Train Story

It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly, a shot was poured …

"One for the road, Doc?"

"Sure, why not," Doc replied smiling at barkeep Leo. Doc and Leo had been friends for years and Doc knew that Leo didn't have to ask "one for the road." It was their joke and the punchline was always the same.

"Nasty out there," Leo observed watching the rain lash against the dark windows of the pub. The wind howled as each lash was delivered against the window as if in punishment.

"Yeah, I'd hate to be driving out in that, but … later, my friend, travel calls."

Leo continued, "At least it's not as bad as the Storm of 1899 when the train went into the abyss."

Doc downed-in-one the shot of Scotch, slid off the barstool somewhat unsteadily, and made his way to the door attempting, unsuccessfully, to pull his overcoat on and wave to Leo.

"G'nite," and Doc disappeared into the storm.

The short walk to the train station was uneventful though wet and cold. Rain bucketed down in sheets and the wind was relentless. Doc clenched his overcoat around his throat and trudged on.

Once aboard the train Doc found his carriage, stowed his gear on the overhead rack, shook out his coat and settled in to the seat next to the window.

On time, the train lurched forward and soon speeded down the track with a rhythmic clackity-clack.

Clackity-clack. Clackity-clack. Clackity-clack. Rock-chalk-jayhawk.

Doc looked out the window but saw little. Just a few lights in the distance, dribbles of rain streaming across the window and not much else.

Clackity-clack. Clackity-clack. Clackity-clack.

Doc's eyes closed.

There was a bump and a train whistle.

Doc awoke with a start and looked around alarmed. All was well, but he was not alone. A passenger sat across from him, dripping wet.

"Oh, hello," Doc stammered wiping condensation from his glasses on his handkerchief, "I must have dozed off! Ha. Ha."

Unmoved the passenger stared straight ahead. Though he didn't blink, water dripped from his eyelids, coursed down his cheeks and puddled on his shirt.

Attempting small talk Doc said, "Nasty night, eh? Good thing we're on a train, what?"

The passenger looked at Doc and with a wry grin, a touch of irony, said, "Oh, yes, good thing we're on a train. Good thing we're on this train. Yes, this train." And, the passenger's eyes drifted towards the black windows, streaked with rain.

Doc mulled the words, "this train," and after a long pause during which the passenger's eyes neither blinked nor turned from the rain streaked window, asked, "This train? Is there anything special about this train?"

As Doc's words hung in the damp air the passenger slowly turned his head and fixed his gaze on Doc. "Oh, yes," he said, "this train is very special. Very special indeed. In fact, it's called the London Special, didn't you know that?"

Doc thought for a moment but couldn't make the reference. London Special? No, he hadn't heard of that.

Turning to the passenger Doc said, "I'm sorry, but I'm not familiar with the London Special, although I do take this train every week. It's my regular commute train. Nothing special about it as far as I know."

The door at the end of the carriage opened and the Conductor walked down the aisle. "Evening, Doc," the Conductor said, "nasty night out. We might be a few minutes late into King's Cross."

Doc nodded and the Conductor continued to the next car.

"See?" Doc said to the passenger, "just a few minutes late. Not a big deal. Not a lifetime."

"Not a lifetime," the passenger mused, his eyes distant, "not a lifetime."

"Let me tell you a story," the passenger said, "a story about a train like this on a night like this with passengers like you and …" His voice trailed off.

"It was a dark and stormy night. The Conductor asked if it was safe and the word came back that it was safe enough, but, more importantly, we had to make schedule. That's what it was all about. Not the Hokey Pokey, but making schedule. So, off we went, on time and full of passengers."

"The night drew worse. Rain lashed the windows with such ferocity that passengers squealed with each thunderclap. The carriages rocked two and fro. It was a dreadful ride."

"The tricky part was Lands Bridge over the Down River. It was an old railway bridge, creaky on the best of days and terrifying on every other. It was so dangerous that the Company stationed men to signal the train if the bridge was deemed unsafe."

"So, one night, just like this night, the train to London approached the bridge during a bad storm. The waters had risen. The rain lashed down unmercifully and the bridge was unsafe."

"The lads in charge of signaling the train had been making merry and were quite merry, indeed. They played their cards and drank their rum and warded off the cold and rain."

"In short, the bridge washed out, the signal was not sent and the train plummeted into the abyss with no survivors."

Doc was fascinated by this story, "No survivors?" he said inquired.

The passenger paused. "No. Not everyone who should have died was on that train. There was one survivor. Tragic. One of the watchmen at the bridge was, shall we say, fond of the spirit and was well overly fond of the spirit that night. Yes, he was drunk as a skunk. He failed to light the lantern signaling the train that the bridge was inundated with water and, thus, the train crashed into the abyss losing all hands, feet, heads and bodies of all passengers on board. Legend has it that he was so filled with remorse that he hanged himself on the first anniversary of the calamity."

"Hanged from the very bridge the train failed to cross."

By this time Doc was beginning to feel sort of creeped out. He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the window and, clackity-clack, clakity-clack, fell asleep.

The train rumbled on in the dark.

In his dreams Doc heard screams of panic and despair, but they were dreams and he dreamed and dreamed, and dreamed ,,, "

"Tickets! Tickets, please!"

Doc awoke and tried to shake off the sleep.

"Tickets!" the Conductor shouted, "Tickets!"

Doc rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out his ticket.

"Here it is," he said, "my ticket" and he held it aloft like a prize at the County Fair.

The Conductor punched the ticket and turned to move to the next carriage.

Doc interrupted him.

"Excuse me, sir, but you didn't punch my friend's ticket. He must have wandered off." Doc held aloft the ticket the passenger left on the seat.

The Conductor examined the ticket, turn to Doc, smiled and said,

"Nice one, Doc, nice one! An old ticket for me to punch. Cute. Some sort of All Hallows Eve trick?"

"I don't understand," Doc protested, "my friend was here and I dozed off and, …"

The Conductor dropped the ticket on the seat, looked down and smiled. "Doc," he said, "you've been here the whole time all by yourself. You're such a kidder! Whatever. We're about to arrive. See you next week."

Doc shook it off. Must have been a dream.

Doc picked up his stuff and made his way to the aisle, when he looked down at the seat opposite where the passenger had been sitting and noticed a ticket lying there. He bent down and picked it up. The seat was damp, almost wet and so was the ticket.

Before Doc could call the conductor back to check the ticket, he looked at it himself. It was a regular ticket from Manchester to London. One way. October 31, 1899.

Doc double checked.

1899.

Doc stepped off the train. The clouds had broken and the rain was lessening. Doc shoved the ticket deep in his pocket and walked to the car park. Another day, he thought, not a lifetime.

Penance

NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month is upon me.

November. NaBloPoMo challenges me to post something every day. I've done it successfully since 2006 and don't plan to ruin my streak this year, although, judging from my October output, exactly Zero, I'm not off to a good start.

As a wise friend of mine once said, "Excuses are no substitute for success."

November, bring it on!

Hamburger Florentine

There's a lot to be said for a good hamburger.

Choice ground beef cooked to perfection over an open fire. Complemented with fresh lettuce, tomato, cheese, mayonnaise and mustard.

There are local variations that include chilis, mushrooms, onions, sauerkraut and, "Excuse me, but do you happen to have some Grey Poupon?"

Whatever.

The basics are simple. Good meat cooked well and accompaniments.

So, why do I feel slighted after preparing a grand Hamburger Dinner to contrast it with what the cats ate?

We had hamburgers.

The cats had Tuna Florentine and Chicken Tuscany, with a side order of Succulent Ocean Bits and washed down with L'eau de Houston 2009.

For some reason my hamburger tasted a little dry.

The Four Stages of Leak

There are Two Universal Truths:

Concrete cracks.

Plumbing leaks.

