegetable bag was out in the open. Two people in front of me saw the cart, saw the bag and selected another cart. What’s the big deal, I thought, it’s only a bag and like the fool I am, I decided to take the cart and “show them all.”
Big mistake.
I was cruising along through the bread section when it happened. The front right wheel pivoted and locked. The cart suddenly veered to the right and I crashed into the bagel table. Several people stopped to stare. Surprised but undaunted, I backed the cart out, picked up the packages of bagels I had knocked off the table and hustled off to the vegetable section.
Along the way the cart locked and veered two or three more times. I hit the salad bar and a little kid who I admonished for "getting in my way."
Ah, so. Haunted cart. Just my luck.
Moving through the fruits and vegetables the cart began to lock up and veer more frequently. I found that I had to push hard with my right hand while pulling hard with my left hand just to keep a nearly straight line.
I began to berate the cart for bad behavior.
Ordinarily, muttering (actually more like snarling and threatening) to oneself in a supermarket will get one noticed at the least. Coupled with erratic movements, lurching, crashing into displays and more lurching turns out to be magical.
People get out of your way.
As I picked up my final item and lurched towards the check-out line my arms were tired, I was sweating profusely, I was snarling much more loudly and I had developed a particular gait that enabled me to keep the cart on more or less a straight path if I thrust out my right leg and hopped twice with my left.
There I was snarling, sweating, thrusting, hopping and don’t forget lurching, my goal in sight: check-out line number 3.
I heard a little voice behind me.
“Mommy, that man is walking funny.”
Mommy bent down to her daughter and said, “Sweetie pie, some people have to learn to cope with disabilities beyond their control. But, look, doesn’t he push his cart well!”
So, this afternoon I’m going to be in and out. Fast. No browsing. I have my list and I plan to use it. Ten minutes, max.
I entered Kroger’s through the automatic doors that always remind me of the Starship Enterprise. Sometimes I think “Scotty, status report!” Sometimes aloud.
“Mommy, that man is talking to himself.”
“Don’t stare, sweetie, maybe he has one of those cell phone ear things.” Or maybe not, Mommy’s thinking.
The cart with a waded up, empty, vegetable bag was out in the open. Two people in front of me saw the cart, saw the bag and selected another cart. What’s the big deal, I thought, it’s only a bag and like the fool I am, I decided to take the cart and “show them all.”
Big mistake.
I was cruising along through the bread section when it happened. The front right wheel pivoted and locked. The cart suddenly veered to the right and I crashed into the bagel table. Several people stopped to stare. Surprised but undaunted, I backed the cart out, picked up the packages of bagels I had knocked off the table and hustled off to the vegetable section.
Along the way the cart locked and veered two or three more times. I hit the salad bar and a little kid who I admonished for "getting in my way."
Ah, so. Haunted cart. Just my luck.
Moving through the fruits and vegetables the cart began to lock up and veer more frequently. I found that I had to push hard with my right hand while pulling hard with my left hand just to keep a nearly straight line.
I began to berate the cart for bad behavior.
Ordinarily, muttering (actually more like snarling and threatening) to oneself in a supermarket will get one noticed at the least. Coupled with erratic movements, lurching, crashing into displays and more lurching turns out to be magical.
People get out of your way.
As I picked up my final item and lurched towards the check-out line my arms were tired, I was sweating profusely, I was snarling much more loudly and I had developed a particular gait that enabled me to keep the cart on more or less a straight path if I thrust out my right leg and hopped twice with my left.
There I was snarling, sweating, thrusting, hopping and don’t forget lurching, my goal in sight: check-out line number 3.
I heard a little voice behind me.
“Mommy, that man is walking funny.”
Mommy bent down to her daughter and said, “Sweetie pie, some people have to learn to cope with disabilities beyond their control. But, look, doesn’t he push his cart well!”
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Close Enough
I’m a pro at airport security. I have all my stuff organized way in advance of the trays, screeners and detectors. My cell phone is in my bag, shoes are untied, all metal stowed, boarding pass and ID at the ready. Usually I sail through.
Today, of course, was different.
As I unloaded my two laptops into the X-ray trays one of the officials looked down and asked me why I had two computers.
“Well,” I replied, “I need two computers. This is my work computer,” pointing to the Dell on the left, “and this is my test computer,” pointing to the Dell on the right.
“Never seen that before,” the official frowned.
Uh oh, I thought. But, before I could get too wound up over the impending inquisition a sight greeted my tired eyes like a supermodel waitress gliding out of a mirage.
Starbucks!
Over there, just beyond Security lay a Starbucks kiosk and it was empty. No line. No waiting. The lady behind the counter, wiping down the coffee machines, turned, looked me in the eye and winked. “Come hither,” I heard.
Through the fog I heard the security guy talking to his supervisor. Words like “never seen that before” and “just plain weird” and “we outta check it out” drifted by. I didn’t care. I was focused on the Starbucks and the prospect of a plain, black, grande Coffee o’ the Day burning the skin off the roof of my mouth. I could feel the pain.
The Supervisor came up to me and asked “How come you got two computers?”
I suppressed the obvious retort, “What’s it to you, Officer Fife?”
Instead, I pointed to one of them and said, “That one’s broken. I’m taking it back to the office to fix it.”
“Oh yeah?” the officer questioned, “Prove it!”
I took the laptop with the dead battery, opened the case and leaned on the power button.
Nothing happened.
“You try,” I offered.
The Supervisor pressed the button. Nothing happened. He picked up the laptop, held it over his head like and Etch-n-Sketch and shook it. Nothing happened.
“Huh,” he said, “guess you’re right. Carry on.”
He turned and bellowed to the staff and passengers alike, “Move along! Move along! Nothing to see here! Move along!”
Hastily, I pulled on my shoes, stuffed my laptops back in my bag and sprinted to the Starbucks. Good thing I didn’t tie my shoes because several passengers had the same idea and were heading my way.
Ah, ha! I beat them all, except for a short non-descript lady in front of me. I had Pole Position Minus One. Black Coffee-of-the-Day here I come!
The lady in front of me had her purse open and she was going to pay cash. This was going to be quick! I fought to stay conscious.
Purse Lady placed her order: vanilla latte iced Jamacian walnut syrup frapaccino walla walla bing bang and a Kalamazoo.
Starbucks Girl wrinkled her brow and inquired, “Banilla? What banilla?”
“No,” Purse Lady replied, “vuh-nilla. With a “V” as in Victor.”
As in “venom” which was starting to build in my spleen.
Snap!
“Oh, lookit that?” Starbucks Girl exclaimed, “I broke my wax pencil. Second time today!” She rummaged around in her supply drawer and drew a blank. Finally, after much rattling around she produced another wax pencil and wrote “Banilla” on the cup.
At long last the drink was produced. Starbucks Girl said “That will be $2.97.”
“And a banana muffin,” Purse Lady continued.
“What?” Starbucks Girl asked.
“And a banana muffin. That one in front with all the crunchies on top.”
Starbucks Girl put the banana muffin in a little bag, tap-danced on the register and said, “That will be $4.26.”
“And a grande Columbine, room for cream.” Purse Lady continued.
“Columbine?” Starbucks Girl asked, “We don’t have a Columbine.”
“Right there,” Purse Lady pointed to the special of the day: Colombian dark.
“Oh, you mean Colombia, not Columbine. Colombia!” Starbucks Girl was quite pleased with herself for figuring this out. Meanwhile, the line had grown behind me and several people had celebrated birthdays.
Starbucks Girl totaled the bill and announced, “That will be $6.13.”
Purse Lady rummaged through her purse and pulled out a $50 dollar bill. “Hang on a second,” she said, “I think I have the thirteen cents.”
Obviously desperation was showing on my face by this time. The crowd behind me was starting to shuffle and mumble things. It didn’t sound pretty. I was thinking that before I got trampled I could get a few punches in…
…when the Starbucks Guy appeared, looked at me directly and asked “What would you like?”
Well, you didn’t have to ask me twice. “Grande, coffee-of-the-day, no room for cream!”
In a flash Starbucks Guy had my drink in his hand. “Two thirty-two,” he said.
I gave him a five and told him to keep the change. Although I had two hours before my flight left I sprinted to the gate, found a seat and proceeded to burn the roof of my mouth.
Whew, I thought, that was close.
Today, of course, was different.
As I unloaded my two laptops into the X-ray trays one of the officials looked down and asked me why I had two computers.
“Well,” I replied, “I need two computers. This is my work computer,” pointing to the Dell on the left, “and this is my test computer,” pointing to the Dell on the right.
“Never seen that before,” the official frowned.
Uh oh, I thought. But, before I could get too wound up over the impending inquisition a sight greeted my tired eyes like a supermodel waitress gliding out of a mirage.
Starbucks!
Over there, just beyond Security lay a Starbucks kiosk and it was empty. No line. No waiting. The lady behind the counter, wiping down the coffee machines, turned, looked me in the eye and winked. “Come hither,” I heard.
Through the fog I heard the security guy talking to his supervisor. Words like “never seen that before” and “just plain weird” and “we outta check it out” drifted by. I didn’t care. I was focused on the Starbucks and the prospect of a plain, black, grande Coffee o’ the Day burning the skin off the roof of my mouth. I could feel the pain.
The Supervisor came up to me and asked “How come you got two computers?”
I suppressed the obvious retort, “What’s it to you, Officer Fife?”
Instead, I pointed to one of them and said, “That one’s broken. I’m taking it back to the office to fix it.”
“Oh yeah?” the officer questioned, “Prove it!”
I took the laptop with the dead battery, opened the case and leaned on the power button.
Nothing happened.
“You try,” I offered.
The Supervisor pressed the button. Nothing happened. He picked up the laptop, held it over his head like and Etch-n-Sketch and shook it. Nothing happened.
“Huh,” he said, “guess you’re right. Carry on.”
He turned and bellowed to the staff and passengers alike, “Move along! Move along! Nothing to see here! Move along!”
Hastily, I pulled on my shoes, stuffed my laptops back in my bag and sprinted to the Starbucks. Good thing I didn’t tie my shoes because several passengers had the same idea and were heading my way.
Ah, ha! I beat them all, except for a short non-descript lady in front of me. I had Pole Position Minus One. Black Coffee-of-the-Day here I come!
The lady in front of me had her purse open and she was going to pay cash. This was going to be quick! I fought to stay conscious.
Purse Lady placed her order: vanilla latte iced Jamacian walnut syrup frapaccino walla walla bing bang and a Kalamazoo.
Starbucks Girl wrinkled her brow and inquired, “Banilla? What banilla?”
“No,” Purse Lady replied, “vuh-nilla. With a “V” as in Victor.”
As in “venom” which was starting to build in my spleen.
Snap!
“Oh, lookit that?” Starbucks Girl exclaimed, “I broke my wax pencil. Second time today!” She rummaged around in her supply drawer and drew a blank. Finally, after much rattling around she produced another wax pencil and wrote “Banilla” on the cup.
At long last the drink was produced. Starbucks Girl said “That will be $2.97.”
“And a banana muffin,” Purse Lady continued.
“What?” Starbucks Girl asked.
“And a banana muffin. That one in front with all the crunchies on top.”
Starbucks Girl put the banana muffin in a little bag, tap-danced on the register and said, “That will be $4.26.”
“And a grande Columbine, room for cream.” Purse Lady continued.
“Columbine?” Starbucks Girl asked, “We don’t have a Columbine.”
“Right there,” Purse Lady pointed to the special of the day: Colombian dark.
“Oh, you mean Colombia, not Columbine. Colombia!” Starbucks Girl was quite pleased with herself for figuring this out. Meanwhile, the line had grown behind me and several people had celebrated birthdays.
Starbucks Girl totaled the bill and announced, “That will be $6.13.”
Purse Lady rummaged through her purse and pulled out a $50 dollar bill. “Hang on a second,” she said, “I think I have the thirteen cents.”
Obviously desperation was showing on my face by this time. The crowd behind me was starting to shuffle and mumble things. It didn’t sound pretty. I was thinking that before I got trampled I could get a few punches in…
…when the Starbucks Guy appeared, looked at me directly and asked “What would you like?”
Well, you didn’t have to ask me twice. “Grande, coffee-of-the-day, no room for cream!”
In a flash Starbucks Guy had my drink in his hand. “Two thirty-two,” he said.
I gave him a five and told him to keep the change. Although I had two hours before my flight left I sprinted to the gate, found a seat and proceeded to burn the roof of my mouth.
Whew, I thought, that was close.
Home Again
“Hi, I’m Gizelle and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”
Gizelle had glided to my table noiselessly and towered over me, an apparition in white and gold. Shoulder-length blonde hair framed a flawless complexion, high cheekbones, too-perfect white teeth, and limpid-pool blue eyes. She might have stepped off of the cover of Vogue or Cosmo. I didn’t realize that supermodels moonlighted in restaurants.
As the blood began to return to my head I heard Gizelle say through the fog something about drinks.
“Arrouh errg dahhhhh,” I mumbled.
Gizelle pivoted like a Marine on drill, blonde hair gliding through the air in slow motion (how do they do that?), chimed over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back with your drinks,” and sashayed into a shimmering mirage. Time seemed to slow as she faded into the distance. Step. By. Step.
How do they do that, I thought again.
“I’ll be taking care of you tonight.” Gizelle’s words echoed in my mind.
“Heh, heh,” I thought, “no, Gizelle, not tonight you ain’t. Tonight I’ll be taken care of by my two old buddies Johnnie Walker and Jack Daniels. I never drink alone, doncha see.”
I’m here in Scottsdale, Arizona for a few days and Gizelle is only one of many changes this old town has seen since I first set foot in it over 40 years ago.
Back then, the spot where I’m sitting at this very moment was open desert. I’d be sitting on a cactus, brushing scorpions off my jeans and wondering which was going to get me first: heat or coyotes.
Back then Gizelle would have been Barb and the conversation would have been a little different.
Barb would have been on break, sitting in a booth in the corner, taking a pull on her third cigarette, joking with the short-order cook, Junior. I would have been sitting at my table for 5 or 10 minutes before, with a great sigh, Barb would have pulled herself to her feet, brushed down her apron and ambled over my way.
Through a cloud of second-hand smoke she would have rasped, “What’ll it be, Hon?”
If I had replied with something even remotely like, “Well, I was hoping you’d take care of me tonight,” then I would have had a very short, but loud, conversation with Junior followed by a close encounter with Mr. Asphalt in the parking lot. Nope, there was no “taking care of” back then. You placed your order, ate your food and got the hell out. Ah, the simple times.
With the sound of little tinkling bells, the mirage reappeared and Gizelle glided down the catwalk to my table. Gracefully, she placed my Perrier and lime on the table, stepped back, flicked her hair and pouted.
“Thanks,” I said.
Gizelle brightened at this and proceeded to ask if I was prepared to order.
“Well, not quite,” I mused, “it all looks so good it’s difficult to decide.”
Gizelle earned an Academy Award pretending she had never heard that line before.
“What would you suggest?” I offered.
Gizelle brightened considerably at this, clapped her hands together and gave a little hop. She looked absolutely delighted that someone had asked her opinion.
“Oh,” Gizelle squeaked, “my absolute favorite in the whole wide world is the Kate Moss Salad. It’s sooooo yummy!”
Kate Moss, I thought, I don’t have a clue but I’m not about to ask, either. I’d eaten moose moss, man, I should have washed it first. And, I’d eaten Spanish Moss. That was a big mistake but tequila will do that to you, yes, it will.
“OK,” I smiled, “Kate Moss it is.”
Gizelle turned and pranced off into the mirage.
While my Kate Moss was being “created” by Wolfgang, I thought back to a little Mexican restaurant we used to go to when I was a kid. We went there often enough that one of the waitresses adopted us.
“Oh, my darlings,” Emily would gush, “it’s so good to see you again! Take a seat. Anywhere. I’ll be right with you.” Emily would bustle into the kitchen, double doors almost swinging off the hinges. She made a loud “WUMPH” when she hit those doors. Before the kitchen doors could close you could hear Emily barking instructions. “I need a basket of chips and I want ‘em fresh and hot! Right now! None of that broken crap you usually dish up. Hey, hey, hey, Junior, you shut your trap and gimmie the chips or I’ll smack you into next week…” So it went.