You may have noticed that this posting is not titled "The Four Stages of Crack."

That leaves Leak.

As in drip. drip. drip. drip. Leaks never fix themselves. They only get worse. Just ask the Grand Canyon.

*sigh*

It all started with noticing that part of the front yard was damper than other parts of the front yard where things were dying for lack of water. We had cactus to the east and a jungle to the west. At first we thought it was a misaligned sprinkler head, which we corrected, but the damp spot got damper. And Damper. And DAMPER. AND WETTER!!

Recently, the damp spot turned into a pond.

More recently, the pond turned into a lake.

Very recently, I have been having a good time fishing carp and bass out of our lake until it was pointed out to me that I should not be fishing in my own front yard, unless I had lakefront property, which I don't. (Damn! I'll have to cancel that boat order.)

As Scoobie Doo would say, "Ruh roh!"

I called my plumber whom I HEART and told him "I think I have a problem."

Of course, I've never called my plumber just to wish him a good day or to tell him the Houston Texans are sure to win the Super Bowl. (I'll probably NEVER make THAT call.) Anyway ...

Shortly later ...

My plumber arrived, surveyed the property and pronounced those fateful words one dreads to hear, "I'm pregnant."

Uh, no, that wasn't it. I wish!

This was it: You have a small leak.

Note that in Nature there is no such thing as a "small leak." In the Universal scheme of things Niagara Falls is a "small leak." The Grand Canyon is the result of a "small leak."

I'm sort of torqued off that Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon didn't have to call a plumber!

Seriously, what's up with that???

To make a long and sordid story short, the leak appeared to be where the City Water supply joins the house.

"Appeared." That is, not *exactly* identified. After hours of digging in the mud why was that? Well,

Unfortunately for me, the builder, now sunning himself in Acapulco I suspect, situated that connection underneath the concrete slabs that support our multi-ton air conditioning compressors.

Yes, the water supply connection is located under concrete.

Why?

To make repairs Interesting! Exciting! Expensive! Muddy! Possibly Impossible!

To give you a clue, one of the proposed fixes involved helicopters. Skyhooks. Seriously. Airbourne Plumbers.

I had no idea. I think they construct their parachutes out of $100 bills. Apparently they're light and strong but fall somewhat faster than chutes made out of Euros.

Now we're going through the Four Stages of Leak.

The first stage is Shock. What? A leak? Where? OMG!!!! Leeeeeaaaaaakkkkkkkk!

The second stage is Denial. It's not a real leak. It's runoff. The neighbor watered our yard as a prank. It's always been like that.

The third stage is Anger. How dare it leak! Stupid pipes! Stupid builder! Stupid water! Stupid gravity! Stupid Bill Gates!

The fourth stage is Acceptance. OK, here's my checkbook, Visa card, first born and car. Let me know when it's over. Be gentle.




We are somewhere between Stage 1 and Stage 2.

Personally, I'm looking forward to Stage 3!

Stay tuned to Part 2.

Not So Hot

My friend, Genevieve, reports from the South Pole.

Yes, she lives at the South Pole.

In case you're thinking of going down there to cool off, better check this out!

As Seen From Outer Space

They say that three strikes and you’re out.

They say three’s company.

They say that the third time’s the charm.

They say that three coffees is six two few.

They say. They say. They say.

I’m tired of “they say.” I want to make the rules. I want to have my say.

Bill says: Three strikes and you’re out unless you really tried in which case you get two more, but only if Bill Sez.

Bill says: Three’s company. You can stay three days, then pack up and get out, but only if Bill Sez.

Bill says: Third time’s not the charm. Second time’s the charm, then you’re a moron, especially if it takes you three times to park your car. Bill don’t have to Sez on this.

Case in point. I pulled into my local grocery store as I usually do by turning right into Entrance Number One and proceeding to what I call the Down Aisle which lines me up with the store entrance and in close proximity to the cart return rack. Entrance Number One is the premier entrance to professional shoppers like me. Close to the front door. Close to the cart return rack. Perfectly lined up for egress to the street and home. (I love using the word “egress.” So few opportunities.)

So, cruising on auto-pilot, guiding my vehicle to Parking Nirvana, imagine my surprise as I came face-to-face, nose-to-nose, toe-to-toe, bumper-to-bumper with a large vehicle driven by a very small person going Up the Down.

Up the Down?

UP THE DOWN! That’s like driving on a One Way street the Other Way. That’s like climbing Up a ladder when I’m climbing Down the same ladder. That’s like, that’s like ...

I began to sputter. In French. Zut alors! Up zee Down!

Not only was this inconsiderate moron driving Up the Down but he was driving what can only be called a Land Barge, a huge vehicle of universal proportions.

A Chevy Suburban would have been dwarfed by comparison. So would a Ford Excursion or a Humvee.

This vehicle was truly huge. It would be like driving an aircraft carrier on wheels. That huge. I’m surprised he didn’t have tugboats guiding him Up the Down.

It’s inconceivable this wrong-way Peachfuzz captain was going the Wrong Way. Up the Down!

I squeezed to one side to let Captain Moron do his thing and begone. Fortunately, he slid by at zero miles per hour, standard operating speed for morons and disappeared behind me.

But, then, before I could mutter zut alors again, Captain Moron proceeded to go down the next parking aisle. Down the Up!

What?

Not content to drive Up the Down, now he drives Down the Up!

I pulled out my moron ledger and scribbled, “Strike Two.”

Now, a more forgiving type might have excused Captain Moron for having mistaken the Up aisle for the Down aisle, and then the Down aisle for the Up aisle.

Except for one thing.

The parking lot aisles are marked by H U G E A R R O W S that can be

Seen.

From.

Space.

Seriously.

There they are in the photo below copied graciously from the good people at Google*. Giant, white seen-from-outer-fricking-space Arrows pointing Up the Up and Down the Down!

The bottom line is that if you can’t navigate a parking lot then you need to be restricted to a bicycle.

And soft food.

And that’s because, Bill Sez.




*(Google, who makes Life better and brings better Life to you!)

OMG this is so OMG!

I am a Facebook friend of Christine!

That's the person holding the tuba-thing in the video picture below.

Yes, Ms Irlweg!

I'm "Ms Irlweg's" Facebook friend.

OMG, OMG, OMG!




(All joking aside, yes, this is very cool and I will be strutting my cool-a-tude tomorrow. Watch for it.)

Video at Eleven

My daughter said, "We ought to tape our dinner table conversations!"

I said, "Do you really want to see that stuff in court?"

United Breaks Guitars Part 2

Dave Carroll and the Sons of Maxwell continue the saga of his broken guitar:





Revisit the original story here!

Close Encounter with a Penguin

Canadian Bacon

Scrambled eggs with bits.

Buckwheat blueberry pancakes.

Cottage cheese.

Bacon, bacon, bacon!

Coffee and cranberry juice.

Ich bin ein Canadian!

(Oh, Rafters Six Ranch, north of Calgary.)

Gumbo

Might as well start with a picture of the finished product.

People stop me on the street and ask, "What's you secret to great gumbo?" I get that ALL the time.

Can't hardly step out of my house without the paparazzi flashing in my face and shouting for gumbo recipes. "Bill! Bill! Show us your gumboes!"

If it gets any worse I'll be forced to live in a bunker at an undisclosed location.

Srsly.

So, anyway, here's my secret, but I'm telling you in advance you're not going to like it. Most people when they think about a Secret Recipe assume it has a Secret Ingredient, like monarch butterfly tongues or porcupine spleen or Kate Gosselin's bathwater. But, that's just hogwash.

The world has asked for it so here it is.

The secret to my World Famous Gumbo is: patience.

Yeah, I knew you'd be disappointed. I can hear the sighs from here; either that or it's the burrito I had for lunch.

But, really, that's it. Patience. You can't rush a good gumbo. It takes 2-3 hours to make a gumbo and if you try to bang one out in seven minutes you're only going to get a heap of disappointment.

The basis of a good gumbo, however, is different than the secret of a good gumbo. The basis of a good gumbo is the roux. And a successful roux requires, you guessed it, patience.

Lately I've been using Danno's recipe for a roux which is three-quarters of a cup of white flour mixed with a half cup of oil. I've been using peanut oil with good success.

In a cast iron pot over a medium heat whisk (pronounced 'Hwhisk') until smooth and cook slowly until the roux is done.

What is done?

Well, that depends on how dark you want your gumbo. A gumbo will only be as dark as the roux and there are several stages: light, blonde, peanut, light chocolate, dark chocolate and mahogany. Oh, I suppose there's "burnt," too.

A roux requires patience because you have to stir it constantly while it's cooking. No slacking off and letting it sit for a while because it will scorch and once that happens it's ruined. There is no way to fix a scorched roux except to pretend you like scorched gumbo.

There's probably a reason why we haven't seen Doritos with Extra Scorch Flavor on the shelves.

Or the McSneaker. Now with extra Scorching! Not only does it have that great Burned Tennis Shoe smell but it tastes like one too!

The bottom line is that it takes about 40 minutes to get a roux to the chocolate stage, like the gumbo in the picture.

Once the roux is ready you can add in the other ingredients in sequence: sausage and the Trinity.

The Trinity is the basis for a lot of Southern cooking: onion, celery and bell pepper. You can use any kind of onion, Spanish, yellow or white, and any kind of bell pepper, green, red, yellow or orange, depending on what kind of color combination you want in your gumbo.

After the vegetables have softened, add the stock, some spices, cover and let it simmer for 90 minutes to two hours. This is the time the gumbo works its magic, the flavors mingle and it develops character.

How do you know it's working? After an hour or so someone in the house should call out, "Hey, what's that wonderful smell?" Unless you scorched the roux in which case they're likely to say, "Aw, man, sneakers again?"

Here's the blueprint directly from Danno with modifications made by me because I didn't have some of the ingredients but I had other stuff and, anyway, gumbo is an art not a science.

Danno's Gumbo Recipe

Okra Gumbo with Chicken & Andouille Sausage

1/2 Cup Vegetable Oil

3/4 Cup All Purpose Flour

4 Tbsp Creole Seasoning

1 Cup Onions, diced

1/2 Cup Red Bell Pepper, diced

1/2 Cup Celery, Diced

1 1/2 Cups Andouille Sausage, diced

3 Tbsp Garlic, chopped

1 Cup Okra, trimmed and sliced
 (didn't have okra)
6 Cups cold Chicken Stock (I used hot chicken stock made with Knorr Chicken Stock cubes.)

3 Fresh Bay Leaves

4 Chicken Thighs, deboned, cut into 1 inch cubes and seasoned liberally with Creole Seasoning
 (I used fresh shrimp, frozen bay scallops and fresh tilapia)
2 Tbsp Worcestershire Sauce

Hot Sauce to taste

Kosher Salt to taste, if necessary

2 Tablespoons Italian Parsley, chopped

1/4 Cup Thinly Sliced Green Onions

Creole Boiled Rice
 (My rice cooker did the job.)
Fresh French Bread (I made corn bread, instead)

Mix your onion, celery, and bell pepper together: The Holy Trinity.


Heat the oil in a cast iron dutch oven over medium heat. Whisk in the flour to make a milk chocolate Roux

Add the Andouille, 1 Tbsp of Seasoning, and 3/4 of the Holy Trinity, cook, stirring often, for about ten minutes or until the vegetables soften. Add the cold stock, remaining seasoning, okra, remaining trinity, and Garlic.

Bring to a Boil. Bring this down to a simmer, add the thigh meat and let it go for at least 2 hours, stirring occasionally.

(For seafood gumbo I let the sausage and Trinity cook for 90 minutes. Then I throw in pealed shrimp (B flat or C major), chopped or not. It's up to you. After 30 minutes more I add the scallops and fish because they don't need much cooking and if you overcook them they will simply fall apart.)

About 10-15 minutes before you’re ready to serve, remove the Chicken from the bone and add the meat back to the pot. Add the Worcestershire, Hot Sauce, and 1/2 of the Green Onions.

Serve with Creole Boiled Rice, crusty French Bread, and a good cold beer (I like Dixie or Abita Amber).
Garnish with green onions, and the parsley.

Death of a Chefsman

It is with great and profound sadness that I report the death by cancer of my friend Bill Moran.

I knew that Bill had been ill for several years and travelled from his home in south Texas to Houston for treatment. We planned many lunch dates only to be broken by extended treatment schedules or other inconvenient circumstances and, in fact, we never met one-to-one.

Regardless, I considered Bill a friend, confident, mentor and collaborator for all things food-related. We traded recipes, gave tips on new restaurants and discussed several books we would write about southwestern cuisine.

Now, that's all gone like blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. Where there was light and laughter only smoke remains.

I don't know how long Bill's website, The Texas Chef will be up but it's worth a visit to read his recipes and get a sense of who the man was. He was passionate about that unique combination of Mexico and food and his love for flavorful, homestyle cooking will hopefully live on.

Happy trails, Bill, and pay attention when they say "the plate is hot."

Your friend forever,

bill

We're Number One!

Twelve Two Two Fondue is back on top, Google Number One hit for the phrase:

rent a snake

We had dropped to Number Two after a real snake rental shop in Zaire made a brief foray into the Intertubes. However, as of today the competition has slithered off into the brush.

We're Number One!

We're Number One!

Hey, don't knock it. At least we're Number One in something!

United Makes It Right

Kudos from Twelve Two Two Fondue to United Airlines for making things right with Dave Carroll (see below) and his broken guitar saga.

United Airlines will donate $3000 to a musical charity helping kids.

Dave sought no personal compensation.

Furthermore and unexpectedly, Taylor Guitars is making a personal donation to Dave and the Sons of Maxwell in the form of a few musical instruments. Good on you, Taylor, you were the good guys all along!

Dave Carroll, we are not worthy. You asked yourself the question "What can I do about this situation" and came up with a solution that highlighted the problem, put forth your point of view and left the "answer" wide open.

Perfect.

Now, if it's not too much to ask, do you think you could write a song about a Barky Dog?

United Breaks Guitars

They say that Revenge is a dish best served cold, but here's an example that's sweet and hot.

Here's the story:

Musician Dave Carroll with the Sons of Maxwell were traveling on United Airlines to Nebraska via Chicago O'Hare when passengers noticed baggage handlers throwing guitar cases.

Turns out they broke Dave's guitar and his heart.

United Airlines admitted fault, but Dave was finally told after a year of chasing red herrings and wild geese that he would not be compensated for his loss.

So, Dave promised the last person to finally say "no" to compensation (Ms. Irlweg) that he would write and produce three songs chronicling his experience.

Hello, United Airlines, they say that any publicity is good publicity. I'm not so sure about that!

Hello Marlo!

Marlo Iris Armstrong
7lbs 15oz
21 inches
born 1:53am, 6/14/09

Came >This< Close

I came >this< close to living on "The Shelf" Thirty Years Ago.

Whoa! Dodged that bullet!

Helen has fortitude with a Capital F to have put up with me all these years as friends, kids, pets, neighbors, random people on the street, dead fish and the Intertube will attest! (some of them unpaid for this endorsement)

So, here's to you, Sweetie! Thanks for taking me off the Shelf.

Sorry, Baby.

Sorry, Baby, but, you know, all good things ...

Last forever?

*sighs* Not quite.

What?

Those late nights. Me watching the door. You didn't pick up on that?

I thought you were preoccupied. Busy. Focused. I didn't think it was about me ...

No, sweetie, it was never about you. You've been strong and I love you so much, but ...