WUMPH! And Emily would be back, “Oh, my darlings, how ya doin’? Oh, you’re growing so fast. My no account husband, did I tell what he did this week?” Emily would scoot us over in the booth, sit down, light up a cigarette and take her break with us, spilling out all of her family’s trials and tribulations. Emily was such a sweetie.
Then, suddenly, as if stuck by a cattle prod she would leap to her feet, stub out her cigarette, and shoot back to the kitchen, cooing over her shoulder to us “Be right back with your order, darlings. Just a second.” And when she hit those kitchen doors -WUMPH- we’d hear “Junior, you bastard, where’s my order? I’m gonna kick you worthless ass…”
My reverie was broken by the sound of little bells. I looked up and Gizelle was gliding down the catwalk with my order in hand. She was radiant.
“Here you are,” she said breathlessly, “your very own Kate Moss Salad!” Then, unexpectedly, she leant over the table and whispered to me, “You know, I’ve never been able to finish one of these by myself. I’ll bring you a carry-home box, just in case.” Then she turned and disappeared back into the mirage.
I looked down at my Kate Moss. Single leaf of lettuce. Sculpted baby carrot set at a jaunty angle. In a deft move I rolled up the carrot in the lettuce leaf, popped them into my mouth and swallowed it whole. The lettuce was certainly lettucey and the carrot was the jauntiest carrot I’d ever swallowed whole. No doubt about it. Yummy.
Shortly, Gizelle appeared with my check and exclaimed, “Oh, you must have been hungry!” before she disappeared into the mirage one final time.
I stepped out into the parking lot and inhaled a deep lungful of bus exhaust. My stomach reminded me loudly that it was most unsatisfied at the course of the evening so far. I got into my rental car and headed off into the night. I didn’t know exactly where I was going, so I followed my instinct. Head for Old Town, away from all the lights. That’s where it will be.
Sure enough, I rounded a corner in an old business area and caught sight of a flickering neon sign: Mel’s Char Ho.
Mel’s Char House
I parked the car, looked up at the sign and saw that the “use” had burned out. “I know how you feel, sign, I know exactly how you feel.”
I went inside and stood by the cash register waiting to be seated.
“Just sit anywhere, Hon,” a disembodied voice echoed from the back of the room, “be with you in a sec.”
I pulled into a booth and checked out the plastic laminated menu wedged between the salt and pepper shakers. It didn’t take long to find what I wanted.
I heard footsteps and the voice was moving towards my booth. “Barb” stood there with her order pad in hand. “Ya know what cha want, Hon?” she asked.
I smelled a mixture of Camel regulars and Beechnut gum, or was it just Redman? I couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. “I’ll have a large Sloppy Joe, Cole slaw and a bowl of pinto beans. With water.”
Barb was writing all this down. She looked up and said, “With what?”
“Water,” I said, then paused and changed my mind. “Make that a beer, no, make that a pitcher of beer.”
“You got it, Hon,” Barb replied, “Back at ya in two shakes.” She headed towards the kitchen.
WUMPH
“Hey, Junior! Gimme a bunnie ‘n’ a beanie ‘n’ a bowl of slop. And a bucket of suds! And make it snappy, you worthless, lazy bastard! Don’t make me come back there, Junior! You want trouble, I’ll give you trouble…”
The kitchen door closed and all I could hear were Barb’s muffled threats.
I leaned back in the booth and put my feet up on the opposite seat. Ah, it’s great to be home.
Gizelle had glided to my table noiselessly and towered over me, an apparition in white and gold. Shoulder-length blonde hair framed a flawless complexion, high cheekbones, too-perfect white teeth, and limpid-pool blue eyes. She might have stepped off of the cover of Vogue or Cosmo. I didn’t realize that supermodels moonlighted in restaurants.
As the blood began to return to my head I heard Gizelle say through the fog something about drinks.
“Arrouh errg dahhhhh,” I mumbled.
Gizelle pivoted like a Marine on drill, blonde hair gliding through the air in slow motion (how do they do that?), chimed over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back with your drinks,” and sashayed into a shimmering mirage. Time seemed to slow as she faded into the distance. Step. By. Step.
How do they do that, I thought again.
“I’ll be taking care of you tonight.” Gizelle’s words echoed in my mind.
“Heh, heh,” I thought, “no, Gizelle, not tonight you ain’t. Tonight I’ll be taken care of by my two old buddies Johnnie Walker and Jack Daniels. I never drink alone, doncha see.”
I’m here in Scottsdale, Arizona for a few days and Gizelle is only one of many changes this old town has seen since I first set foot in it over 40 years ago.
Back then, the spot where I’m sitting at this very moment was open desert. I’d be sitting on a cactus, brushing scorpions off my jeans and wondering which was going to get me first: heat or coyotes.
Back then Gizelle would have been Barb and the conversation would have been a little different.
Barb would have been on break, sitting in a booth in the corner, taking a pull on her third cigarette, joking with the short-order cook, Junior. I would have been sitting at my table for 5 or 10 minutes before, with a great sigh, Barb would have pulled herself to her feet, brushed down her apron and ambled over my way.
Through a cloud of second-hand smoke she would have rasped, “What’ll it be, Hon?”
If I had replied with something even remotely like, “Well, I was hoping you’d take care of me tonight,” then I would have had a very short, but loud, conversation with Junior followed by a close encounter with Mr. Asphalt in the parking lot. Nope, there was no “taking care of” back then. You placed your order, ate your food and got the hell out. Ah, the simple times.
With the sound of little tinkling bells, the mirage reappeared and Gizelle glided down the catwalk to my table. Gracefully, she placed my Perrier and lime on the table, stepped back, flicked her hair and pouted.
“Thanks,” I said.
Gizelle brightened at this and proceeded to ask if I was prepared to order.
“Well, not quite,” I mused, “it all looks so good it’s difficult to decide.”
Gizelle earned an Academy Award pretending she had never heard that line before.
“What would you suggest?” I offered.
Gizelle brightened considerably at this, clapped her hands together and gave a little hop. She looked absolutely delighted that someone had asked her opinion.
“Oh,” Gizelle squeaked, “my absolute favorite in the whole wide world is the Kate Moss Salad. It’s sooooo yummy!”
Kate Moss, I thought, I don’t have a clue but I’m not about to ask, either. I’d eaten moose moss, man, I should have washed it first. And, I’d eaten Spanish Moss. That was a big mistake but tequila will do that to you, yes, it will.
“OK,” I smiled, “Kate Moss it is.”
Gizelle turned and pranced off into the mirage.
While my Kate Moss was being “created” by Wolfgang, I thought back to a little Mexican restaurant we used to go to when I was a kid. We went there often enough that one of the waitresses adopted us.
“Oh, my darlings,” Emily would gush, “it’s so good to see you again! Take a seat. Anywhere. I’ll be right with you.” Emily would bustle into the kitchen, double doors almost swinging off the hinges. She made a loud “WUMPH” when she hit those doors. Before the kitchen doors could close you could hear Emily barking instructions. “I need a basket of chips and I want ‘em fresh and hot! Right now! None of that broken crap you usually dish up. Hey, hey, hey, Junior, you shut your trap and gimmie the chips or I’ll smack you into next week…” So it went.
WUMPH! And Emily would be back, “Oh, my darlings, how ya doin’? Oh, you’re growing so fast. My no account husband, did I tell what he did this week?” Emily would scoot us over in the booth, sit down, light up a cigarette and take her break with us, spilling out all of her family’s trials and tribulations. Emily was such a sweetie.
Then, suddenly, as if stuck by a cattle prod she would leap to her feet, stub out her cigarette, and shoot back to the kitchen, cooing over her shoulder to us “Be right back with your order, darlings. Just a second.” And when she hit those kitchen doors -WUMPH- we’d hear “Junior, you bastard, where’s my order? I’m gonna kick you worthless ass…”
My reverie was broken by the sound of little bells. I looked up and Gizelle was gliding down the catwalk with my order in hand. She was radiant.
“Here you are,” she said breathlessly, “your very own Kate Moss Salad!” Then, unexpectedly, she leant over the table and whispered to me, “You know, I’ve never been able to finish one of these by myself. I’ll bring you a carry-home box, just in case.” Then she turned and disappeared back into the mirage.
I looked down at my Kate Moss. Single leaf of lettuce. Sculpted baby carrot set at a jaunty angle. In a deft move I rolled up the carrot in the lettuce leaf, popped them into my mouth and swallowed it whole. The lettuce was certainly lettucey and the carrot was the jauntiest carrot I’d ever swallowed whole. No doubt about it. Yummy.
Shortly, Gizelle appeared with my check and exclaimed, “Oh, you must have been hungry!” before she disappeared into the mirage one final time.
I stepped out into the parking lot and inhaled a deep lungful of bus exhaust. My stomach reminded me loudly that it was most unsatisfied at the course of the evening so far. I got into my rental car and headed off into the night. I didn’t know exactly where I was going, so I followed my instinct. Head for Old Town, away from all the lights. That’s where it will be.
Sure enough, I rounded a corner in an old business area and caught sight of a flickering neon sign: Mel’s Char Ho.
Mel’s Char House
I parked the car, looked up at the sign and saw that the “use” had burned out. “I know how you feel, sign, I know exactly how you feel.”
I went inside and stood by the cash register waiting to be seated.
“Just sit anywhere, Hon,” a disembodied voice echoed from the back of the room, “be with you in a sec.”
I pulled into a booth and checked out the plastic laminated menu wedged between the salt and pepper shakers. It didn’t take long to find what I wanted.
I heard footsteps and the voice was moving towards my booth. “Barb” stood there with her order pad in hand. “Ya know what cha want, Hon?” she asked.
I smelled a mixture of Camel regulars and Beechnut gum, or was it just Redman? I couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. “I’ll have a large Sloppy Joe, Cole slaw and a bowl of pinto beans. With water.”
Barb was writing all this down. She looked up and said, “With what?”
“Water,” I said, then paused and changed my mind. “Make that a beer, no, make that a pitcher of beer.”
“You got it, Hon,” Barb replied, “Back at ya in two shakes.” She headed towards the kitchen.
WUMPH
“Hey, Junior! Gimme a bunnie ‘n’ a beanie ‘n’ a bowl of slop. And a bucket of suds! And make it snappy, you worthless, lazy bastard! Don’t make me come back there, Junior! You want trouble, I’ll give you trouble…”
The kitchen door closed and all I could hear were Barb’s muffled threats.
I leaned back in the booth and put my feet up on the opposite seat. Ah, it’s great to be home.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Slowly I Turned...
Maria looked up at me and beamed. Maria is such a nice person and always makes you feel like you're the most special person in the world. Fitted out in her starched white apron and chefs hat Maria works at the Custom Sandwich Counter in our company cafeteria.
Maria, who calls me "Meester Beel", speaks at least three languages. I've heard her speak to the manager in Spanish and to a co-worker in Vietnamese.
I speak one language. I should be making Maria the sandwich.
Maria was still beaming, "Tuna?" she asked. She reached down for the boxed lunch she had already prepared for me.
I paused.
Maria frowned. I don't like to see Maria frown. She looks positively miserable, almost pleading.
"Uh, I dunno," I stuttered, "I've had tuna for, like 300 years in a row. I think today I'll try something new."
"New?"
Maria stopped frowning and gave me that Spanish Inquisition Look. "Nobody expects NEW!" I imagined her to say.
"What if," I continued, "what if you were hungry, you Maria, what if you were hungry for lunch and made a sandwich. What would you make?"
"I not hungry," she countered.
"Well, what if. Let's say you are hungry," I pressed, "what would you make?"
Maria looked uncertain.
I leaned closer, looked left, then right, then directly into Maria's dark brown eyes. I whispered and she leaned closer to hear.
"I would like you, Maria, to make for me a special sandwich. Your favorite sandwich. Just for me. It will be our secret. Pretend you are making it for yourself. Make me the best sandwich in the history of the world. Make me...your sandwich."
Maria swallowed hard. "You sure?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
I nodded.
Pausing for a moment as if in deep thought, Maria suddenly brightened and set to work. Her hands were a blur grabbing ingredients, slicing bread, slathering on sauces. She was a demon sandwich machine. I had never seen her move so quickly or with such purpose.
On went the turkey, lettuce, chipotle mayonnaise, some kind of pepper, two cheeses (was that an anchovy?), bean sprouts and a delicate sprinkle of chopped red onion. She turned her back on me and sprinkled on something I couldn't see. She turned around and grinned at me. Her secret.
Maria surveyed her creation. Her brow wrinkled. Something was wrong. Something was missing. Then her countenance lifted, she turned to the food locker, opened the door and disappeared.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Maria returned with a single sprig of cilantro. She looked at me and smiled. "Secret ingredient," she said. At last she rummaged through the pickle wedge vat and pulled out the two most perfect pickle wedges I've ever seen and plopped them in my sandwich box. And with pride beaming out of every corner of her face Maria presented me with her creation. Her sandwichus magus. It looked fantastic.
"Enjoy," she said.
"Cam on," I said in my best Vietnamese accent which is to say grating.
"De nada," Maria replied.
I shuffled off to my cubicle with my prize. Oh, yeah, babe, this is gonna be good. On the way back to my nest several people in the hallway moved way out of the way as I approached. What? Haven't you ever seen someone drool?
When I got back to my lair with intentions of surfing the net for an hour and enjoying Maria's handiwork I found Larry in my chair.
"Whoa, dude," I exclaimed in my best Surfer Dude accent, "wazzzzup, dawg?"
(OK, so it needs work. Everybody's a critic.)
"Just checking out some banned websites on your machine, man. Hope the company Web Police have a sense of humor."
We both knew that was so funny as not to be so funny.
"Whatcha got there, bud?" Larry inquired, checking out the cafeteria box in my hand.
"Nothing," I replied.
"I didn't have time for lunch today." Larry gave me the puppy dog look.
I held firm.
Larry arched his eyebrows to accentuate the puppy dog look.
I broke. "OK, OK, you can have half a sandwich. But, only half!" I opened the cafeteria box and handed half a sandwich to Larry who chomped into it like a shark on chum.
"Mffph!" he exclaimed. "Mempff fummp smppf," he continued. Larry pointed to my computer screen.
I put the cafeteria box on my desk, scooted Larry out of my chair and checked out what Larry had been reading. It was a very interesting blog site on probability based infrastructure analysis. I was hooked.
Larry mumbled something. Absorbed, I didn't pay attention. Eventually through the fog I heard "bye" and Larry disappeared down the hall.
Finally, I got to the end of the blog and leaned back to mentally absorb what I had read. Cool, I thought. Returning to reality I turned to my lunch and found...
...an empty box.
Wha? Where's my sandwich? Where's Maria's sandwich? I thought back to what Larry had been nattering on about while I was reading the blog site.
"You gonna eat that?"
Slowly I turned, step by step...
Maria, who calls me "Meester Beel", speaks at least three languages. I've heard her speak to the manager in Spanish and to a co-worker in Vietnamese.
I speak one language. I should be making Maria the sandwich.
Maria was still beaming, "Tuna?" she asked. She reached down for the boxed lunch she had already prepared for me.
I paused.
Maria frowned. I don't like to see Maria frown. She looks positively miserable, almost pleading.
"Uh, I dunno," I stuttered, "I've had tuna for, like 300 years in a row. I think today I'll try something new."
"New?"
Maria stopped frowning and gave me that Spanish Inquisition Look. "Nobody expects NEW!" I imagined her to say.
"What if," I continued, "what if you were hungry, you Maria, what if you were hungry for lunch and made a sandwich. What would you make?"
"I not hungry," she countered.
"Well, what if. Let's say you are hungry," I pressed, "what would you make?"
Maria looked uncertain.
I leaned closer, looked left, then right, then directly into Maria's dark brown eyes. I whispered and she leaned closer to hear.
"I would like you, Maria, to make for me a special sandwich. Your favorite sandwich. Just for me. It will be our secret. Pretend you are making it for yourself. Make me the best sandwich in the history of the world. Make me...your sandwich."
Maria swallowed hard. "You sure?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
I nodded.
Pausing for a moment as if in deep thought, Maria suddenly brightened and set to work. Her hands were a blur grabbing ingredients, slicing bread, slathering on sauces. She was a demon sandwich machine. I had never seen her move so quickly or with such purpose.
On went the turkey, lettuce, chipotle mayonnaise, some kind of pepper, two cheeses (was that an anchovy?), bean sprouts and a delicate sprinkle of chopped red onion. She turned her back on me and sprinkled on something I couldn't see. She turned around and grinned at me. Her secret.
Maria surveyed her creation. Her brow wrinkled. Something was wrong. Something was missing. Then her countenance lifted, she turned to the food locker, opened the door and disappeared.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Maria returned with a single sprig of cilantro. She looked at me and smiled. "Secret ingredient," she said. At last she rummaged through the pickle wedge vat and pulled out the two most perfect pickle wedges I've ever seen and plopped them in my sandwich box. And with pride beaming out of every corner of her face Maria presented me with her creation. Her sandwichus magus. It looked fantastic.
"Enjoy," she said.
"Cam on," I said in my best Vietnamese accent which is to say grating.
"De nada," Maria replied.
I shuffled off to my cubicle with my prize. Oh, yeah, babe, this is gonna be good. On the way back to my nest several people in the hallway moved way out of the way as I approached. What? Haven't you ever seen someone drool?
When I got back to my lair with intentions of surfing the net for an hour and enjoying Maria's handiwork I found Larry in my chair.
"Whoa, dude," I exclaimed in my best Surfer Dude accent, "wazzzzup, dawg?"
(OK, so it needs work. Everybody's a critic.)
"Just checking out some banned websites on your machine, man. Hope the company Web Police have a sense of humor."
We both knew that was so funny as not to be so funny.
"Whatcha got there, bud?" Larry inquired, checking out the cafeteria box in my hand.
"Nothing," I replied.
"I didn't have time for lunch today." Larry gave me the puppy dog look.
I held firm.
Larry arched his eyebrows to accentuate the puppy dog look.
I broke. "OK, OK, you can have half a sandwich. But, only half!" I opened the cafeteria box and handed half a sandwich to Larry who chomped into it like a shark on chum.
"Mffph!" he exclaimed. "Mempff fummp smppf," he continued. Larry pointed to my computer screen.
I put the cafeteria box on my desk, scooted Larry out of my chair and checked out what Larry had been reading. It was a very interesting blog site on probability based infrastructure analysis. I was hooked.
Larry mumbled something. Absorbed, I didn't pay attention. Eventually through the fog I heard "bye" and Larry disappeared down the hall.
Finally, I got to the end of the blog and leaned back to mentally absorb what I had read. Cool, I thought. Returning to reality I turned to my lunch and found...
...an empty box.
Wha? Where's my sandwich? Where's Maria's sandwich? I thought back to what Larry had been nattering on about while I was reading the blog site.
"You gonna eat that?"
Slowly I turned, step by step...
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
The Big Not so Easy
It's hard to be funny when there's a major disaster going on, like in New Orleans. The Big Easy is having a difficult time, but I'm sure in time it will be back.
Cities getting wiped out by disasters is not new. Fires, earthquakes and floods have taken their toll over the centuries.
My prediction is that come next year Mardi Gras will be held right on time and herald the birth of a new New Orleans.
Houston, meanwhile, will be home to thousands of displaced New Orleans citizens and we here at 12tutufondue welcome them to Bayou City. Glad we could lend a hand.
Cities getting wiped out by disasters is not new. Fires, earthquakes and floods have taken their toll over the centuries.
My prediction is that come next year Mardi Gras will be held right on time and herald the birth of a new New Orleans.
Houston, meanwhile, will be home to thousands of displaced New Orleans citizens and we here at 12tutufondue welcome them to Bayou City. Glad we could lend a hand.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Paint Over
The painters came today.
We hired a company to paint our house and take care of some problems that haven't ripened enough for me to do. Yeah, the truth is that some of these problems were so unripe, in my estimation, that we'd be flying to work in anti-gravity belts before I got around to doing them. So, there you have it.
Painters have three things that make them successful: tools, skill and experience. I've got one out of those three which makes me a dangerous person to be let loose around the house.
In case you haven't guessed by now, of the three, I have TOOLS. Yes, I have great garage-loads of tools. I have a table saw and a drill press and skill saws out the wazoo and electric gizmos of all kinds. Check out a Sears Tool Catalog. Point to anything. I've got that. Maybe two.
On the skill and experience side, however, the meter reads zero, unless you consider being able to generate mounds of sawdust "skill and experience."
Our Painters, as we call them now, on the other hand, possess all three and they demonstrate their skills with panache. Each day we arrive home to new delights: the garage door, the gutters and the delicate trim. It's a very moving experience, that is, the neighbors think we're moving. Apparently they're planning a block party. We aren't invited.
Soon, however, Our Painters will be gone. No more delights. No more panache. I'll miss Our Painters.
I'm thinking that I don't quite like the color of the house. No, not quite. I think it need to be done again...
We hired a company to paint our house and take care of some problems that haven't ripened enough for me to do. Yeah, the truth is that some of these problems were so unripe, in my estimation, that we'd be flying to work in anti-gravity belts before I got around to doing them. So, there you have it.
Painters have three things that make them successful: tools, skill and experience. I've got one out of those three which makes me a dangerous person to be let loose around the house.
In case you haven't guessed by now, of the three, I have TOOLS. Yes, I have great garage-loads of tools. I have a table saw and a drill press and skill saws out the wazoo and electric gizmos of all kinds. Check out a Sears Tool Catalog. Point to anything. I've got that. Maybe two.
On the skill and experience side, however, the meter reads zero, unless you consider being able to generate mounds of sawdust "skill and experience."
Our Painters, as we call them now, on the other hand, possess all three and they demonstrate their skills with panache. Each day we arrive home to new delights: the garage door, the gutters and the delicate trim. It's a very moving experience, that is, the neighbors think we're moving. Apparently they're planning a block party. We aren't invited.
Soon, however, Our Painters will be gone. No more delights. No more panache. I'll miss Our Painters.
I'm thinking that I don't quite like the color of the house. No, not quite. I think it need to be done again...
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Out on a Limb
"Whatcha looking for?"
"Band Aid."
"Oh, cut yourself?"
"It's nothing."
"Let me see."
"It's Noth-Thing!"
"Let. Me. See."
"OK"
"That's a cat scratch. Were you bugging the cat again?"
"No I was not bugging the cat again!"
*silence*
"OK, I was engaging the cat in some meaningful play."
"Ah. Did you poke him in the ribs or pull his tail."
"Tail. And he's a lot faster than he looks. I don't know why we waste money on cat food. He could bring down a buffalo."
I looked over at Sandy as he lay on his back on the carpet. One eye open, watching me, he slowly flexed his right paw and extended his claws half an inch.
They say cats can't smile. They are wrong.
Truth be told I was looking for any excuse, even getting shredded by the bucolic Sandy, to avoid trimming the trees out front. The other day in the mail we received a Ding Letter from the Housing Association.
Ding. Tree branches too low. Ding. According to rule T-255.12 sub-paragraph G ... and pages later ... no shorter than eight feet ... Ding.
Eight feet. Bah! The poor little tree is barely eight feet tall. What am I supposed to do, chop it off? I shuffled out to the curb with my tape measure and ran it from the street to the lowest hanging branch: 7 feet 11 and 255/256ths of an inch tall. Rats. I'll have to trim half a leaf. I knew I should have voted against the Housing Association buying those laser range-finders, but they looked so cool!
I went into the garage to find my tree saw. On my way back to the street I noticed a sign in our neighbor's yard. Huh? That's weird. They just moved in two weeks ago and already their house is up for sale? I've given up on neighbors. Come and go, who cares? I go to work at dawn and return at nightfall and I'm gone on the weekends. Never met the neighbors. Frankly, don't care to.
I looked more closely. It wasn't a For Sale sign. Worse. Much worse.
"Yard of the Month"
I let out a string of expletives that should have brought down an immediate bolt of lightning and checked out their yard. Two weeks ago it had been overgrown and ratty, even by Housing Association standards which specify the Pantel green range of colors your lawn should be (see rule G-307.22 sub-paragraphs b-h). The neighbors had hired a crew to come in and clean the place up. Today it was mowed and had a dozen wilting pansies planted around the scraggly live oak tree.
Our yard, by contrast, was neatly mowed, the correct shade of green with geraniums and hibiscus providing bright contrast to the azaleas. All that, no doubt, eclipsed by the low-hanging branch. As I stared at the offending limb it appeared to bend even lower while the rest of the tree shrugged up and down as if chuckling.
"Very funny," I muttered and shuffled back into the house.
Sandy was stretched out on the carpet asleep. Dead to the world. His little chest rose and fell rhythmically. "He's out," I thought. Still grumped about the neighbor getting "Yard of the Month" and my unfaithful tree I noticed that Sandy's tail was outstretched and within grasp. I bent down and...
"Whatcha looking for?"
"Another Band Aid..."
"Band Aid."
"Oh, cut yourself?"
"It's nothing."
"Let me see."
"It's Noth-Thing!"
"Let. Me. See."
"OK"
"That's a cat scratch. Were you bugging the cat again?"
"No I was not bugging the cat again!"
*silence*
"OK, I was engaging the cat in some meaningful play."
"Ah. Did you poke him in the ribs or pull his tail."
"Tail. And he's a lot faster than he looks. I don't know why we waste money on cat food. He could bring down a buffalo."
I looked over at Sandy as he lay on his back on the carpet. One eye open, watching me, he slowly flexed his right paw and extended his claws half an inch.
They say cats can't smile. They are wrong.
Truth be told I was looking for any excuse, even getting shredded by the bucolic Sandy, to avoid trimming the trees out front. The other day in the mail we received a Ding Letter from the Housing Association.
Ding. Tree branches too low. Ding. According to rule T-255.12 sub-paragraph G ... and pages later ... no shorter than eight feet ... Ding.
Eight feet. Bah! The poor little tree is barely eight feet tall. What am I supposed to do, chop it off? I shuffled out to the curb with my tape measure and ran it from the street to the lowest hanging branch: 7 feet 11 and 255/256ths of an inch tall. Rats. I'll have to trim half a leaf. I knew I should have voted against the Housing Association buying those laser range-finders, but they looked so cool!
I went into the garage to find my tree saw. On my way back to the street I noticed a sign in our neighbor's yard. Huh? That's weird. They just moved in two weeks ago and already their house is up for sale? I've given up on neighbors. Come and go, who cares? I go to work at dawn and return at nightfall and I'm gone on the weekends. Never met the neighbors. Frankly, don't care to.
I looked more closely. It wasn't a For Sale sign. Worse. Much worse.
"Yard of the Month"
I let out a string of expletives that should have brought down an immediate bolt of lightning and checked out their yard. Two weeks ago it had been overgrown and ratty, even by Housing Association standards which specify the Pantel green range of colors your lawn should be (see rule G-307.22 sub-paragraphs b-h). The neighbors had hired a crew to come in and clean the place up. Today it was mowed and had a dozen wilting pansies planted around the scraggly live oak tree.
Our yard, by contrast, was neatly mowed, the correct shade of green with geraniums and hibiscus providing bright contrast to the azaleas. All that, no doubt, eclipsed by the low-hanging branch. As I stared at the offending limb it appeared to bend even lower while the rest of the tree shrugged up and down as if chuckling.
"Very funny," I muttered and shuffled back into the house.
Sandy was stretched out on the carpet asleep. Dead to the world. His little chest rose and fell rhythmically. "He's out," I thought. Still grumped about the neighbor getting "Yard of the Month" and my unfaithful tree I noticed that Sandy's tail was outstretched and within grasp. I bent down and...
"Whatcha looking for?"
"Another Band Aid..."
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Questions Questions
Learning to answer questions correctly is an important survival skill.
Take for example the following question:
"How long are you going to let that box sit in the kitchen?"
Now, there are several answers one could make to this enquiry, each with their own set of consequences.
"Well, I thought I'd wait until the box sprouted legs and moved itself somewhere else."
That's sort of a long version of "Huh?" Batten down the hatches because the storm's a-commin'!
Or this:
"You mean that box there?"
An attempt to prolong the agony. Yes, of course, that box there, you idiot and now, you see, it's getting personal.
Or this:
"It doesn't bother me that the box is there. I'll get around to moving it in a year or so."
Now, that's a truthful answer but it's all about me, isn't it? Helloooo, is there anybody else in the room?
Which leads to the correct answer which is this:
"Oh, my bad, I've been meaning to move that box but, you know..." followed by "Hey, tell you what, I'll move the box then we'll go out for some dim sum. How's that sound?"
Priceless. MasterCard. It's everywhere you want to be. Or whatever.
The moral of the story is to always involve food in addressing the transgression.
'Nuff said.
Take for example the following question:
"How long are you going to let that box sit in the kitchen?"
Now, there are several answers one could make to this enquiry, each with their own set of consequences.
"Well, I thought I'd wait until the box sprouted legs and moved itself somewhere else."
That's sort of a long version of "Huh?" Batten down the hatches because the storm's a-commin'!
Or this:
"You mean that box there?"
An attempt to prolong the agony. Yes, of course, that box there, you idiot and now, you see, it's getting personal.
Or this:
"It doesn't bother me that the box is there. I'll get around to moving it in a year or so."
Now, that's a truthful answer but it's all about me, isn't it? Helloooo, is there anybody else in the room?
Which leads to the correct answer which is this:
"Oh, my bad, I've been meaning to move that box but, you know..." followed by "Hey, tell you what, I'll move the box then we'll go out for some dim sum. How's that sound?"
Priceless. MasterCard. It's everywhere you want to be. Or whatever.
The moral of the story is to always involve food in addressing the transgression.
'Nuff said.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Abbey Road
Can you hear it too many times?
No.
Can you cook to it?
Yes.
He got feet down below his knees. He cooks a filet mignon on the grill.
Oh, yeah.
No.
Can you cook to it?
Yes.
He got feet down below his knees. He cooks a filet mignon on the grill.
Oh, yeah.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Alive Again
Thank you Mary I'm alive again!
Mary's comment down below had to do with cooking eggplant and she remarked to make a salad dressing your-own-damn-self and by golly that woke me up!
Yes, we made our own damn self salad dressings for years. Then we got lazy and started buying Newman's Own which isn't bad plus the profits go to good causes. (We'll continue to believe that.)
Last night I made a simple salad out of romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, avocado and French feta cheese. Opening the fridge for the Newman's Own Italian I was greeted with an empty shelf.
Hmmmm, look, look, look and no Newman's. Shelf is bare. No bone for the dog. We're out.
Rats.
OK, Plan B was to get the two-cup measure, dump in some good olive oil, Japanese rice wine vinegar, fresh basil from the garden, salt, pepper, a pinch of Coleman's dry mustard and whisk into an emulsion. Pour on salad. Toss.
Rave reviews.
"Whoa, Dad-0, what did you do to this salad? It's great!"
"crunch yum snarf good chomp snarf snarf salad chomp"
"Did Newman's change their recipe? This is REALLY good, like, REALLY good. chomp-snarf-gnash"
Yeah, there was a reason we made our own dressings. Control the ingredients, salt, acidity, oil.
Oh, and rave reviews. Somehow that makes it all worthwhile.
Sorry, Paul, we're going to be not lazy for a while.
Thanks, Mary, for waking me up. And, yes, you're on the Internet. You're famous!
Mary's comment down below had to do with cooking eggplant and she remarked to make a salad dressing your-own-damn-self and by golly that woke me up!
Yes, we made our own damn self salad dressings for years. Then we got lazy and started buying Newman's Own which isn't bad plus the profits go to good causes. (We'll continue to believe that.)
Last night I made a simple salad out of romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, avocado and French feta cheese. Opening the fridge for the Newman's Own Italian I was greeted with an empty shelf.