There should never be a "but" after that.

Yes, well, Time marches on and, well, this is good-bye. I'm moving on.

With her?

Yes.

Please, not that I'm begging, but out of curiosity, why?

Totally gratuitous. Slimmer. Faster. More colorful. Oh, and you know that little clasp? It's gone.

I could tape my clasp down.

You're grasping.

You used to grasp ...

OK, I think this conversation is over. I've made up my mind. I'm moving on. You should, too.

Easy for you to say, but where will I go?

How about with the Boy?

The Boy? But, he's just ...

Just what? Tall? Tanned? Ripped? Young? Am I missing something?

Do you think the Boy would like me?

Baby, get ready to have your keys pounded, your video overheated and your memory blown out!

I'll see you from time to time?

Yeah, we'll network. You can count on that. Now, scoot, before I change my mind!

Look, there's the Boy now! Ciao! Oh, Boy ... Boy! Want to play a game?

The Image of France

This to me is the perfect image of France.

A perfect slice of cheese, showing delicate textures, on a perfect scrap of bread held by perfectly manicured fingers in perfect exposure and focus.

That and hyperbole.

Good-bye, Kiddo.

"Hello, Kiddo."

That was the first line that David "Bill" Carradine spoke to Uma "Beatrix Kiddo" Thurman in the Quentin Tarantino's epic Kill Bill Volume 2.

Such a playful play on words.

KB2 is my favorite film of all time because of the tight dialog. It's been reduced so much that you couldn't take out another word. No fat in this film.

Wo Fat. He was the villain in the TV show "Hawaii 5-O" but totally irrelevant to this story.

(I just thought "no fat" "wo fat" - never mind)

I first came across the actor David Carradine in the 70's TV show "Kung Fu." We watched it every week. Riveting stuff. In fact, that show with it's oriental mysticism set many of us off on eastern philosophical journeys. Carradine's character, Kwai Chang Caine, became a role model for physical and mental excellence. We all strived to carry that urn of glowing embers into the snow!

So it is with a touch of sadness that I mourn the passing of David Carradine. He's had memorable impacts on my life and I wish him the best in the Great Beyond.

Good-bye, Kiddo. Safe journey.

France?

Italy

Smoked Goose and Fresh Pasta with Truffles

I think I'll stay.

Star Trek - Checkout

“Status report, Mr. Sulu.”

“Aye, Captain. There’s congestion across the Neutral Zone. Few lines open, many carts backed up.”

“Scan for Amy.”

“Aye, Sir, scanning now. I’ve got a lock on Amy!”

“Who’s her sacker?”

“Will, sir.”

“Damn, so close! Amy is fast but Will is slow and always puts the fresh tomatoes in with the canned goods. Perform a wide scan, Mr. Sulu.”

“Scanning, sir. Thomas is checking and Peter is sacking in Lane 9!”

“That’s more like it! Mr. Sulu, take us into Lane 9, warp factor 5.”

“Course laid in sir. Warp five.”

“Captain,” interjected Mr. Spock.

“Yes, Spock, what is it?”

“I am detecting an unusual life form in Lane 9.”

“Explain.”

“Captain, the life form’s cart is full of barcoded goods but the life form is holding what appears to be a credit card. Usually such a life form would produce a checkbook.”

“Interesting. It could be an anomaly. Let’s move in closer for a better look.”

“Pulling into Lane 9, Captain, dropping to Impulse.”

“Mr. Spock, report.”

“Two heavily laden Feringi trading freighters have pulled in behind us. We’re blocked in, sir.”

“Ironically, for a Vulcan, Mr. Spock, you worry like a mother hen. Thomas and Peter will make short work of the life form and, besides, it’s a credit card. What could go wrong?”
“Engineering to Captain.”

“Yes, Mr. Scott, what is it?”

“It’s that life form, Captain, it’s thrown a force field around the nacelles and we no canna move. We’re dead in the water!”

“Scotty, do what you can. Captain out. Spock. Analysis.”

“Indeed, Captain, the life form is decloaking now. It appears to be ... yes, I’ve got it now, a Book of Coupons.”

“A Book of Coupons? I thought those were banned by the Treaty of Kroger Prime.”

“True, Captain, but not in this sector. These life forms who still use Books of Coupons are insensitive to other life forms. For all intents and purposes they live in a universe of their own.”

“Options, Spock. I. Need. Options.”

“None, sir. We are trapped here until the Book of Coupons has been examined and processed.”

“Trapped! For how long? There must be. A. Way. Out.”

“Our way out, Captain, is that Thomas is a fast checker and he’ll scan the Book of Coupons at flank speed. If my calculations are correct we should be on our way in 4.235 minutes.”

“Four point two three five, Spock? You’re sure of that? Mr. Scott.”

“Aye, Sir.”

“Prepare to take us into Lane 9 on my mark in 3, 2, 1 ... Now, Mr. Scott!”

“Docking completed, Captain. We’re in.”

“Captain!”

“Yes, Mr. Spock.”

“Sensors indicate that checker Thomas is moving out at Warp Factor 9. He appears to be On Break.”

“How does that affect out time line, Mr. Spock? It’s important that we meet our timetable to deliver these badly needed supplies.”

“Unknown, Sir, the new checker is coming into range now. It’s an unfamiliar configuration. I can just make it out ... Trainee.”

“Trainee. We’ve encountered them before. Go to Yellow Alert, Mr. Sulu.”

“Yellow Alert, Sir!”

“Captain, we are being hailed by the Trainee.”

“Put him on screen.”

“Greetings, Earth vessel, please explain the nature of these goods.”

“Those are carrots.”

“Wow, I didn’t know these things came outside of a can! They must be free range. Uh, I’m going to have to contact my supervisor on Rigel IV to get the code. Uh, is that carrot with a “C” or a “K.”

“Captain to sick bay.”

“Sick bay here.”

“Bones, meet me in my ready room with a triple, ice and salt on the rim.”

“On my way.”

“Spock, you have the con. We’re. Going. To. Be here for a. While.”

Driving Me Tweety

So, I found out I can Tweet on Twitter while driving.

Pretty cool!

The spell checker on my iPhone corrects errors due to hitting pot holes and bumping up against the curb.

"Just ran over a squirrel!"

The world needs to know that.

"Oops! Didn't see that stop sign."

My followers are thrilled by my exploits.

"Small car bumpers are no match for my truck!"

Detroit, I'm sorry, Turin, Italy, should take note.

"Why does the proctologist have such a small parking lot?"

Srsly! If enough people get exasperated maybe they'll build a parking garage and put in a Starbucks.

Tweet!

One of my followers, SoreBum98 tweets, "Right on, Bro! We're starting a movement."

Hmmmmm, I think I might let that one pass.

Finishing

Whatcha doin?

I'm working on ...

Dinner?

Yeah, dinner. We're having ...

Chicken?

Yeah, chicken and ...

Mushrooms and cream and wine?

Yeah, all that. Uh, how come you keep ...

Finishing your sentences?

Yeah, uh, is it because ...

You're so slow and I can read you like a book?

Yeah, and do you know what I'm thinking right now ...

Yes, and CSI would bust you in a New York second so don't even.

OK.

What's for dinner?

Chicken. And stuff.

Good boy.

Fixed It

"I need to buy some new sunglasses."

"Why?"

"Mine broke when I put them on today. Just fell apart in my hands. Not my fault."

"Where are they?"

"I threw them away."

(rummage, rummage, rummage)

"Hey, I fixed your sunglasses. Waste not, want not, I always say!"

"Yeah, thanks. I'll, uh, take them to work and use them, uh, at the office. Yeah, at the office. But, I might need another pair for home use."

"No prob. Glad I could help."

Good Golly, Miss Molly!

I couldn't resist that!

My good friend, author and most-excellent cook, Molly Wizenberg, has published her first book.






Now, you would think that writing a popular food blog, Orangette, cooking and photographing those wonderful recipes would be enough for one person, but in addition to that Molly writes a monthly column in the magazineBon Appétit called the "Cooking Life."

Back to the book.

A Homemade Life is not a cookbook. Well, yes, it is. No, it's not. Yes, it is!

What is it?

It's a book about food and life, particularly Molly's life, that contains great recipes. Molly recounts a life where the kitchen was the center of activity from her childhood in Oklahoma, to her studies in Paris to her food blogging in Seattle. Molly skillfully blends an engaging narrative full of joy, trials, tribulations, successes and challenges into a wonderful mixture of food and prose.

I highly recommend the Arugula and Bread salad with fresh cherries and goat cheese. And, The Movie.

Interrobang

Who knew?!

It Doesn't Suck At All

A very special person has published a very special book!

Today!

Happy Bookday, Heather!





UPDATE April 7, 2009

Number 16 on the New York Times Best Seller List!

Sandy's Tale

Sandy the Cat is the nicest cat you'll ever meet. He's about 14 years old, now, and spends his time sleeping and laying in the sun.

He's also gone deaf.

A bit of a scaredy-cat Sandy has always been nervous around loud noises like vacuum cleaners, hair dryers and automobiles. No longer. He sleeps through the weekly vacuuming of the carpet, sits placidly on the countertop as you dry your hair and watches cars, trucks, the UPS Guy and the Lawn Crews drive through the neighborhood without so much as a flinch.

Obviously, he didn't hear the dog sneaking up on him until his tail got bit. And a good chomp, too. Right to the bone.

Not being a complainer, we didn't know anything was wrong until the dog bite wound became an abscess, burst and turned into a bloody mess.

After a trip to the vet an attempt was made to heal the wound, but it was too extensive. The tissue started to die and the infection began to spread. We had to do something quick and the only option was amputation.

Bob the tail.

Chop chop.

Snip, nip and tuck.

Sandy went under the knife last week, survived, is doing well and starting to behave like his old tail-ful self. Kink has been respectful of Sandy's condition and not bugged him as much as usual.

Here's the poor guy before and after. The "haircut" doesn't help his appearance but it's starting to grow out.

Before



After

New Book

I'd like to point out that my friend, Heather Armstrong, has a new book out. It's highlighted to the left in the side bar.

Buy TEN copies and give it to your friends.

It's that good.

Seriously.

Srsly.

Buy it.

Lots.

I command you.

That's Heather eating chocolate and growling at me below.

The New Citrus

Only in Texas.

The Look That Says ...

... my chocolate!

Back. Off.

Not Enough for Everybody

Dinner's ready!

Anyone seen Kink?

Short Circuit

How many of us could live without X?

Pick X.

X could be a car or a credit card or a cell phone or a computer.

For some of us X might be broadband.

I cast my thoughts back to my childhood when we mailed letters, just like Charles Darwin.

"I say, old chap, I've been observing the drainage ditch near my house and, by Jove, I think there's a new species of lizard living there!"

Three months later might come a reply.

"Sorry, old chap, but your letter got soaked in a freak rain storm and I could only read "observing lizard." Well, of course we all observe lizards so what's your point?"

And so it goes.

OK, well the point of all this is that a friend of mine carries all of the electronic gadgets known to man in her purse. Cell phone, iPod, electronic keys, Blackberry or two, backup cell phone, thumb drives and some stuff that's classified. Possibly a military grade Taser and a micro-fusion power supply.

Anyway.

All this stuff which was crammed into a small purse ended up at the bottom of a hotel pool.

Sunk.

Glug.

Shorted out, as in Short Circuit.

Electronic stuff doesn't swim well and it all drowned.

R.I.P.

Imagine what you would do if your entire electronic life fried. What would you do? You can't call for help. It's fried. You can't look up a number to call for help 'cause that's fried, too.

All you can do is ...

... order a margarita, catch some rays and watch the sunset.


Which, all things considered, is not half bad.

It's a Mystery

I was going through a cupboard looking for something and came across this note in my handwriting:

The cable you unplugged was the keyboard cable!

I don't remember writing the note nor (exactly) what caused me to write the note.

It's a Mystery.

Did I receive a phone call?

"Hey, I plugged my camera into the computer but then it quit working."

Or.

"The computer isn't working. I didn't touch anything. Much. Hardly at all."

Or.

"I tidied up all those messy cables but now the computer won't work."

Hmmmmmmm, what to do?

I know, I'll ask my trusty assistant if she remembers the note or anything about it.

Upon further scrutiny, punctuated by stretches of silence, my assistant reminded me"

"You remember you're writing your Valentine's Day blog, right?"




The plot thickens.

I Can Haz Science

Happy 200th Birthday, Charles Darwin!

Lamz

Whew! It's been a while.

Here's an update.

Some time ago we bought a lamb from a high school student who is a member of the Future Farmers of America club. One of the things club members can do is raise an animal for ultimate auction and a possible prize. Students learn that raising an animal isn't easy.

There are food problems, disease problems, parasite problems and all sorts of problems. Also, the student is responsible for the feeding of their animal. Nobody's going to do it for them.

In short, it's a chore. And a half.

Fast forward, we bought a lamb raised by a student, but one that didn't place at the Animal Fair. We had the lamb "processed" at a local butcher and by all accounts it's a fine lamb. We have a freezer full of ribs, chops, "ground lamb," legs, back, and more ribs.

So, tonight I was given the command from afar to do Moussaka. A ground lamb dish with spices, tomatoes, eggs and eggplant.

We had all the ingredients except one: tomatoes. Also, I couldn't remember the exact recipe so I was concerned about returning home with roma tomatoes and not "something else."

There I was in the Kroger's parking lot with my iPhone. I cued up Google Mobile App and spoke at the tone: moussaka recipe.

In an instant Google directed me to a Greek cooking website with a recipe listing the ingredients needed. It was a slightly different recipe than I've used before, requiring Greek cheese and breadcrumbs, but the basics were there.

I was saved.

More than that I decided to go with the new recipe and it's in the oven.

Smells great.

Thank you iPhone. Thank you Google.

And thank you Unknown High School Student who raised such a fine and tasty lamb. I'd invite you to dinner but I don't know who you are!

Superbowl! Superbowl!

Yes, the Steelers won Superbowl 43.

Good for them. A real football team from where football is played.

They play football in Pennsylvania.

They play golf in Arizona.

Simple as that.

If the Cardinals needed a 40-foot putt in the fourth quarter, I'm sure they would have made it.

Alas.

Anyway.

In my euphoria I mistakenly tried to pop Kink with a kitchen towel. A small towel for a small butt.

But, (haha - he said But), Kink turned around mid-pop and snatched the towel from my hands.

I knew that Kink is a Cardinals supporter, but that was just sour grapes.

He also bit me on the ankle in spite.

Well, buddy boy, we'll see you next year! Yes, we will!

Texas Chili

We've discussed this before.

What's the Secret Ingredient to Texas Chili?

Time.


Now, you know.

Cuisine

Starters

Shrimp with Mussels in Aspic

Main Course

Breasts of Duck and Chicken confit

Poached Tuna with Whitefish

Afters

Liver Kat Snax


Yeah, the cats eat better than we do. Tonight we had leftover soup and stale tortillas.

Actually, I could go for some of those Kat Snax about now.

Geek Haiku

Thanks Ed of Logan, Utah!

WITH ALL CAPS I TYPE
LOUDLY I YELL EVERYTHING
I FEEL IMPORTANT!

Rice-a-Roni Not

San Francisco!

Pier 39. Cable cars. Fog. The Golden Gate.

What a city.