Hmmmm, look, look, look and no Newman's. Shelf is bare. No bone for the dog. We're out.
Rats.
OK, Plan B was to get the two-cup measure, dump in some good olive oil, Japanese rice wine vinegar, fresh basil from the garden, salt, pepper, a pinch of Coleman's dry mustard and whisk into an emulsion. Pour on salad. Toss.
Rave reviews.
"Whoa, Dad-0, what did you do to this salad? It's great!"
"crunch yum snarf good chomp snarf snarf salad chomp"
"Did Newman's change their recipe? This is REALLY good, like, REALLY good. chomp-snarf-gnash"
Yeah, there was a reason we made our own dressings. Control the ingredients, salt, acidity, oil.
Oh, and rave reviews. Somehow that makes it all worthwhile.
Sorry, Paul, we're going to be not lazy for a while.
Thanks, Mary, for waking me up. And, yes, you're on the Internet. You're famous!
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Trudy's Austin
I spent part of the weekend in Austin helping my daughter move in to pretty nice digs near campus.
University of Texas. Go Longhorns.
Apparently, that's something I've gotta do every time I mention UT. Go Longhorns.
This is a test: UT. Go Longhorns.
I guess I'm configured correctly.
Before I get to Trudy's I've got to describe my experience at Target or as we upscale people are fond of saying "Tar-zhay."
There I am at Tarzhay in the computer furniture section looking at the " 'puter Hutch" and wondering if I really want to spend ninety bucks on a collection of faux teak pressboard when The Little Guy comes up and stands next to me.
Together we admire the Hutch.
"She's a beaut," says TLG, "Yep, 100% made. Somewhere."
TLG rocked back on his heels and continued, "You know, I got one for Thelma Lou."
"No, I didn't know that," I replied taking a step to the right.
"Yep, you gotta know women. You gotta know women," TLG inhaled importantly and rocked a little faster.
"I guess," I answered weakly.
"No guessing about it," TLG pressed, "Women have a Sixth Sense about quality stuff. They aren't impressed by a bunch of flowers or diamonds or stuff like that! Why, anyone could cut some plants or dig up some rocks. No, sir-ee, you show up with a Gen-U-Ine 'puter Hutch and she'll be all over you. If you know what I mean. You know what I mean, don't cha?"
I nodded. Then as TLG appeared to clarify his last statement I nodded vigorously and exclaimed, "Yeah, dude, I'm with you. Hutch. Yeah, I see the light."
"So, what's it going to be, man," TLG held out his left hand for emphasis, "hutch?" He held out his right hand, "Or eternal loneliness?"
I paused. TLG swallowed hard. I squinted into his beady eyes, leaned forward and in a raspy whisper said, "Hutch."
Soon we were wheeling the cart to the check-out lane, through the check-out lane and into the back of the truck. As TLG headed back across the parking lot he paused, turned to look back at me and shouted, "Wise choice, Grasshopper!" and disappeared into the ever-opening doors of Tarzhay.
Moments later my daughter met me in the parking lot.
"Did you get my computer desk, Dad-0?" she inquired.
"Yep, it's in the truck and it's a good one. One Hundred Percent Made Somewhere. Top of the line."
"Well," she went on, "I'm glad. 'cause, like, you said you'd get a desk and if you hadn't I was going to be, like, all over you. Know what I mean? All over you. So, looks like your job is done. Time to take the Princess home. Let's go."
And off we went.
Much later, 'puter Hutch delivered, we went out for a meal and ended up at Trudy's which is a rambling house-turned-restaurant that serves great food and great drinks. Perhaps I should invert those.
I started with the Margarita Martini which is a margarita served martini style out of a shaker with olives and a wedge of lime. The menu states a patron limit of two. I agree with that! Three would definitely be harmful.
The food menu is varied and interesting. I chose Chicken Chapotle with spicy black beans. Princess picked beef fajitas. The enchilada menu distinguished itself by not being an enchilada menu. Design your own was the mode. Pick the ingredients, sauce, tortilla type (corn or flour), and toppings. Fun with enchiladas; I'll have to write more about that.
Although we arrived for a somewhat late dinner, 8:30 pm, as we were leaving the third or fourth sitting was just arriving. College students! Don't they own watches? I think Trudy's was just warming up for the night.
I'm looking forward to my next trip to Austin. I'll take in Trudy's for sure to explore the menu.
University of Texas. Go Longhorns.
Apparently, that's something I've gotta do every time I mention UT. Go Longhorns.
This is a test: UT. Go Longhorns.
I guess I'm configured correctly.
Before I get to Trudy's I've got to describe my experience at Target or as we upscale people are fond of saying "Tar-zhay."
There I am at Tarzhay in the computer furniture section looking at the " 'puter Hutch" and wondering if I really want to spend ninety bucks on a collection of faux teak pressboard when The Little Guy comes up and stands next to me.
Together we admire the Hutch.
"She's a beaut," says TLG, "Yep, 100% made. Somewhere."
TLG rocked back on his heels and continued, "You know, I got one for Thelma Lou."
"No, I didn't know that," I replied taking a step to the right.
"Yep, you gotta know women. You gotta know women," TLG inhaled importantly and rocked a little faster.
"I guess," I answered weakly.
"No guessing about it," TLG pressed, "Women have a Sixth Sense about quality stuff. They aren't impressed by a bunch of flowers or diamonds or stuff like that! Why, anyone could cut some plants or dig up some rocks. No, sir-ee, you show up with a Gen-U-Ine 'puter Hutch and she'll be all over you. If you know what I mean. You know what I mean, don't cha?"
I nodded. Then as TLG appeared to clarify his last statement I nodded vigorously and exclaimed, "Yeah, dude, I'm with you. Hutch. Yeah, I see the light."
"So, what's it going to be, man," TLG held out his left hand for emphasis, "hutch?" He held out his right hand, "Or eternal loneliness?"
I paused. TLG swallowed hard. I squinted into his beady eyes, leaned forward and in a raspy whisper said, "Hutch."
Soon we were wheeling the cart to the check-out lane, through the check-out lane and into the back of the truck. As TLG headed back across the parking lot he paused, turned to look back at me and shouted, "Wise choice, Grasshopper!" and disappeared into the ever-opening doors of Tarzhay.
Moments later my daughter met me in the parking lot.
"Did you get my computer desk, Dad-0?" she inquired.
"Yep, it's in the truck and it's a good one. One Hundred Percent Made Somewhere. Top of the line."
"Well," she went on, "I'm glad. 'cause, like, you said you'd get a desk and if you hadn't I was going to be, like, all over you. Know what I mean? All over you. So, looks like your job is done. Time to take the Princess home. Let's go."
And off we went.
Much later, 'puter Hutch delivered, we went out for a meal and ended up at Trudy's which is a rambling house-turned-restaurant that serves great food and great drinks. Perhaps I should invert those.
I started with the Margarita Martini which is a margarita served martini style out of a shaker with olives and a wedge of lime. The menu states a patron limit of two. I agree with that! Three would definitely be harmful.
The food menu is varied and interesting. I chose Chicken Chapotle with spicy black beans. Princess picked beef fajitas. The enchilada menu distinguished itself by not being an enchilada menu. Design your own was the mode. Pick the ingredients, sauce, tortilla type (corn or flour), and toppings. Fun with enchiladas; I'll have to write more about that.
Although we arrived for a somewhat late dinner, 8:30 pm, as we were leaving the third or fourth sitting was just arriving. College students! Don't they own watches? I think Trudy's was just warming up for the night.
I'm looking forward to my next trip to Austin. I'll take in Trudy's for sure to explore the menu.
Thank You Mary, re Eggplant
"I read your blog."
Music to my ears. Someone, anyone, reading my blog! Oh, joy!
Unless it's family member. Then, it's, like, "Uh, oh, what did I write? Whose butt did I make look too big?"
Tonight, though, not to worry, all is well. Turns out that the other cooking half of the family took note of a comment posted by Mary and decided to try it out.
Results are in: Score for Mary!
Grilled Eggplant a la Mary had been born. We made our own Italian dressing using this and that, something or another and a French fried bat. That's from my dim memory of a Rocky and Bullwinkle show, Fractured Fairy Tales. Anyway, the eggplant turned out great and, by Jove, we'll have it again.
Thanks, Mary!
And to replay Mary's comment:
We mixed our own-damn-self dressing with balsamic vinegar, olive oil, basil, and black pepper.
Music to my ears. Someone, anyone, reading my blog! Oh, joy!
Unless it's family member. Then, it's, like, "Uh, oh, what did I write? Whose butt did I make look too big?"
Tonight, though, not to worry, all is well. Turns out that the other cooking half of the family took note of a comment posted by Mary and decided to try it out.
Results are in: Score for Mary!
Grilled Eggplant a la Mary had been born. We made our own Italian dressing using this and that, something or another and a French fried bat. That's from my dim memory of a Rocky and Bullwinkle show, Fractured Fairy Tales. Anyway, the eggplant turned out great and, by Jove, we'll have it again.
Thanks, Mary!
And to replay Mary's comment:
If you want to try something tasty use italian dressing as a marinade for the eggplant and grill til a bit carmelized. I like the old school Good Seasonings mix-it-yo-own-damn-self dressing. Fabulous. : )
We mixed our own-damn-self dressing with balsamic vinegar, olive oil, basil, and black pepper.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Host with the Most
Recently I've received some comments about cook show hosts. I've been watching cooking shows for a long, long time, although I have gaps in my history during times that cooking shows were out of favor or I didn't have a TV; usually the latter.
My impressions, of course, set the standard and anybody who has a contrary opinion is simply wrong by definition. Not really, but wouldn't the world be cool if it worked that way? My world, that is.
Let's start with Graham Kerr, the Galloping Gourmet. Who couldn't have fun with Graham Kerr, and to hear his ex-wife talk, who didn't. I liked Graham's style. Very enthusiastic and cavalier. When cooking with wine there was always a "slurp for the cook" which I greatly appreciated. Graham's dishes were straightforward and after watching the show between classes as a student, after all he was quite the Cult Figure, I gained my first appreciation for understanding food. Graham, who's show was produced by soon-to-be-ex wife Trudy eventually fell from favor not to return for many decades, or so it seemed.
Next, Julia Child: the way to cook. If there was ever a Taoist Master it was Julia. She made even the most involved dishes look simple because she broke down the preparation into small parts and never sweated the small parts. The main lesson I learned from Julia was to use the best ingredients: fresh food, fresh vegetables, butter, butter, cream and, dare I say it again, butter. In a voice only she could make she once intoned that, yes, yes, you could use margarine, but only if you didn't care how it tasted. Hers was also the voice of moderation and though her food was often rich it was never overly rich.
Justin Wilson typified the down-home Country Chef who was crazy like a fox. Following a first career of redneck comedy, Justin blew onto the scene with outrageous recipes for cajun fare that always entailed lots of spice. LOTS OF SPICE. I wrote previously about inedible pork chops. With Justin you had to watch what he was doing, and watch what you were doing. If a recipe sounded wrong, believe me, it was. Unless you're cooking for a thousand people you don't need a cup of cayenne pepper. Seriously. In my mind Justin brought out the importance of a roux in Southern cooking and treated the roux with great reverence. I learned that it really does take at least 30 minutes to prepare a decent roux, and you have to stir it all the time otherwise it will scorch and if that happens there is only one cure: start over.
Wolfgang Puck, a newcomer to cooking TV has been dragged to the stage against every instinct he possesses, or so it seems. I read about Puck years before I ever saw him on TV and the reviewers were in consensus: genius, enfant terrible. Watching him on television I can't help but get the impression he'd be happier cooking his audience, rather than cooking for them. His dishes are mostly impossible to duplicate and generally uninteresting. There may be other opinions, but I'm not interested in hearing them.
Bobby Flay. (See Wolfgang Puck) Bobby is not your friend. He will drink your beer and bring your daughter home very late.
Mario Batali. Mario, baby, it's only Italian food. You know, pizza and spaghetti. Quit pretending anything else. If you unzipped Mario, do you know what you'd find inside? Another Mario! He's that full of himself. And no, Mario, you don't need to fly to Naples to buy that special fish for your Italian dish. Catfish will do just fine.
Next a question. Is Alton Brown a cook, a producer, a performer or a scientist? The answer is "yes." I like Alton only because I can tolerate his manner as entertainment. His lengthy explanations of food, such as the two zillion varieties of rice explained
one. at. a. time.
do help those who have an interest in food and probably drive the rest of humanity to hunger strikes. I find Alton's recipes workable and open to variation, but I lose patience as he spends an hour to complete a 20-minute task. Yes, Alton, it's all about you. We know.
Finally, I end with a cook that invokes passion whether pro or con. Rarely will you find a person neutral about Emeril Lagasse. I confess it took me some time to warm up to this showman and the "BAM!" thing, but once I did I appreciated his show because he would consistently demonstrate 4-5 recipes that I could do with ingredients available to me (Mario, you listenin' babe?) and mix and match this and that. I realized that Emeril is the closest to how I cook; a lot by feel and intuition.
Emeril's greatest lesson is simple: it's cooking, not rocket science.
Lots of people don't cook, or don't cook well, because they're afraid of the complexity. Fancy words like souflee, sautee and all those French words really put people off. Emeril has gone a long way to make cooking accessible to people.
So, yeah, when I cook and I throw a handful of spices across the kitchen into a bubbling pot I do shout "BAM!" and my family knows that something good is going on in the kitchen.
And when I ignite brandy in my sautee pan I shout "FOOM!" and my family knows to start dialing 911.
Oh, well.
My impressions, of course, set the standard and anybody who has a contrary opinion is simply wrong by definition. Not really, but wouldn't the world be cool if it worked that way? My world, that is.
Let's start with Graham Kerr, the Galloping Gourmet. Who couldn't have fun with Graham Kerr, and to hear his ex-wife talk, who didn't. I liked Graham's style. Very enthusiastic and cavalier. When cooking with wine there was always a "slurp for the cook" which I greatly appreciated. Graham's dishes were straightforward and after watching the show between classes as a student, after all he was quite the Cult Figure, I gained my first appreciation for understanding food. Graham, who's show was produced by soon-to-be-ex wife Trudy eventually fell from favor not to return for many decades, or so it seemed.
Next, Julia Child: the way to cook. If there was ever a Taoist Master it was Julia. She made even the most involved dishes look simple because she broke down the preparation into small parts and never sweated the small parts. The main lesson I learned from Julia was to use the best ingredients: fresh food, fresh vegetables, butter, butter, cream and, dare I say it again, butter. In a voice only she could make she once intoned that, yes, yes, you could use margarine, but only if you didn't care how it tasted. Hers was also the voice of moderation and though her food was often rich it was never overly rich.
Justin Wilson typified the down-home Country Chef who was crazy like a fox. Following a first career of redneck comedy, Justin blew onto the scene with outrageous recipes for cajun fare that always entailed lots of spice. LOTS OF SPICE. I wrote previously about inedible pork chops. With Justin you had to watch what he was doing, and watch what you were doing. If a recipe sounded wrong, believe me, it was. Unless you're cooking for a thousand people you don't need a cup of cayenne pepper. Seriously. In my mind Justin brought out the importance of a roux in Southern cooking and treated the roux with great reverence. I learned that it really does take at least 30 minutes to prepare a decent roux, and you have to stir it all the time otherwise it will scorch and if that happens there is only one cure: start over.
Wolfgang Puck, a newcomer to cooking TV has been dragged to the stage against every instinct he possesses, or so it seems. I read about Puck years before I ever saw him on TV and the reviewers were in consensus: genius, enfant terrible. Watching him on television I can't help but get the impression he'd be happier cooking his audience, rather than cooking for them. His dishes are mostly impossible to duplicate and generally uninteresting. There may be other opinions, but I'm not interested in hearing them.
Bobby Flay. (See Wolfgang Puck) Bobby is not your friend. He will drink your beer and bring your daughter home very late.
Mario Batali. Mario, baby, it's only Italian food. You know, pizza and spaghetti. Quit pretending anything else. If you unzipped Mario, do you know what you'd find inside? Another Mario! He's that full of himself. And no, Mario, you don't need to fly to Naples to buy that special fish for your Italian dish. Catfish will do just fine.