I spent last week in San Francisco attending Macworld Expo. I stayed at the Westin downtown which has a concierge to direct you to the Other Concierge. They don't just put a mint on your pillow, you're entire pillow is a mint. I gained five pounds without venturing outside of my room.

There was an in-room French Maid! Uh, no, on second thought there wasn't. I "made" that up. Ha Ha. Ix-nay on the aid-may.

Anyway.

What San Fran lacks in hills and fog it makes up in food, and there were restaurants INSIDE of restaurants. Ridiculous.

Here's the blueprint for the week:

Sunday: Ducca (Westin Hotel, 3rd Street and Market)
Yellowfin ceviche
Halibut cheeks on inked polenta

Monday: House of Nanking (Kearny St.)
Pork eggroll with sauce
Mu Shu Pork
Beer steamed fish

Tuesday: Chevy's (3rd St.)
Chipotle Cream Chicken Enchiladas

Wednesday: Tiramisu (Belden Place)
Steamed Mussels
Cioppino (seafood stew)
Tiramisu

Thursday: Canton Seafood and Dim Sum (Folsom St.)
Pork Dumplings
Jelly Fish with Whole Baby Octopus
Scallops and Shrimp
Chicken Bird Nest

Friday: Chevy's again!
Chipotle Cream Chicken Enchiladas AGAIN!

In Between:
Peet's Coffee and Tea (Mission St.) - coffee and pumpkin bread
Ferrari's Italian Deli (Mission St.) - salami sandwich with artichoke

Don't recall seeing either a rice or a roni. Maybe next time.

San Francisco Treat

Three words:

Whole. Baby. Octopus.

Where Are the Anti-Gravity Belts?

This can’t be the end of the decade because I distinctly remember standing on the balcony, popping champagne corks to welcome the New Year 2000!

That was yesterday. Wasn’t it? WASN’T IT?

Could nine years have gone by like pfffffffft without me noticing?

We’re getting into serious digits in this 2000 thing. This is the Last Year of the Single Digit and it won’t come back for a long, long time.

It’s the Future, you know. Should be.

Stupid Future. Always teasing, never quite delivering. I’ve got a miserable cold. Stupid cold. Where’s the stupid cure for the stupid common cold? Huh? Should be easy. Been talking about it for a couple of centuries.

We can go to the Moon but we can’t cure the common cold. NASA’s fault. If we hadn’t gone to the Moon I wouldn’t be feeling miserable. Stupid Moon. NASA would have cured the common cold and I’d be complaining about not going to the Moon. Fair trade, I’d say.

And, speaking of NASA, where, oh, where are the freaking Anti-Gravity Belts? How am I expected to gain a steady 10 pounds a year without Anti-Gravity Belts?

Just this week, Jack-in-the-Box came out with a new “tasty treat” consisting of a hamburger, order of fries AND ...

... and, and, and ...

TWO TACOS!

How cool is that? A full hamburger lunch PLUS a couple of tacos just in case you have an empty space to fill between your larynx and esophagus. Just tamp ‘em down. That will probably go down as the Great Invention of 2009 and they year is young!

Oh, and I checked, no Anti-Gravity Belts. Now, that would be a fun Happy Toy. And useful.

The Great Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Mystery

Chapter 1 The Plot


North Pole: Santa’s Workshop

Christmas Eve.

Late.

Santa’s sleigh sat on the runway like an overstuffed turkey, creaking and groaning under the pile of toys and presents being loaded on by the elves. High above the sleigh a conveyor belt dropped a steady stream of brightly wrapped packages, dolls, rocking horses, fire trucks, balls and bats, scarves and hats into Santa’s giant red sack. On the shop floor below a fleet of bright yellow forklift trucks scurried around transporting loads of presents.

From his office high above the cavernous factory Santa surveyed the scene through a large window, his quick eye taking in every detail of the operations below.

His concentration was disrupted by a quiet, “Ahem.”

Santa turned, looked down, smiled and said, “Yes, Jon, what do you have?”

Jon was the Littlest elf in charge of Departure Planning. Although Jon was the Littlest elf his job was the Biggest. He must make sure all the presents get into Santa’s sack properly, make sure the sack is lashed down properly, make sure the reindeers are hitched properly and make sure that Santa departs on time.

Properly.

Jon was a very proper elf even if he was the Littlest.

Jon adjusted his glasses, held up his clipboard and stretched just a little to make himself appear taller, cleared his throat with another “Ahem” and proceeded in clipped tones to read his report.

“Toy production. Check. Loading operations. Check. Weather update. Check.”

Jon paused.

“And?” Santa inquired looking over the tops of his glasses and down at Jon.

“And what, sir?” Jon replied.

“Reindeers, Jon, reindeers,” Santa chided gently, “We need reindeers to fly. You did not say ‘Reindeers. Check.’ “

Jon the Littlest elf blushed, developing alternating pink and purple stripes across is very large nose.

“Uh,” Jon stammered, “Reindeers. Not check.”

Santa’s eyes grew wide. In all his years he had only heard the phrase “Reindeers. Not check.” once before. That time had been a very foggy Christmas Eve, many years ago.

Jon continued with his report. “The reindeers, they’re not ready. They’re upset about something. I think they’re on strike. They’re not going to fly tonight?”

Several things then happened simultaneously. Santa inhaled so deeply that all the air was nearly sucked out of the room. Then, Santa let out a “WHAAAATTTTT?” so loudly that the roof lifted off the toy factory and all the noise from the shop floor below was drowned out.

The roof came down with a WHUMP!

Jon tried to become the Very Littlest elf by crawling into his hat and scuttling towards the door.

It became very quiet.

Breathing deeply Santa looked at Jon, or rather the hat that was scuttling towards the door, and said, “The reindeers. Take me to them.”

Chapter 2 The Plot Thickens

Deep in the heart of Santa’s North Pole Toy Factory was an area off-limits to everybody, the Reindeer Ready Room. This is where the reindeer lived, exercised, trained and prepared for their annual job of hauling Santa’s sleigh around the World to deliver toys and presents to good little girls and boys.

Without knocking Santa opened the door to the Ready Room and walked into a hurricane!

The room was a blur of antlers, hooves, shouting, yelling, fighting and biting.

The reindeer were seriously out of control!

Very quickly, though, the reindeer noticed Santa in the room and all of the antlers, hooves, shouting, yelling, fighting and biting stopped.

Santa stepped into the room and demanded to know, “What is going on?”

The reindeer looked at each other and then starting talking all at once.

“My hat!”

“My scarf!”

“My sweater!”

“My leg warmers!”

“My iPod!”

Santa held up his hand and motioned to the reindeer to calm down.

“One at a time! One at a time, please!” Santa implored.

Dasher approached Santa first. “It’s my hat. My lucky, warm hat that I wear every year. It’s gone! I can’t find it anywhere! I can’t fly with out my lucky hat!”

Cupid was next. “My boots are gone. My favorite boots that give me a good grip on slippery icy rooftops are gone! I can’t find them anywhere! I can’t fly without my boots!”

Then all the reindeer began talking at once complaining about missing stuff and claiming they couldn’t fly without it.

Santa held up his hand again and the reindeers became quiet.

“Hmmmm,” Santa mused aloud, “this looks like a job for Inspector Heather.”


Chapter 3 The Plot Thins

There was a knock on the door. Jon the Littlest elf reached up, turned the great brass knob and opened the door.

Wasting no time, a tall formidable-looking woman with dark, piercing eyes, blonde hair tied back in a severe bun and puffing on a large pipe strode into the room.

Immediately, Inspector Heather surveyed the room and after inhaling deeply on her great, inspector’s pipe, barked rapidly and decisively, “You, you, you and you,” she pointed at four reindeer, “over there. And you, you, you and you. Over there.”

She pointed in the opposite direction.