Next a question. Is Alton Brown a cook, a producer, a performer or a scientist? The answer is "yes." I like Alton only because I can tolerate his manner as entertainment. His lengthy explanations of food, such as the two zillion varieties of rice explained
one. at. a. time.
do help those who have an interest in food and probably drive the rest of humanity to hunger strikes. I find Alton's recipes workable and open to variation, but I lose patience as he spends an hour to complete a 20-minute task. Yes, Alton, it's all about you. We know.
Finally, I end with a cook that invokes passion whether pro or con. Rarely will you find a person neutral about Emeril Lagasse. I confess it took me some time to warm up to this showman and the "BAM!" thing, but once I did I appreciated his show because he would consistently demonstrate 4-5 recipes that I could do with ingredients available to me (Mario, you listenin' babe?) and mix and match this and that. I realized that Emeril is the closest to how I cook; a lot by feel and intuition.
Emeril's greatest lesson is simple: it's cooking, not rocket science.
Lots of people don't cook, or don't cook well, because they're afraid of the complexity. Fancy words like souflee, sautee and all those French words really put people off. Emeril has gone a long way to make cooking accessible to people.
So, yeah, when I cook and I throw a handful of spices across the kitchen into a bubbling pot I do shout "BAM!" and my family knows that something good is going on in the kitchen.
And when I ignite brandy in my sautee pan I shout "FOOM!" and my family knows to start dialing 911.
Oh, well.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Apocalypse Chow
Food blogs are full of great recipes, fun food experiences and the best restaurant ever.
However, we all know it ain't always so. Occasionally you have that great idea that turns out not so great, like Cayenne Ice Cream, the soothing burn.
Although I have a hankering to roast vulture, I fear getting the spice mix just right would be a problem. It doesn't help that TV cook shows aren't always rooted in reality. I recall the Cajun Chef with Justin Wilson in which he prepared Cayenne Pork Chops and basically dredged the PC's in cayenne pepper, then broiled them in white wine. I know, it doesn't make any sense at all to mix cayenne pepper with white sauce, but I was young, jotted down the recipe and tried it out. You guessed it: inedible. In fact, down right nasty. Deep down I had been hoping for a miracle because that was a whole lot of pepper!
Other memorable forgettable meals include:
Lamb Neck Curry with Honey. Skip the cup of honey next time.
Cabbage/Apple/Pork casserole. Don't let it boil dry, then sit in the oven for an additional two hours.
Toxic Waste Hot Sauce. Yes, it's too hot for human beings. No point in being that hot.
Fennel Parsnip Salad. Two wrongs don't make a right.
Yogurt Drinks. Simply against Nature.
Peanut Butter Ice Cream. It's just not possible to do it right.
Peanut Butter Salsa. The perfect way to ruin a good salsa.
Seafood Gumbo with Frog Legs. Generally good, except for one particular member of the family who Fairly Freaked Out.
Cat Food on Ritz Crackers. Hey, you gotta try it at least once.
Peanut Butter Margarita. What is it with peanut butter?
Monk Fish. Poor man's lobster. Nothing like lobster. One should never be that poor.
That's not a bad list for a bad list. Over the past 30 years or so since I've been cooking, excluding burned stuff, I've developed an awareness of what might turn out OK. Occasionally you have to try new things just to keep from getting stale and going against your instincts can bite you.
I'm interested to hear your stories of food disasters just for fun.
And finally, can someone tell me how to saute an eggplant in a tablespoon of oil? The stuff is like a sponge. One second and the oil is gone. So many recipes say "saute the eggplant in a tablespoon of oil" and it's obvious they've never done it! More like "gallon of oil." End of rant.
However, we all know it ain't always so. Occasionally you have that great idea that turns out not so great, like Cayenne Ice Cream, the soothing burn.
Although I have a hankering to roast vulture, I fear getting the spice mix just right would be a problem. It doesn't help that TV cook shows aren't always rooted in reality. I recall the Cajun Chef with Justin Wilson in which he prepared Cayenne Pork Chops and basically dredged the PC's in cayenne pepper, then broiled them in white wine. I know, it doesn't make any sense at all to mix cayenne pepper with white sauce, but I was young, jotted down the recipe and tried it out. You guessed it: inedible. In fact, down right nasty. Deep down I had been hoping for a miracle because that was a whole lot of pepper!
Other memorable forgettable meals include:
Lamb Neck Curry with Honey. Skip the cup of honey next time.
Cabbage/Apple/Pork casserole. Don't let it boil dry, then sit in the oven for an additional two hours.
Toxic Waste Hot Sauce. Yes, it's too hot for human beings. No point in being that hot.
Fennel Parsnip Salad. Two wrongs don't make a right.
Yogurt Drinks. Simply against Nature.
Peanut Butter Ice Cream. It's just not possible to do it right.
Peanut Butter Salsa. The perfect way to ruin a good salsa.
Seafood Gumbo with Frog Legs. Generally good, except for one particular member of the family who Fairly Freaked Out.
Cat Food on Ritz Crackers. Hey, you gotta try it at least once.
Peanut Butter Margarita. What is it with peanut butter?
Monk Fish. Poor man's lobster. Nothing like lobster. One should never be that poor.
That's not a bad list for a bad list. Over the past 30 years or so since I've been cooking, excluding burned stuff, I've developed an awareness of what might turn out OK. Occasionally you have to try new things just to keep from getting stale and going against your instincts can bite you.
I'm interested to hear your stories of food disasters just for fun.
And finally, can someone tell me how to saute an eggplant in a tablespoon of oil? The stuff is like a sponge. One second and the oil is gone. So many recipes say "saute the eggplant in a tablespoon of oil" and it's obvious they've never done it! More like "gallon of oil." End of rant.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Pleased as Punch
In no particular order the problem I had downloading from iTunes the soundtrack to Kill Bill 2 got resolved all by itself, even after I spent hours pouring over permissions and trying this and that. Suddenly, it just downloaded big as you please.
And, second, Sarah has returned from Ismir, Turkey, having spent the summer at Space Camp Turkey.
Well, I guess the second eclipses the first!
How cool is that? Sarah arranged her summer job, spent the summer in Turkey visiting Greece along the way, and making friends with students throughout the region including Bulgaria and Turkey. I hardly know where Bulgaria is and Sarah has friends there. How cool is that?
When I was Sarah's age I was pumped to have friends in New Mexico! I probably couldn't have afforded a stamp to Bulgaria.
We're keen to hear her stories, but she'll have to get some sleep first!
Updates later.
And, second, Sarah has returned from Ismir, Turkey, having spent the summer at Space Camp Turkey.
Well, I guess the second eclipses the first!
How cool is that? Sarah arranged her summer job, spent the summer in Turkey visiting Greece along the way, and making friends with students throughout the region including Bulgaria and Turkey. I hardly know where Bulgaria is and Sarah has friends there. How cool is that?
When I was Sarah's age I was pumped to have friends in New Mexico! I probably couldn't have afforded a stamp to Bulgaria.
We're keen to hear her stories, but she'll have to get some sleep first!
Updates later.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
For the Birds
I think birds are cool. I watch them all the time.
At my former office I overlooked a home, if you will, for turkey vultures. Basically, they would land on the ledges of the building opposite me and hang out. In time I became quite a turkey vulture aficionado.
The turkey vulture is a graceful bird, although with a face only a mother could love; a turkey vulture mother, that is. Audubon described the turkey vulture as one of the most acrobatic of fliers and, having observed the flights of many turkey vultures at close hand, I would agree. They are both graceful and acrobatic.
But, more than flight, vultures display a complex social behavior. There are teenage vultures. Yes, I know that's frightening. Teenage vultures exhibit all of the delightful behaviors of teenagers: pushing, shoving, insulting and distain for authority.
I watched teenage vultures every day pull pranks on each other: pushing a sleeping vulture off a ledge, pecking a pal when his back is turned, pulling tail feathers and pooping on friends resting on the ledge below.
After a particularly good prank, on the vulture prank scale, the prankster would hunch his wings as if laughing. I could just hear the Beavis and Butthead huh-huh-huh as the wing "shoulders" shrugged up and down.
Over time I learned that vultures go through a specific wing ritual when landing. They stretch their wings way out then fold them in using two folding maneuvers. As I watched them land hour after hour I found that I could mimic their landing routine. Also, I learned how to hop and hang my head vulture-like.
Could it be that the vultures were watching me, too? I conducted some experiments where I would stand on my desk next to the window and mimic vulture movements anticipating that they would do the same. At times I thought they were looking at me, but I failed to obtain consistent results.
Once I was standing on my desk, arms outstretched, head hung low and doing the vulture hop when my boss walked in. Apparently he stood in the doorway for some minutes before clearing his voice, audibly, and remarking "Uh, what cha doing, Bill?"
I turned around, arms still outstretched and thought: "Merde." I tend to think in French when I'm in vulture-mode. Don't ask me why.
"Uh, well, um, er, you see, ah, I'm estimating the size of the database we're building."
"Oh," the boss looked speculative.
"Yeah, I think it's going to be *this* big," and I held out my arms wide, "and I think response is going to be like this," and I hopped up and down a little.
"I tried this before with great results," I continued, and I hopped up and down for emphasis.
My boss looked reflective, then turned to me and said, "Make sure you write this up and send it to R&D. You could be on to something here."
I folded my arms into my armpits vulture-like and hopped expertly down from the desk. I heard the boss shuffling down the hall to cause trouble elsewhere.
Slowly I turned to look out the window. Several of the teens were on the ledge watching me. Suddenly one of them outstretched his wings and hopped up and down. The other vultures watched and started hunching their shoulders: laughing.
"Ha ha," I mouthed, but this seemed to set them to hunching faster. Very funny, I thought, very funny indeed.
I flapped my arms a bit and did my best vulture dance. Then the teen with outstretched wings turned sideways to me and held out a single wing feather.
I couldn't believe it. I was being flipped off by a vulture. It was too much. I lowered my arms, grabbed my bag, turned off the lights and shrugged off to the elevator.
Much later at home I heard a familiar refrain: Hey, what's for dinner?
"Chicken," I replied, "lots and lots of chicken."
Kroger's, it appears, doesn't sell vulture.
At my former office I overlooked a home, if you will, for turkey vultures. Basically, they would land on the ledges of the building opposite me and hang out. In time I became quite a turkey vulture aficionado.
The turkey vulture is a graceful bird, although with a face only a mother could love; a turkey vulture mother, that is. Audubon described the turkey vulture as one of the most acrobatic of fliers and, having observed the flights of many turkey vultures at close hand, I would agree. They are both graceful and acrobatic.
But, more than flight, vultures display a complex social behavior. There are teenage vultures. Yes, I know that's frightening. Teenage vultures exhibit all of the delightful behaviors of teenagers: pushing, shoving, insulting and distain for authority.
I watched teenage vultures every day pull pranks on each other: pushing a sleeping vulture off a ledge, pecking a pal when his back is turned, pulling tail feathers and pooping on friends resting on the ledge below.
After a particularly good prank, on the vulture prank scale, the prankster would hunch his wings as if laughing. I could just hear the Beavis and Butthead huh-huh-huh as the wing "shoulders" shrugged up and down.
Over time I learned that vultures go through a specific wing ritual when landing. They stretch their wings way out then fold them in using two folding maneuvers. As I watched them land hour after hour I found that I could mimic their landing routine. Also, I learned how to hop and hang my head vulture-like.
Could it be that the vultures were watching me, too? I conducted some experiments where I would stand on my desk next to the window and mimic vulture movements anticipating that they would do the same. At times I thought they were looking at me, but I failed to obtain consistent results.
Once I was standing on my desk, arms outstretched, head hung low and doing the vulture hop when my boss walked in. Apparently he stood in the doorway for some minutes before clearing his voice, audibly, and remarking "Uh, what cha doing, Bill?"
I turned around, arms still outstretched and thought: "Merde." I tend to think in French when I'm in vulture-mode. Don't ask me why.
"Uh, well, um, er, you see, ah, I'm estimating the size of the database we're building."
"Oh," the boss looked speculative.
"Yeah, I think it's going to be *this* big," and I held out my arms wide, "and I think response is going to be like this," and I hopped up and down a little.
"I tried this before with great results," I continued, and I hopped up and down for emphasis.
My boss looked reflective, then turned to me and said, "Make sure you write this up and send it to R&D. You could be on to something here."
I folded my arms into my armpits vulture-like and hopped expertly down from the desk. I heard the boss shuffling down the hall to cause trouble elsewhere.
Slowly I turned to look out the window. Several of the teens were on the ledge watching me. Suddenly one of them outstretched his wings and hopped up and down. The other vultures watched and started hunching their shoulders: laughing.
"Ha ha," I mouthed, but this seemed to set them to hunching faster. Very funny, I thought, very funny indeed.
I flapped my arms a bit and did my best vulture dance. Then the teen with outstretched wings turned sideways to me and held out a single wing feather.
I couldn't believe it. I was being flipped off by a vulture. It was too much. I lowered my arms, grabbed my bag, turned off the lights and shrugged off to the elevator.
Much later at home I heard a familiar refrain: Hey, what's for dinner?
"Chicken," I replied, "lots and lots of chicken."
Kroger's, it appears, doesn't sell vulture.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Nit Noi Redux
Yesterday my usual lunch partner and I went to Nit Noi, a recently opened Thai restaurant very close to the office. We had soft spring rolls, a soup featuring coconut milk and lemon grass, and a chicken pad thai. The restaurant is small, charming, well lit and features large photographic scenes from Thailand. The service is quick and efficient and, most importantly, the food is very, very good.
Today my lunch partner was "tied up" with some business activity (really, why can't people get their priorities straight?) so I called my pal Larry who's always available for lunch. Just like me.
"Yo, Larry, have you been to that new Thai place on Dairy Ashford, Nit Noi?"
"Nope."
"Wanna go?"
"Maybe."
"Hey, babe, love the enthusiasm, love the enthu-si-asm! Tell you what, I'll drive, I'll select the best stuff to eat, I'll eat it and you pay."
"Huh?"
"Look, dude, I'm doing three things and you're doing one. All right, all right! You can eat, too. How 'bout it?"
"OK."
That's Larry for you, hard to get in a word edge-wise.
We met up in the hallway and moseyed out to the truck. I nattered on about Thai food, peanut sauce and the best way to grow lemon grass. Larry moseyed. Larry's probably about the best moseyer I know. At his pace, by the time we got to the truck I had finished with Thailand and was halfway through India. However, I cut short my culinary tour of India lest we get distracted and end up at the Bombay Buffet. I have only recently recovered from the last time we went there and ate 50 lbs of curry. There are people in the office who still give me "that look."
As we pulled into the Nit Noi parking lot I spied several empty slots. Great, we beat the crowd! Sure enough there were lots of empty tables. We eased into a couple of chairs and checked out the menu.
"Go ahead and check out the menu, but I already know what we're getting. No argument. You're going to love it," I enthused.
Our waiter materialized to take our drinks order and I ordered lunch. Same as yesterday: spring rolls, soup, pad thai.
With a loud POP our waiter appirated into the kitchen to place our order and I knew delights would be coming soon. Meanwhile, I hadn't seen Larry for a while so there was some catching up to do.
"How 'bout those Astros?"
"Huh?" Larry replied.
"Just kidding, old bud, just kidding," and I went into my theories of declining oil reserves, global warning, Africanized bees in South Texas, the inherent problems of anthropomorphic robot design, house paint formulations, the effect of fire ants on declining tick populations and a brief essay on what the Harry Potter novels would be like if they had been written by Charles Dickens.
Larry nodded occasionally.
Shortly, food arrived and we were enveloped in delicate aromas of basil, lemon grass, fish sauce and peanut. Remarkable! The soup is a little tricky to eat because it has slices of green onion, asparagus and lemon grass which look very much alike. Lemon grass, though, is tough like a twig and you have to be on your toes to avoid crunching down on it.