Immediately the reindeer fell into formation, four on each side of a line with Inspector Heather in the middle. One by one, Inspector Heather questioned each reindeer, quietly and in whispers. All that could be heard was

Pssst! Psssst! Pssst. Psst!

In good time Inspector Heather finished her interrogations, smoked furiously on her pipe for several minutes sending up great billows of grey clouds, and the occasional smoke ring.

Suddenly, she turned and approached Santa thoughtfully. Drawing herself to her full height and staring Santa eye to eye, Heather reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a small note pad.

“Note,” Inspector Heather said, “the following missing items.” And she proceeded to list off each of the items missing from the Reindeer Ready Room.

Dasher: one knitted hat
Dancer: one cashmere scarf
Prancer: one pair wool socks
Vixen: four leg warmers
Comet: one sweater
Cupid: four mountaineering boots
Donner: one pair long johns; red
Blitzen: one iPod

“Anything else,” Inspector Heather asked, surveying the room through squinted eyes?

The reindeers muttered no, no, no, no, no, no, no and no.

“OK, then, righty-o,” said Inspector Heather, “I think I have this case solved!”

The reindeers looked up startled! Jon the Littlest elf looked up startled. Santa looked up startled.

It is safe to say that everybody was startled!

Inspector Heather flipped a page in her notebook.

Clearing her throat she addressed the room. “Ahem, here are the facts,” and she listed them one by one.

Fact: Every item missing is missing from the Reindeer Ready Room

Fact: Every reindeer is missing exactly one item.

Fact: Rudolph the Reindeer isn’t missing anything.

And, Fact, Heather announced with a great flourish, the fate of all of the missing items is right here in Rudolph’s locker!

Heather pulled open the locker door and stepped back as a small piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Picking up the paper Heather read from top to bottom:

1 hat
1 scarf
4 warmers
and so on until the last item
1 iPod

Blitzen winced.

Heather looked at Santa and the reindeers. “Clearly,” Heather announced, “Rudolph stole these items from the reindeer to sell on eBay. Case closed.”

Rudolph the culprit! Who knew!


Chapter 4 Rudolph’s Mystery

As if on cue the door to the Reindeer Ready Room creaked open and in walked Rudolph, his nose glowing red in delight.

“Yo, crew,” Rudolph hailed in bonhomie, “what it do?” Rudolph threw a mock reindeer gang hoof sign for fun.

The room was so quiet you could hear the hairs growing in Santa’s nose.

Rudolph froze in mid hoof sign and looked around. Nobody was smiling. Nobody was laughing. Inspector Heather stood at the end of the room with her arms crossed and her lips puckered as if she had sucked 40 lemons through a narrow straw.

Rudolph, sensing that things were a little tense, started to back out the door but froze in his tracks when Santa shouted, “FREEZE!!”

Frozen like a reindeer in the headlights, Rudolph managed a weak, “Oh, Santa, wazzzzzup?” which sounded pretty weak given the situation.

Santa and Heather approached Rudolph frowning and brandishing the list. Rudolph backed into a corner and tripping on a footstool crashed to the floor. Looking up he could only stammer, “I ... I ... I ...”

Santa cut to the chase. “Rudolph,” the reindeer are missing stuff and we found this list itemizing each thing stolen in your locker! What do you have to say for yourself?”

Inspector Heather leaned closely with her notebook in hand to record every word of Rudolph’s confession.

All Rudolph could manage to say was, “I ... I ... I ... “

Santa turned around exasperated.

Inspector Heather closed her notebook exasperated.

The reindeer stamped in the Ready Room exasperated.

Finally, Santa looked at his pocket watch, heaved a great sigh and announced, “Well, there’s nothing more to do. The reindeer won’t fly. It’s too late to come up with a new plan.”

All eyes were on Santa.

With a heavy heart Santa said the words they all dreaded to hear,

“We’ll have to cancel Christmas.”

Jon the Littlest elf climbed further into his hat until his eyes were peeking out of the little snowball on top. He blinked furiously.

The reindeer stamped around impatiently. Vixen began to cry.

Santa stroked his beard and looked sad.

Inspector Heather closed her book with a snap, regarding Rudolph who sat in the corner muttering “I ... I ... I ... I ...”

Chapter 5 The Mystery Goes Down

“I ... I ... I ...”

“I can explain.”

Everybody looked around and there standing in front of the fireplace dusting ashes and soot off her bright, sparkly gown stood Princess Leta.

“I can explain,” said Princess Leta quietly, as she walked into the center of the room.

Princess Leta stood quite a bit taller than Jon the Littlest elf, but somewhat shorter than Inspector Heather and Santa. She was resplendent in her sequined pink gown, puffed sleeves, glass slippers and diamond tiara. Princess Leta was queen of the elves and all that was good.

Princess Leta looked fondly upon Rudolph and beckoned him to rise and join her by her side. Rudolph did so.

Then Leta spoke.

“Rudolph came to me some time ago with a strange request. He wanted to do something for the other reindeer for Christmas to make it special for them, but he didn’t know what to do. I told Rudolph to look into his heart and think about what was special to each of his friends and an answer would come.”

Rudolph looked sheepish for a reindeer.

“Rudolph fulfilled his quest,” Leta continued, “and I’m here to deliver the goods, so to speak.”

“Dasher, come forward!”

Dasher pranced forward.

“Rudolph noticed that you favorite knitted hat had some holes in it where moths had feasted. Here is your hat, good as new!”

Leta waved her wand and Dasher’s hat appeared on his head, good as new. Dasher broke into a big smile and bowed to Leta. Turning to Rudolph, Dasher said, “Bro, how could I have doubted you. You’re the best.” He gave Rudolph a hoof bump and walked back to his bunk.

“Prancer, come forward!”

Prancer dashed forward and was given a new pair of warm socks.

One by one the reindeer trotted up to Leta to retrieve their personal favorite items, repaired, each one and better than new.

Finally, Blitzen received a new iPod Touch.

“Whoa, baby, check it out! Google maps and email! This is so cool! How can I ever thank you, Rudy?”

Rudolph’s nose glowed even brighter than usual with a combination of pride and relief.

“No prob, Blitz,” Rudolph replied, “it’s all about enriching lives, one at a time.”

Shortly, all the reindeer were outfitted with their gear and ready to fly.

Jon the Littlest elf crawled out of his hat, revised his report, and, clearing his voice with a Very Loud “Ahem” said to Santa, “Mr. Claus, Reindeer Check!”

Santa chuckled a great big “Ho Ho Ho!” and said to everyone in the room, “Well, don’t just stand there, we’ve got Christmas!”

They all started to march out the door when Vixen raised her voice.

“Hey,” she said, “what about Rudolph? I mean, we got all this cool stuff, but Rudolph’s got nothing and I’m not jiggy with that.”

Princess Leta stepped up and looking at Vixen lovingly said, “Oh, don’t worry, Vix, I’ve got that covered!” And with a wave of her magic wand a small package appeared at Rudolph’s feet.

Rudolph picked up the package and opened it with glee.

“Whoa, check it out, guys,” Rudolph exclaimed, “Binford 3000 Night Vision Navigation Goggles!”

As Rudolph was admiring his goggles Santa stood by him tapping his watch. Santa said, “Rudolph, with your nose so bright and your Binford 3000 Night Vision Navigation Goggles, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?”

Everybody cheered and rushed to the sleigh runway.

Santa in his sleigh departed on time and Christmas was saved.

As Santa disappeared into the moonlight, jingle bells fading, Princess Leta sang,

“Then all the reindeers loved him and they shouted out with glee. Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindeer, you’ll go down in mystery.”

Twelve Two Two Fondue 5 Live!

We are LIVE.

Twelve Two Two Fondue 5

It's that time of the year again!

The cheese, all 16 pounds of it, is bought. We'll get the bread tomorrow so it's fresh. Champagne is on ice. Lights are in the yard. Cats are freaked out.