Between pauses to pick lemon grass stems out of my mouth I led discussions on how to use game theory to predict when everybody is going to decide to check-out at Kroger's, the effect of emoticons on writing skills, sexual preferences of Sims characters and the best way to lay a wood flooring in a humid environment.
Larry nodded occasionally.
I continued with an exposition Houston drivers, the hummingbird that pierced my cat's ear and how I finally got rid of a planters wart on my left foot.
I noticed that Larry had finished his lunch while I still had three-quarters to go. "Man, you must have been hungry!" I remarked.
Sensing a gap in the conversation I filled it with several humorous stories about my experiences at a tomahawk throwing school this summer. "And would you believe it? It just went *thunk* right into the target. Dead center. I took 50 or so pictures of it. Hey, I'll bring them in tomorrow and show you."
Larry checked his watch. I took the hint.
"Yeah, we better get going. That couple by the door have been staring at our table for half an hour", I noted.
The waiter materialized with our bill, Larry paid as per contract and in two shakes we were back in the truck and heading to the office. With exquisite timing I finished a discussion on refinishing kitchen cabinets - gloss or stain - and, as luck would have it, snagged a parking place close to the building. Woo hoo! Double score: great lunch and a close parking space.
We moseyed back to the office and I bid Larry farewell at the stairway.
"Hey, dude, great lunch, great conversation. Catch you later!"
"Uh huh," said Larry and he disappeared up the stairs.
Back at the office I called my lunch partner and told her I had gone to Nit Noi, again!, with Larry.
"How was it?" she asked.
"The food was superb, as usual, but you know the best thing about going to lunch with Larry?"
"No, what?" she replied.
"He's such a great conversationalist."
Today my lunch partner was "tied up" with some business activity (really, why can't people get their priorities straight?) so I called my pal Larry who's always available for lunch. Just like me.
"Yo, Larry, have you been to that new Thai place on Dairy Ashford, Nit Noi?"
"Nope."
"Wanna go?"
"Maybe."
"Hey, babe, love the enthusiasm, love the enthu-si-asm! Tell you what, I'll drive, I'll select the best stuff to eat, I'll eat it and you pay."
"Huh?"
"Look, dude, I'm doing three things and you're doing one. All right, all right! You can eat, too. How 'bout it?"
"OK."
That's Larry for you, hard to get in a word edge-wise.
We met up in the hallway and moseyed out to the truck. I nattered on about Thai food, peanut sauce and the best way to grow lemon grass. Larry moseyed. Larry's probably about the best moseyer I know. At his pace, by the time we got to the truck I had finished with Thailand and was halfway through India. However, I cut short my culinary tour of India lest we get distracted and end up at the Bombay Buffet. I have only recently recovered from the last time we went there and ate 50 lbs of curry. There are people in the office who still give me "that look."
As we pulled into the Nit Noi parking lot I spied several empty slots. Great, we beat the crowd! Sure enough there were lots of empty tables. We eased into a couple of chairs and checked out the menu.
"Go ahead and check out the menu, but I already know what we're getting. No argument. You're going to love it," I enthused.
Our waiter materialized to take our drinks order and I ordered lunch. Same as yesterday: spring rolls, soup, pad thai.
With a loud POP our waiter appirated into the kitchen to place our order and I knew delights would be coming soon. Meanwhile, I hadn't seen Larry for a while so there was some catching up to do.
"How 'bout those Astros?"
"Huh?" Larry replied.
"Just kidding, old bud, just kidding," and I went into my theories of declining oil reserves, global warning, Africanized bees in South Texas, the inherent problems of anthropomorphic robot design, house paint formulations, the effect of fire ants on declining tick populations and a brief essay on what the Harry Potter novels would be like if they had been written by Charles Dickens.
Larry nodded occasionally.
Shortly, food arrived and we were enveloped in delicate aromas of basil, lemon grass, fish sauce and peanut. Remarkable! The soup is a little tricky to eat because it has slices of green onion, asparagus and lemon grass which look very much alike. Lemon grass, though, is tough like a twig and you have to be on your toes to avoid crunching down on it.
Between pauses to pick lemon grass stems out of my mouth I led discussions on how to use game theory to predict when everybody is going to decide to check-out at Kroger's, the effect of emoticons on writing skills, sexual preferences of Sims characters and the best way to lay a wood flooring in a humid environment.
Larry nodded occasionally.
I continued with an exposition Houston drivers, the hummingbird that pierced my cat's ear and how I finally got rid of a planters wart on my left foot.
I noticed that Larry had finished his lunch while I still had three-quarters to go. "Man, you must have been hungry!" I remarked.
Sensing a gap in the conversation I filled it with several humorous stories about my experiences at a tomahawk throwing school this summer. "And would you believe it? It just went *thunk* right into the target. Dead center. I took 50 or so pictures of it. Hey, I'll bring them in tomorrow and show you."
Larry checked his watch. I took the hint.
"Yeah, we better get going. That couple by the door have been staring at our table for half an hour", I noted.
The waiter materialized with our bill, Larry paid as per contract and in two shakes we were back in the truck and heading to the office. With exquisite timing I finished a discussion on refinishing kitchen cabinets - gloss or stain - and, as luck would have it, snagged a parking place close to the building. Woo hoo! Double score: great lunch and a close parking space.
We moseyed back to the office and I bid Larry farewell at the stairway.
"Hey, dude, great lunch, great conversation. Catch you later!"
"Uh huh," said Larry and he disappeared up the stairs.
Back at the office I called my lunch partner and told her I had gone to Nit Noi, again!, with Larry.
"How was it?" she asked.
"The food was superb, as usual, but you know the best thing about going to lunch with Larry?"
"No, what?" she replied.
"He's such a great conversationalist."
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Laundry
Now, this is an exciting topic for a blog about food and life.
Laundry.
I'll confess right here. I don't understand laundry and frankly, Scarlett, I don't want to.
Here's my idea of washing clothes: put them in the machine, add laundry powder, liquid or tablets, press the button that says "Medium Load" and have a beer. When you hear the buzz, raise the lid, put the damp clothes in the dryer, press the button that says "Dry" (imagine that!) and have a beer.
Two beers later your clothes are washed and dried. Following this the most efficient approach is to leave them in the laundry basket and pull them out as needed, but if you have to get all Domestic about it you can "put them away" where they "belong", which, if I ruled the world, would be in the laundry basket!
Is that so difficult?
So, in another life I heard a voice intone "You're not going to wash that with that, are you?"
Well, obviously I was so I immediately fell back to the defensive position and said "No, why do you ask?" Answer a question with a question I always say.
"Oh, well, that will turn that that color and that just wouldn't do," came the voice from beyond.
"Well," I replied, "I like that color and that color and if that color became a lighter or darker shade of that color that would be OK by me."
*silence*
Over the years I've learned that *silence* in regards to laundry is a Bad Thing. The Intel 286 that is my brain quickly sorted through the alternatives.
"On the other hand," I said as if hypnotized, "I don't think I saw the dark, red thing that was hiding behind the nice white thing. Yeah, that's the ticket, stuff was hiding behind other stuff and I'm glad you were here to catch it."
(I added that last part for effect, but it seemed to work.) Soon the washing machine was humming along and I was able to crack open that beer.
Life is good, I thought. I contemplated the night...
Laundry.
I'll confess right here. I don't understand laundry and frankly, Scarlett, I don't want to.
Here's my idea of washing clothes: put them in the machine, add laundry powder, liquid or tablets, press the button that says "Medium Load" and have a beer. When you hear the buzz, raise the lid, put the damp clothes in the dryer, press the button that says "Dry" (imagine that!) and have a beer.
Two beers later your clothes are washed and dried. Following this the most efficient approach is to leave them in the laundry basket and pull them out as needed, but if you have to get all Domestic about it you can "put them away" where they "belong", which, if I ruled the world, would be in the laundry basket!
Is that so difficult?
So, in another life I heard a voice intone "You're not going to wash that with that, are you?"
Well, obviously I was so I immediately fell back to the defensive position and said "No, why do you ask?" Answer a question with a question I always say.
"Oh, well, that will turn that that color and that just wouldn't do," came the voice from beyond.
"Well," I replied, "I like that color and that color and if that color became a lighter or darker shade of that color that would be OK by me."
*silence*
Over the years I've learned that *silence* in regards to laundry is a Bad Thing. The Intel 286 that is my brain quickly sorted through the alternatives.
"On the other hand," I said as if hypnotized, "I don't think I saw the dark, red thing that was hiding behind the nice white thing. Yeah, that's the ticket, stuff was hiding behind other stuff and I'm glad you were here to catch it."
(I added that last part for effect, but it seemed to work.) Soon the washing machine was humming along and I was able to crack open that beer.
Life is good, I thought. I contemplated the night...
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Be Prepared
For what?
That's what I ask my Scouts. What do you need to be prepared for?
I get all kinds of answers. Be prepared for a hurricane. Be prepared for an earthquake. Be prepared for a volcano. Be prepared for an asteroid impact.
It's obvious that kids today are concerned about really big stuff. Adults, on the other hand, usually reply to be prepared for a tax audit, or a pulled hamstring, or a bad case of gas.
Yeah, been there and done that.
Then the precocious child will offer up the golden answer: be prepared for anything? They always phrase it as a question, unsure, seeking confirmation. That's the "right" answer, though. Be prepared for Life.
So, there we were in the forest. The August camping trip. As hot as hot can be in south Texas. My sweat was sweating.
I had spent the previous week in Seattle and could not perform my usual function of provisioning food and preparing a menu. I delegated that responsibility.
Now, as a bit of background, I have over the years amassed a vast collection of cooking tools, spices and ingredients. I think that without buying any food whatsoever and just using my "cooking box" I could feed an army for a week. Yeah, they would be eating pine bark but it would be exquisitely seasoned pine bark.
I was not too surprised, then, when my Assistant asked me if I had brought the "box."
"No," I replied, "I hadn't. I wasn't in charge of cooking on this trip so I just came with my personal stuff: tent and sleeping bag. No box."
"Oh," he said. "Well," he continued, "we really don't have much in the way of stuff. Like spoons and spices and stuff. I'm not sure, exactly, how we're going to cook for 15 people. I was sorta hoping..." He trailed off.
I surveyed the situation. We had onions, bell peppers, jalapenos, canned beans, tomatoes, orange juice, bacon, eggs, beef and chicken for fajitas and a bunch of other stuff. What was lacking was a plan.
At that point I heard in my mind the theme music for Iron Chef. Ah, so, the challenger, Scoutmaster Bill, has to create two dishes with the secret ingredient: canned beans!
No spices. But was that true? I thought, "What would Baden-Powell do?" I wear that bracelet, you know, WWBPD.
Well, BP wouldn't drain the canned beans because he needed the salt. So, in went the beans, juice and all. BP would have sauted the onions, peppers and jalapenos and that's what I did.
I grilled some onions and bell pepper with jalapeno. That would be heaped on the fajita meat in a tortilla to form the basis of the fajita.
I created a salsa with the red onion, fresh tomatoes, chopped jalapenos, cilantro and a splash of orange juice (pure genius!). The OJ took the edge off the red onion.
In short, the menu was boffo. Rave reviews on the salsa. Beans were "nicely seasoned" considering we had no seasoning other than the salt from the bean juice and pepper from the jalapenos.
I hope we did Baden-Powell proud. We did our best and although we were unprepared for our original plan, we were prepared to adapt and make the best of our situation.
Be prepared to do your best. Yeah, I think that will work.
Oh, and the results? We asked the kids at the end of the campout what they liked the best and what the hated the worst. The replies came as follows:
We liked the food. The food was great!
We hated the heat, humidity and bugs!
Woot! Food trumps bugs!
That's what I ask my Scouts. What do you need to be prepared for?
I get all kinds of answers. Be prepared for a hurricane. Be prepared for an earthquake. Be prepared for a volcano. Be prepared for an asteroid impact.
It's obvious that kids today are concerned about really big stuff. Adults, on the other hand, usually reply to be prepared for a tax audit, or a pulled hamstring, or a bad case of gas.
Yeah, been there and done that.
Then the precocious child will offer up the golden answer: be prepared for anything? They always phrase it as a question, unsure, seeking confirmation. That's the "right" answer, though. Be prepared for Life.
So, there we were in the forest. The August camping trip. As hot as hot can be in south Texas. My sweat was sweating.
I had spent the previous week in Seattle and could not perform my usual function of provisioning food and preparing a menu. I delegated that responsibility.
Now, as a bit of background, I have over the years amassed a vast collection of cooking tools, spices and ingredients. I think that without buying any food whatsoever and just using my "cooking box" I could feed an army for a week. Yeah, they would be eating pine bark but it would be exquisitely seasoned pine bark.
I was not too surprised, then, when my Assistant asked me if I had brought the "box."
"No," I replied, "I hadn't. I wasn't in charge of cooking on this trip so I just came with my personal stuff: tent and sleeping bag. No box."
"Oh," he said. "Well," he continued, "we really don't have much in the way of stuff. Like spoons and spices and stuff. I'm not sure, exactly, how we're going to cook for 15 people. I was sorta hoping..." He trailed off.
I surveyed the situation. We had onions, bell peppers, jalapenos, canned beans, tomatoes, orange juice, bacon, eggs, beef and chicken for fajitas and a bunch of other stuff. What was lacking was a plan.
At that point I heard in my mind the theme music for Iron Chef. Ah, so, the challenger, Scoutmaster Bill, has to create two dishes with the secret ingredient: canned beans!
No spices. But was that true? I thought, "What would Baden-Powell do?" I wear that bracelet, you know, WWBPD.
Well, BP wouldn't drain the canned beans because he needed the salt. So, in went the beans, juice and all. BP would have sauted the onions, peppers and jalapenos and that's what I did.
I grilled some onions and bell pepper with jalapeno. That would be heaped on the fajita meat in a tortilla to form the basis of the fajita.
I created a salsa with the red onion, fresh tomatoes, chopped jalapenos, cilantro and a splash of orange juice (pure genius!). The OJ took the edge off the red onion.
In short, the menu was boffo. Rave reviews on the salsa. Beans were "nicely seasoned" considering we had no seasoning other than the salt from the bean juice and pepper from the jalapenos.
I hope we did Baden-Powell proud. We did our best and although we were unprepared for our original plan, we were prepared to adapt and make the best of our situation.
Be prepared to do your best. Yeah, I think that will work.
Oh, and the results? We asked the kids at the end of the campout what they liked the best and what the hated the worst. The replies came as follows:
We liked the food. The food was great!
We hated the heat, humidity and bugs!
Woot! Food trumps bugs!
Sunday, August 07, 2005
MS Food 1.0
You've probably seen those gags that satirize what X would be if Microsoft built it.
The Microsoft Car:
And other Microsoft products:
But the question is, what's the food really like at Microsoft? I mean, if you actually went there what would be your real experience?
Well, I'm here to tell you that there are two things at the top of the list for Microsoft workers: food and fitness. Yes, it's true. And let me tell you a few more things about the folks at Microsoft, taking into account that I do not work for the company, rather I've been there and seen this with my very own eyes.
They take their food and fitness very seriously. At a recent Microsoft "customer event" we feasted on salmon and asparagus, wheat berry salads and lentils. We savored blue cheese with walnuts, grape tomatoes with feta, haddock and mango chutney. Desserts were balanced with fresh fruit offerings and always copious quantities of water. For every coffee pot there were three herbal tea pots. That was the typical food.
In fitness the Microsoft corporate campus invites walking. Situated on a hilly site in Redmond the numerous buildings are connectged by tree-lined trails and walkways. Backpacks replace briefcases. Running shoes substitute for wing tips. And most employees don't even know how to use an elevator. I think there's a volleyball game that's been going on continuously for 20 years. Maybe it just seems like 20 years!
So, that's it. Food and fitness. What a concept!
The Microsoft Car:
A particular model year of car wouldn't be available until after that year instead of before it.
Every time they repainted the lines on the road, you'd have to buy a new car.
Occasionally your car would just die for no reason, and you'd have to restart it. For some strange reason, you'd just accept this.
You could only have one person in the car at a time, unless you bought a Car XP or a Car 2003 (even though it's 2005). But then you'd have to buy more seats.
Apple Computer would make a car that was powered by the sun, twice as reliable, and five times as fast - but it would only run on 5 percent of the roads.
And other Microsoft products:
If Microsoft made shoes, they'd spend billions on marketing and pennies on the actual product.
If Microsoft made wine, they wouldn't wait until it was time.
If Microsoft made candy, it'd include a coupon for a "Microsoft Partner" dentist.
If Microsoft made maps, Redmond and Washington would be disproportionately large compared to the rest of the world.
But the question is, what's the food really like at Microsoft? I mean, if you actually went there what would be your real experience?
Well, I'm here to tell you that there are two things at the top of the list for Microsoft workers: food and fitness. Yes, it's true. And let me tell you a few more things about the folks at Microsoft, taking into account that I do not work for the company, rather I've been there and seen this with my very own eyes.
They take their food and fitness very seriously. At a recent Microsoft "customer event" we feasted on salmon and asparagus, wheat berry salads and lentils. We savored blue cheese with walnuts, grape tomatoes with feta, haddock and mango chutney. Desserts were balanced with fresh fruit offerings and always copious quantities of water. For every coffee pot there were three herbal tea pots. That was the typical food.
In fitness the Microsoft corporate campus invites walking. Situated on a hilly site in Redmond the numerous buildings are connectged by tree-lined trails and walkways. Backpacks replace briefcases. Running shoes substitute for wing tips. And most employees don't even know how to use an elevator. I think there's a volleyball game that's been going on continuously for 20 years. Maybe it just seems like 20 years!
So, that's it. Food and fitness. What a concept!
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Microsoft Food
Can you imagine if Microsoft controlled your food?
Whoa, well I've been eating MSFT chow for a few days now and it's pretty good.
I need another posting to make the selections clear, etc. and I'll do that soon.
Meanwhile, Seattle is like Phoenix to live. Sunny, clear skies, cool temps. What a wonderful place! And the Microsoft Campus to boot!
Oh, Nirvana.
Whoa, well I've been eating MSFT chow for a few days now and it's pretty good.
I need another posting to make the selections clear, etc. and I'll do that soon.
Meanwhile, Seattle is like Phoenix to live. Sunny, clear skies, cool temps. What a wonderful place! And the Microsoft Campus to boot!
Oh, Nirvana.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Seattle Cuisine Part 2
Programmers must be a hungry bunch. That's all I can say. Plus, here at Microsoft, the team working on Office 12 have been writing code and eating overtime.
Tonight we had a delightful dinner of chimichangas, both seafood and beef, bodacious margaritas and a wonderful outside atmosphere under clear skies and mild weather.
The locals tell us that it's always like this: sunny and clear, mild, dry and nice.
After three or four margaritas that starts to make sense.
As for Office 12 all I can think of is William Shatner hawking Priceline: it's gonna be big, really BIG.
Tonight we had a delightful dinner of chimichangas, both seafood and beef, bodacious margaritas and a wonderful outside atmosphere under clear skies and mild weather.
The locals tell us that it's always like this: sunny and clear, mild, dry and nice.
After three or four margaritas that starts to make sense.
As for Office 12 all I can think of is William Shatner hawking Priceline: it's gonna be big, really BIG.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Sunny Seattle
Here I am in Seattle and it's sunny, again. What's with the weather here? I came for some cloud. I came for some rain. I came to get cool and what do I get? Sun, sun and more sun. If I wanted sun I could have stayed in Houston.
Oh well.
I'm here all week visiting my pals at Microsoft. Yeah, I know I'm a Mac user and, in fact, I'm typing this on my trusty PowerBook at this very moment. But, I must say, Microsoft Word on the Mac is pretty cool. Checks my speling and everything.
Tonight we went to a restaurant here in Redmond and I had fish tacos. For those of you who have not had fish tacos it's a good treat. You can make them yourself, too.
These used halibut, lightly sauteed with a tangy, spicy mango sauce. As with all fish tacos I've had it was served with a nice cole slaw, guacamole and salsa. We started with oysters and calamari.
The halibut was very firm and tasty and the calamari was cooked to perfection, very tender. The place is called Matt's and I recommend it.
As for Microsoft, tonight we saw a preview of the next version of Office, code named Office 12, and it was Way Cool. And for me to say that about Microsoft, well, you can take that to the bank.
More reports on food and software later this week. For now, it's late and this stuffed hushpuppy is turning in.
l8r
Oh well.
I'm here all week visiting my pals at Microsoft. Yeah, I know I'm a Mac user and, in fact, I'm typing this on my trusty PowerBook at this very moment. But, I must say, Microsoft Word on the Mac is pretty cool. Checks my speling and everything.
Tonight we went to a restaurant here in Redmond and I had fish tacos. For those of you who have not had fish tacos it's a good treat. You can make them yourself, too.
These used halibut, lightly sauteed with a tangy, spicy mango sauce. As with all fish tacos I've had it was served with a nice cole slaw, guacamole and salsa. We started with oysters and calamari.
The halibut was very firm and tasty and the calamari was cooked to perfection, very tender. The place is called Matt's and I recommend it.
As for Microsoft, tonight we saw a preview of the next version of Office, code named Office 12, and it was Way Cool. And for me to say that about Microsoft, well, you can take that to the bank.
More reports on food and software later this week. For now, it's late and this stuffed hushpuppy is turning in.
l8r
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Blog Clog
Have you had that dream where you can't move your feet without a whole lot of effort? You're trying to walk normally but your feet are glued to the sidewalk, you're wading through cold molasses and you
just. can't. pick. up. your. feet!
When I have that kind of dream I'm REALLY happy to wake up. I'm like Zippity Do Dah the rest of the day.
Mornin' Br'er Cat! Howz y'all this fyyyne mornin'?
And, yes, I do talk like that the rest of the day. I might even skip or run across the parking lot (with scissors) just because I can. Feet don't fail me now!
Now, imagine having that dream, only your awake, but it's not your feet, it's your fingers. And all that nerve stuff that commands your fingers to do their little dance across the keyboard is all glued together. That's been me all week. I stare at the blank page and
nothing.
I try to write and it doesn't happen. Just argle bargle. I typed a whole page of j's because my finger fell asleep and my mind went numb at the same time. I roused from my reverie to find a page of j's. I probably should have posted it. Best thing I wrote all week.
So, this evening I said to myself, "Self? Enough is enough. Get those fingers moving, Mister, and crank out something even if it's dreck. Dreck the halls!"
It could be that I'm unsettled. Here I am home-alone with the cats, an infinite supply of Tater Tots, nobody to gripe at me for watching the Who's Line Is It Anyway? marathon, every day, and I should be cranking out blogs like nobody's business but I'm stuck in the mud-glue-molasses-whatever.
Too much of nothing to do, actually. Being home-alone I had to do a whole lot of chores that I'd become used to sharing. I guess that running the entire ship of house by myself was more tiring than I cared to admit. By the time I got around to punching out a witty story I was done in, pooped, fatigued, and just plain tired.
Also, I think I was suffering from post-Potter depression. I read it was going around. After spending a few days immersed in the wizarding world here I was back in the real world and I wasn't adjusting well. I decided what I needed was a house elf, more like Dobby and less like Kreacher.
How cool would that be to have a house elf?
I think it would be way cool. But, tricky, yes, very tricky.
You would have to be careful with a house elf and spell things out exactly. Like you do with a teenager.
A house elf would look for every loophole. Like a teenager.
You might assign your house elf a simple task, but the elf would get distracted doing many other things, thus allowing the task to over ripen; much like a teenager would.
A house elf wouldn't talk back to you directly, but you would hear them mumbling and grumbling and stomping around. Like a teenager.
When things went missing, especially food, it would probably be the house elf. Hmm, much like a teenager.
House elf. Teenager. House elf. Teenager.
Could it be?
The teenager has been absent this week and not a Tater has totted off. The half-gallon of milk I bought three weeks ago is still in the fridge. Laundry hasn't piled up in the living room. This has to be more than a coincidence. I'll report back next week after the elf, er, teenager returns to let you know.
just. can't. pick. up. your. feet!
When I have that kind of dream I'm REALLY happy to wake up. I'm like Zippity Do Dah the rest of the day.
Mornin' Br'er Cat! Howz y'all this fyyyne mornin'?
And, yes, I do talk like that the rest of the day. I might even skip or run across the parking lot (with scissors) just because I can. Feet don't fail me now!
Now, imagine having that dream, only your awake, but it's not your feet, it's your fingers. And all that nerve stuff that commands your fingers to do their little dance across the keyboard is all glued together. That's been me all week. I stare at the blank page and
nothing.
I try to write and it doesn't happen. Just argle bargle. I typed a whole page of j's because my finger fell asleep and my mind went numb at the same time. I roused from my reverie to find a page of j's. I probably should have posted it. Best thing I wrote all week.
So, this evening I said to myself, "Self? Enough is enough. Get those fingers moving, Mister, and crank out something even if it's dreck. Dreck the halls!"
It could be that I'm unsettled. Here I am home-alone with the cats, an infinite supply of Tater Tots, nobody to gripe at me for watching the Who's Line Is It Anyway? marathon, every day, and I should be cranking out blogs like nobody's business but I'm stuck in the mud-glue-molasses-whatever.
Too much of nothing to do, actually. Being home-alone I had to do a whole lot of chores that I'd become used to sharing. I guess that running the entire ship of house by myself was more tiring than I cared to admit. By the time I got around to punching out a witty story I was done in, pooped, fatigued, and just plain tired.
Also, I think I was suffering from post-Potter depression. I read it was going around. After spending a few days immersed in the wizarding world here I was back in the real world and I wasn't adjusting well. I decided what I needed was a house elf, more like Dobby and less like Kreacher.
How cool would that be to have a house elf?
I think it would be way cool. But, tricky, yes, very tricky.
You would have to be careful with a house elf and spell things out exactly. Like you do with a teenager.
A house elf would look for every loophole. Like a teenager.
You might assign your house elf a simple task, but the elf would get distracted doing many other things, thus allowing the task to over ripen; much like a teenager would.
A house elf wouldn't talk back to you directly, but you would hear them mumbling and grumbling and stomping around. Like a teenager.
When things went missing, especially food, it would probably be the house elf. Hmm, much like a teenager.
House elf. Teenager. House elf. Teenager.
Could it be?
The teenager has been absent this week and not a Tater has totted off. The half-gallon of milk I bought three weeks ago is still in the fridge. Laundry hasn't piled up in the living room. This has to be more than a coincidence. I'll report back next week after the elf, er, teenager returns to let you know.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Home Alone
It's late Sunday afternoon and the Homer Simpson in me says we have to go to Kroger's to buy food. Mmmmmmmmm, fooooooood!
You don't have to tell me twice and in an instant Homer and I are in the truck heading down the highway, ZZ Top blaring out the windows. I checked out the pantry before we set off to see what we needed. In ordinary times I would have written a list, but we just needed to round out the edges so I had it all up here (tapping temple). No need for a list when you've got a mind like a steel sieve.
We parked way at the end of the aisle even though there were spots closer to the store. I like to do that. It drives the kids insane that I don't park closer, or pretend I'm pregnant (not a stretch) or incapacitated (hmmm, not a stretch, either) but it's become a habit and I've taken it so far as to include parking far away as part of my Fitness Program.
Homer and I grabbed a canteen of water and set off across the parking lot to Kroger's. Shortly, we arrived and found the place virtually empty. Bonus score! We'll be in and out in a jiff.
We wheeled the cart around the store like demons possessed and in short order we were ready to check out. In typical Kroger's Sunday afternoon fashion there was only one checkout line open, choked with several families shopping for treks across the Mongolian Desert. Just as I was thinking about the best laid plans of mice, Homers and men, a light caught my eye and checkout line Number Eight opened for business. Merciful sweet Butterfinger we were saved! Homer and I pivoted the cart and headed to the pole position.
The Old Hand greeted us warmly, asked for our Kroger's Plus Card (always at the ready!) and proceeded to check us out at flank speed.
Then he paused. "You appear to be 'Home Alone' with the cats this week."
"Oh, yeah," I replied, "What gives you that impression?"
"Well, for a start, you're shopping with an imaginary friend, and not a good influence either, if I may be so bold. Second, let's take an inventory of your weeks shopping: "
6-pack of Corona
Cat Chow
Tater Tots
"That's going to hold you for a week?" the Old Hand continued.
"Well, not exactly," I responded weakly, eying the Corona, knowing it would barely survive Monday, "I'll pick up something on Tuesday, maybe a Pho or curry or something." That sounded pretty pathetic, even to me; like a schoolboy caught without his homework
The Old Hand winced as if stung by a gnat, but recovered smoothly.
"You know," he mused, "we've got Gulf shrimp on special back there in Seafood. Came in just today and let me tell you those are the best shrimp I've ever pulled up. I threw out an extra net just for you, you know."
I looked down and the Old Hand's shoes were still wet. The salt was just starting to crust at the edge of his trousers.
The Old Hand continued, "Big shrimp, too, biggest I've seen in many a year. Big enough to stuff. We got crab, too. You owe it to yourself being home alone and such. Pick up some of those shrimp, stuff 'em with crab, wrap 'em in bacon and have a grand feast."
I looked at the Tater Tots defrosting in the cart and thought, yeah, that would be good but...
"Well, I'm sorta of watching my cholesterol, and, you know, shrimp are sorta of high, not to mention bacon..." My excuses sounded weak. Tater Tots, geeze Louise, they must be a zillion points; each!
In the end I couldn't escape the logic and I began to build a dinner around the shrimp entree. Well, I thought, we could do a rice pilaf with red bell pepper and black beans. A jalapeno corn bread would be nice, a green salad and a chardonnay, maybe a Chalk Creek.
With the seafood section in sight I pivoted the cart and started to get the items for my new dinner list when the Old Hand called me back.
"No need to be hasty," he said, "I happen to have some stuff here at the register." And with that he rang up shrimp, crab, rice, red bell peppers and the other ingredients I needed finishing with a Chalk Creek chardonnay, 2001.
As the sacker was loading the groceries I muttered "A box of Kix?"
"You're almost out," intoned the Old Hand.
I paid by credit card, Homer rejoined me and soon we were on the way, feast in hand, and I was planning the cooking as we headed home. Back at the ranch we unpacked the booty and it struck me that I forgot to buy a can of Pounce.
Sandy the cat lives for Pounce, or so he'd let you think. You can't say the word "pounce" without Sandy bounding across the room with his "me! me!" face on. Rats, I thought, I got the cat chow, but forgot the Pounce.
But, as I rummaged through the last bag I came across something new: Caribbean Flavor Pounce.
"What's this," I said aloud, "Caribbean Flavor Pounce?" It must have been my imagination but I thought I heard Sandy say "Meow, mon." I broke the seal and tossed him a few.
You know, there might be something like too much Home Alone.
You don't have to tell me twice and in an instant Homer and I are in the truck heading down the highway, ZZ Top blaring out the windows. I checked out the pantry before we set off to see what we needed. In ordinary times I would have written a list, but we just needed to round out the edges so I had it all up here (tapping temple). No need for a list when you've got a mind like a steel sieve.
We parked way at the end of the aisle even though there were spots closer to the store. I like to do that. It drives the kids insane that I don't park closer, or pretend I'm pregnant (not a stretch) or incapacitated (hmmm, not a stretch, either) but it's become a habit and I've taken it so far as to include parking far away as part of my Fitness Program.
Homer and I grabbed a canteen of water and set off across the parking lot to Kroger's. Shortly, we arrived and found the place virtually empty. Bonus score! We'll be in and out in a jiff.
We wheeled the cart around the store like demons possessed and in short order we were ready to check out. In typical Kroger's Sunday afternoon fashion there was only one checkout line open, choked with several families shopping for treks across the Mongolian Desert. Just as I was thinking about the best laid plans of mice, Homers and men, a light caught my eye and checkout line Number Eight opened for business. Merciful sweet Butterfinger we were saved! Homer and I pivoted the cart and headed to the pole position.
The Old Hand greeted us warmly, asked for our Kroger's Plus Card (always at the ready!) and proceeded to check us out at flank speed.
Then he paused. "You appear to be 'Home Alone' with the cats this week."
"Oh, yeah," I replied, "What gives you that impression?"
"Well, for a start, you're shopping with an imaginary friend, and not a good influence either, if I may be so bold. Second, let's take an inventory of your weeks shopping: "
6-pack of Corona
Cat Chow
Tater Tots
"That's going to hold you for a week?" the Old Hand continued.
"Well, not exactly," I responded weakly, eying the Corona, knowing it would barely survive Monday, "I'll pick up something on Tuesday, maybe a Pho or curry or something." That sounded pretty pathetic, even to me; like a schoolboy caught without his homework
The Old Hand winced as if stung by a gnat, but recovered smoothly.
"You know," he mused, "we've got Gulf shrimp on special back there in Seafood. Came in just today and let me tell you those are the best shrimp I've ever pulled up. I threw out an extra net just for you, you know."
I looked down and the Old Hand's shoes were still wet. The salt was just starting to crust at the edge of his trousers.
The Old Hand continued, "Big shrimp, too, biggest I've seen in many a year. Big enough to stuff. We got crab, too. You owe it to yourself being home alone and such. Pick up some of those shrimp, stuff 'em with crab, wrap 'em in bacon and have a grand feast."
I looked at the Tater Tots defrosting in the cart and thought, yeah, that would be good but...
"Well, I'm sorta of watching my cholesterol, and, you know, shrimp are sorta of high, not to mention bacon..." My excuses sounded weak. Tater Tots, geeze Louise, they must be a zillion points; each!
In the end I couldn't escape the logic and I began to build a dinner around the shrimp entree. Well, I thought, we could do a rice pilaf with red bell pepper and black beans. A jalapeno corn bread would be nice, a green salad and a chardonnay, maybe a Chalk Creek.
With the seafood section in sight I pivoted the cart and started to get the items for my new dinner list when the Old Hand called me back.
"No need to be hasty," he said, "I happen to have some stuff here at the register." And with that he rang up shrimp, crab, rice, red bell peppers and the other ingredients I needed finishing with a Chalk Creek chardonnay, 2001.
As the sacker was loading the groceries I muttered "A box of Kix?"
"You're almost out," intoned the Old Hand.
I paid by credit card, Homer rejoined me and soon we were on the way, feast in hand, and I was planning the cooking as we headed home. Back at the ranch we unpacked the booty and it struck me that I forgot to buy a can of Pounce.
Sandy the cat lives for Pounce, or so he'd let you think. You can't say the word "pounce" without Sandy bounding across the room with his "me! me!" face on. Rats, I thought, I got the cat chow, but forgot the Pounce.
But, as I rummaged through the last bag I came across something new: Caribbean Flavor Pounce.
"What's this," I said aloud, "Caribbean Flavor Pounce?" It must have been my imagination but I thought I heard Sandy say "Meow, mon." I broke the seal and tossed him a few.
You know, there might be something like too much Home Alone.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Mr. Plow
My favorite Simpson's episode. OK, truth be told I have a lot of favorites, but Mr. Plow is way up there.
I'm Mr. Plow, that's the name!
That name again is Mr. Plow!
Who couldn't fall in love with that jingle.
Speaking of plowing, I finally finished Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I know who dies (boo hoo) and who the Half-Blood Prince is and I'm not saying another word about it.
So, on to the next and final book Ms. Rowling, if you please. Start writing tonight!
Let me guess. Harry defeats Voldemort in a cliff-hanging duel of epic proportions. (And that's only the tip of the iceberg of my predictive abilities. Only the tip.) And, in a surprising twist, Hugh Hefner takes a shine to Hermione when he finds out she's one of identical quintuplets. The valium maximus spell takes on a whole new meaning.
I think I'll read Book One again this weekend. All my other projects aren't quite as ripe as this.
I'm Mr. Plow, that's the name!
That name again is Mr. Plow!
Who couldn't fall in love with that jingle.
Speaking of plowing, I finally finished Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I know who dies (boo hoo) and who the Half-Blood Prince is and I'm not saying another word about it.
So, on to the next and final book Ms. Rowling, if you please. Start writing tonight!
Let me guess. Harry defeats Voldemort in a cliff-hanging duel of epic proportions. (And that's only the tip of the iceberg of my predictive abilities. Only the tip.) And, in a surprising twist, Hugh Hefner takes a shine to Hermione when he finds out she's one of identical quintuplets. The valium maximus spell takes on a whole new meaning.
I think I'll read Book One again this weekend. All my other projects aren't quite as ripe as this.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Owl Mail
A little while ago, at precisely 10:00 am three things happened simultaneously.
I slurpped down the remains of my third cup of coffee.
My watch made its beep-beep sound.
And there was a peck at the door.
Peck? That's strange. Usually there's a knock. Knuckles on wood. The doorbell's broken, you see, which is why I'm used to hearing knuckles rapping instead of a melodious ding-dong. Broken is too strong a word, though. "Out of Order" is more like it. Those of you who have read my Theory of Procrastination* suspect that the Doorbell Job simply hasn't ripened enough to necessitate work. Alas, that's not exactly true. The Doorbell Job is overripe and, in fact, I did attempt to fix it once.
"Attempt" being the operative word here explains why there is rap-rap and not ding-dong.
Back to the unexpected pecking. Engrossed as I was in a food blog describing a recipe for Cherry Clafoutis and not wanting to move lest I shift suddenly three cups of coffee to my lower regions, I called out:
"Who is it?"
"Who," came the reply.
"WHO is it?" I repeated.
"Who," came the reply.
Exasperated, I got up and headed to the front door, "WHO IS IIIIIITTTTT?"
I pulled open the front door and was surprised by a great WHOOOSH as something very big swooped up into the sky, around the big tree and over the roof. As I stood there wondering about the effects of three cups of coffee before 10 am, a single white feather drifted down lazily. Absently, I watched it drift down, down, down, down until it landed on the sidewalk next to a book-sized box.
The side of the box was emblazoned "Amazon.com." On the opposite site was written "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince."
I picked up the box, heavy little sucker. This is going to take some time to read. I then thought about my defunct doorbell and the other hundred or so items on my Saturday To Do List.
What to do, what to do? Book? List? Book? List?
I looked at my To Do list again.
Not ripe enough, I thought, definitely not ripe enough.
Chapter 1, page 1..."It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind."
Ah, been there, done that.
*Theory of Procrastination - What Happened later
I slurpped down the remains of my third cup of coffee.
My watch made its beep-beep sound.
And there was a peck at the door.
Peck? That's strange. Usually there's a knock. Knuckles on wood. The doorbell's broken, you see, which is why I'm used to hearing knuckles rapping instead of a melodious ding-dong. Broken is too strong a word, though. "Out of Order" is more like it. Those of you who have read my Theory of Procrastination* suspect that the Doorbell Job simply hasn't ripened enough to necessitate work. Alas, that's not exactly true. The Doorbell Job is overripe and, in fact, I did attempt to fix it once.
"Attempt" being the operative word here explains why there is rap-rap and not ding-dong.
Back to the unexpected pecking. Engrossed as I was in a food blog describing a recipe for Cherry Clafoutis and not wanting to move lest I shift suddenly three cups of coffee to my lower regions, I called out:
"Who is it?"
"Who," came the reply.
"WHO is it?" I repeated.
"Who," came the reply.
Exasperated, I got up and headed to the front door, "WHO IS IIIIIITTTTT?"
I pulled open the front door and was surprised by a great WHOOOSH as something very big swooped up into the sky, around the big tree and over the roof. As I stood there wondering about the effects of three cups of coffee before 10 am, a single white feather drifted down lazily. Absently, I watched it drift down, down, down, down until it landed on the sidewalk next to a book-sized box.
The side of the box was emblazoned "Amazon.com." On the opposite site was written "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince."
I picked up the box, heavy little sucker. This is going to take some time to read. I then thought about my defunct doorbell and the other hundred or so items on my Saturday To Do List.
What to do, what to do? Book? List? Book? List?
I looked at my To Do list again.
Not ripe enough, I thought, definitely not ripe enough.
Chapter 1, page 1..."It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind."
Ah, been there, done that.
*Theory of Procrastination - What Happened later
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Chipmunk Menu
Let's say that you don't like a bunch of people. Furthermore, you want to get rid of them. Not in the Soprano's way, but you just want them to leave you alone. Forever. What do you do?
Well, you could send them a letter stating that "You suck. Never darken my doorway again."
Or, you could be more subtle and invite them to a Chipmunk Bar-B-Que. Now, I'm not suggesting that you serve mini-bears to your guests, rather that you serve mini-bear food to your guests. This will ensure that they, your guests, never darken your doorway again.
A typical mini-bear menu might be as follows:
Appetizers:
Pork Heart Stick
Dried Apricot Pits
Salad:
none
Soup:
none Unless you consider luke warm water soup.
Entree:
Rice Krispie Bar
Ritz Cracker Pak
Chicken-of-the-Sea Tuna Pouch
Squeeze Cheese (origin unknown, possibly Bulgarian)
Dessert:
Dried Apricot Pits (see above)
It turns out that this people-phobic menu is a Chipmunk-philic menu. As I recall, I witnessed a Chipmunk conga-ing into the forest wearing a Charlie Tuna pouch on his head.
Unfortunately, I left my toothbrush on a rock and never saw it again. Or did I?
Well, you could send them a letter stating that "You suck. Never darken my doorway again."
Or, you could be more subtle and invite them to a Chipmunk Bar-B-Que. Now, I'm not suggesting that you serve mini-bears to your guests, rather that you serve mini-bear food to your guests. This will ensure that they, your guests, never darken your doorway again.
A typical mini-bear menu might be as follows:
Appetizers:
Pork Heart Stick
Dried Apricot Pits
Salad:
none
Soup:
none Unless you consider luke warm water soup.
Entree:
Rice Krispie Bar
Ritz Cracker Pak
Chicken-of-the-Sea Tuna Pouch
Squeeze Cheese (origin unknown, possibly Bulgarian)
Dessert:
Dried Apricot Pits (see above)
It turns out that this people-phobic menu is a Chipmunk-philic menu. As I recall, I witnessed a Chipmunk conga-ing into the forest wearing a Charlie Tuna pouch on his head.
Unfortunately, I left my toothbrush on a rock and never saw it again. Or did I?
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Mini Bears
Chipmunks.
Bah, I say.
Oh, yeah, you're thinking Chip and Dale. Cute little cartoon characters with high-pitched voices and endearing antics. You're thinking Alvin and "Christmas time is almost here..." falsetto. The following words come to mind: scampering, cute, frisky, beady-eyed, cute, cute and cute.
You're thinking Cute Chipmunks. Basically light brown with black racing stripes. Buck teeth. Perky ears. The Mary Tyler Moore of the Animal Kingdom. PETA mascot. Coochie coochie cuuute.
Well, beam me up, Scotty, we're not on that Class "M" planet (M for Munk). No, we're on the Teenage Mutant Ninja Chipmunk from Hell planet.
On this planet, located near Cimarron, New Mexico, chipmunks are known as Mini-Bears. They're just like a black bear or a cinnamon bear or a brown bear. Same appetite, same nose for food, same teeth and same attitude...only in miniature. Mini. Twelve inch wheels. Four cylinder. Manual transmission. Sports package. Don't forget the racing stripes.
The first mini-bear attack was launched about midnight on our first night at Philmont Scout Ranch. I heard some rustling in the tent but thought it was the wind. Yeah, it's always the wind. Mummy wind. Werewolf wind. Vampire wind. Frankenstein wind. Zombie wind.
Hey, what's that noise? It's just the wind. Go back to sleep. And you wake up dead.
Chipmunk wind.
Did I hear...
"Christmas time is almost here, time for fun, time to eat gear..."
Nah. Just my imagination. I rolled over and fell asleep to the rhythmic sounds of mini-bears gnawing their way through my food supply, visions of dried plums and granola dancing through my head.
Morning broke like a bad Cat Stevens song and I awoke chipper as a chipmunk. I swung my legs off my bunk and my feet landed squarely in a puddle of grape jelly.
Now, I don't know about you and how your start your day, but I usually start my day by standing on carpet, or, if I'm camping, on wood or stone or dirt, but rarely do I start my day standing in a puddle of grape jelly.
I wiggled my toes.
Yep, that's grape jelly alright. I looked down. Confirmed.
During the night the mini-bears had gnawed through the food packets, dragged the jelly packets into the middle of the tent floor, had a party and left the mess for me to step into.
Thanks, guys, it was real.
Being quite the Naturalist I was non plussesd by the sticky foot treatment. I peered at the floor and discovered tiny purple footprints leading out the back flap. Carefully, I opened the flap and beheld my worst nightmare. There in the dirt before me were the footprints of scores of mini-bears. All purple. It was a grape jelly rave to be sure. Without a doubt was the unmistakable outline of a grape jelly-induced chipmunk conga line. That explained the high-pitched refrain in my dream that night.
"One, two three...HUH. Four, five, six...HUH."
Their footprints trailed off into the distance. Hmmm, exactly in the direction of our next camp.
Ah, ha, my little Beasties! We shall meet again!
One, two, three...Huh!
Bah, I say.
Oh, yeah, you're thinking Chip and Dale. Cute little cartoon characters with high-pitched voices and endearing antics. You're thinking Alvin and "Christmas time is almost here..." falsetto. The following words come to mind: scampering, cute, frisky, beady-eyed, cute, cute and cute.
You're thinking Cute Chipmunks. Basically light brown with black racing stripes. Buck teeth. Perky ears. The Mary Tyler Moore of the Animal Kingdom. PETA mascot. Coochie coochie cuuute.
Well, beam me up, Scotty, we're not on that Class "M" planet (M for Munk). No, we're on the Teenage Mutant Ninja Chipmunk from Hell planet.
On this planet, located near Cimarron, New Mexico, chipmunks are known as Mini-Bears. They're just like a black bear or a cinnamon bear or a brown bear. Same appetite, same nose for food, same teeth and same attitude...only in miniature. Mini. Twelve inch wheels. Four cylinder. Manual transmission. Sports package. Don't forget the racing stripes.
The first mini-bear attack was launched about midnight on our first night at Philmont Scout Ranch. I heard some rustling in the tent but thought it was the wind. Yeah, it's always the wind. Mummy wind. Werewolf wind. Vampire wind. Frankenstein wind. Zombie wind.
Hey, what's that noise? It's just the wind. Go back to sleep. And you wake up dead.
Chipmunk wind.
Did I hear...
"Christmas time is almost here, time for fun, time to eat gear..."
Nah. Just my imagination. I rolled over and fell asleep to the rhythmic sounds of mini-bears gnawing their way through my food supply, visions of dried plums and granola dancing through my head.
Morning broke like a bad Cat Stevens song and I awoke chipper as a chipmunk. I swung my legs off my bunk and my feet landed squarely in a puddle of grape jelly.
Now, I don't know about you and how your start your day, but I usually start my day by standing on carpet, or, if I'm camping, on wood or stone or dirt, but rarely do I start my day standing in a puddle of grape jelly.
I wiggled my toes.
Yep, that's grape jelly alright. I looked down. Confirmed.
During the night the mini-bears had gnawed through the food packets, dragged the jelly packets into the middle of the tent floor, had a party and left the mess for me to step into.
Thanks, guys, it was real.
Being quite the Naturalist I was non plussesd by the sticky foot treatment. I peered at the floor and discovered tiny purple footprints leading out the back flap. Carefully, I opened the flap and beheld my worst nightmare. There in the dirt before me were the footprints of scores of mini-bears. All purple. It was a grape jelly rave to be sure. Without a doubt was the unmistakable outline of a grape jelly-induced chipmunk conga line. That explained the high-pitched refrain in my dream that night.
"One, two three...HUH. Four, five, six...HUH."
Their footprints trailed off into the distance. Hmmm, exactly in the direction of our next camp.
Ah, ha, my little Beasties! We shall meet again!
One, two, three...Huh!
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