It's Twelve Two Two!

We'll be broadcasting the festivities on

http://www.ustream.tv/channel/twelve-two-two-fondue

And we'll also be on AIM at farrell1351, and bill.farrell@gmail.com on MSN and wfarrell on .Mac and wffarrell at Yahoo!

Drop in and say "Hi!"

This is the biggest Twelve Two Two ever with parties planned on every continent and in over 60 countries!

Hope to see you there!

Way Down Under

My friend Genevieve works down under.

Way down under.

Way, way, way, way, way down under. And she's not a coal miner, although I wouldn't put it past her.

No, Genevieve works in Antarctica. It's a tough word to spell much less imagine being there.

Ice and cold.

Penguins.

Ice and cold.

Weird stuff in the ocean.

Ice and cold.

Did I mention ice and cold?

Here in Houston it got down to 40 degrees Fahrenheit (see, all you Celsius bigots, I used the "F" word)

In Antarctica it gets to a bazillion degrees below zero. On any scale. Doesn't matter. It's that cold.

Here's what Genevieve wrote about ice on her blog Ice Wishes and Snow Dreams:

Even the striations and bumps and streaks of the snow & ice, blown forever in one direction, were beautifully shaped and heartwrenchingly perfect. Nothing was in error and everything was random & impermanent. Some areas were like wood grain, others like cameo images of canals & lakes & deltas, some were like the gentle folds of a pure white quilt on the foot of your fresh made bed after you just climbed into it. There was so much texture I wanted to go out and crawl around on my hands & knees photographing it closely and in detail, forever. It was like the stone beaches in Maine & NZ that make my heart sing for the infinite variation of it. I could get lost wandering out there watching the snow, rarely noticing the view, and not in order to be careful where to set my feet; but in utter fascination at the shapes & colours & shadows of it.

Genevieve is a gifted writer who is in love with the most inhospitable place on Earth. Her descriptions of the snow, ice and majesty of Antarctica are inspiring.

And I think what I find most interesting is that Genevieve works in Antarctica. She's not a scientist studying some arcane crab, rather she's support staff. She makes the community go. She's infrastructure.

She drives her trucks and fuels her airplanes in Antarctica. Pardon the pun, but how cool is that?

This season Genevieve is at the South Pole Station. Literally the bottom of the World or, when the poles flip, the top of the World!

Genevieve sent me a patch because she knows I like patches. I sent her a scarf because at the South Pole can you have too many scarves?

Check out Genevieve's blog and if you feel so inclined send her something from warmer climes. It's surprisingly easy and her mailing address is on her blog.

I don't know about you, but sending stuff to the South Pole is Very Cool!

New Lens in the House

Who are you?

I'm a Nikon D40. Now known as the "old camera."




Who are you?

Im a Nikon D60. Now known as the "new camera."



So, aside from 4 million more pixels what's the big deal?

Vibration Reduction.

It's "on."

My People, My Tribe

I am participating in a Global Genetics Project sponsored by National Geographic. For a small fee I was sent a kit and instructions on how to harvest cheek cells (yes, in my mouth!) and send them off for National Geographic to figure out my heritage.

That's the back-of-the-envelope description of a vastly more complicated scientific process. However, my part was easy and I sent my cells for analysis a few weeks ago.

The results are in.

I am Cro-Magnon.

Of course, my wife already knew that and I could have saved some money if I had only listened. But, I learned more about my people's journey across the globe and through time, and the project is continuing, so, who knows what details will be discovered in the future.

My "haplogroup" is Rb1, which is quite common and representing most Europeans. The farthest back I can trace my family is Ireland in the 1700's.

The NG project is not that refined. They're tracking vast groups of people.

Here's what is known so far.

About 80,000 thousand years ago the clan of my earliest known ancestor migrated north and east out of Africa and into the Middle East. They then moved north into Russia and then swung around west into Northern Europe. Following the edge of the ice sheets they were forced south into Germany, England, Italy and Spain.

In the diagram above for my group, the "M" numbers refer to "markers" which are significant mutations present in my very own Y chromosome. Not everybody has my mutations.

Only My People, My Tribe.

The trail so far ends about 35,000 years ago in southern Spain where my people dwelt in caves, learned to weave and to carve and to paint. They raised and protected their kids just like we do.

But, here's the interesting part at least to me. From that earliest guy who set off 80,000 years ago following a heard of game or looking for more food or whatever, from that earliest guy all the way to me, someone survived.

Someone survived attacks by animals, disease, war, starvation and a myriad of things that make you dead. Some lucky bastards ducked and weaved their way over 80,000 years to get to me.

I'd thank them all, personally, if I could. What a trip!

What? Snow?

Snow again!

It snowed two years ago. WTF?

This is Houston, not St. Paul!

Kink has never seen snow, so, I kicked him out into the elements and ...

... he loved it!

Kink ran around and jumped around and tried to eat the snowflakes and had a grand time.

Of course, he's never been dropped in a snow drift.

Baby steps.

Return of the Lady of the Lake

I wrote this originally for Beth Cherry while she was on vacation, but I'm posting it again here by popular request. Thank you, requesters! Both of you.

Lady of the Lake
Some years ago I had an opportunity to take a troop of Boy Scouts to a campsite on an American Indian reservation and to arrange for a storyteller from their tribe to speak to us at our evening campfire.

I’m a Scoutmaster, instructor and camp cook, and one of my responsibilities is to provide meals for the other adult leaders.   Since the theme for this campout was “American Indian,” I did some research to find out the kinds of things indigenous people of this region ate and how they prepared their food.  My research was further complicated by the fact that the tribal land where we would camp belonged to a tribe that had been relocated from their native home in the 1800’s.

In any case, as American Indian history is an interest of mine, over the years I have collected a number of textbooks and tomes on the subject and after some study I felt comfortable enough to produce a few “authentic” American Indian recipes.  I use “authentic” in double-quotes because I can’t reproduce the exact foods from their home region, but I felt I could come close to the spirit of the intended meal.

It was mid-November as I recall because Saturday night was the night of the annual Leonid meteor shower due to peak at 3 A.M. when, hopefully, I would be fast asleep.  I like meteor showers as much as the next fellow, but 3 A.M. is sacred!  I guess that’s why I never became an astronomer.

The dish I chose to prepare combined the traditional and the modern.  The traditional was a winter lamb stew made up of lamb, onions, several kinds of squash and peppers.  I deviated from the recipe slightly by using corn and a corn cob to thicken the stew.  The technique is to cook the corn on the cob in the stew, then scrape off the kernels and corn “milk,” then stew the remainder of the cob.  The corn starch thickens the stew nicely.

The modern part of the meal was “Indian Fry Bread” which is a soda bread that is rolled out and deep fried in oil or lard.  I say “modern” because fry bread didn’t appear in Indian diets until the introduction of processed flour, oil and cast iron pots in the 1800’s.

As I was preparing my meal the storyteller arrived to make her arrangements.  The storyteller was a young woman of 35 or 40, small, with long black hair and very, very grey eyes.  We discussed how she would arrive to our campfire by canoe from across the lake and that she would have about 20 minutes to tell a story before the attention span of the boys was exceeded.  She smiled and agreed that all was well.

I invited her to stay for dinner.  We had more than enough and she would be very welcome.

She looked around the campsite.  And, declined our offer.  Thanks, but no thanks.  See y’all later.

Well, to be fair, dinner wouldn’t be ready for a couple of hours and who could blame anyone from not wanting to eat Boy Scout food?

For the next couple of hours I tended my stew, adding water occasionally, giving it a stir to prevent sticking.  On a whim I decided to roast the squash and corn on an open fire to give it that smokey flavor before adding it to the stew.  I thought that the caramelized sugars would add an extra dimension.  To be true to the recipe I probably shouldn’t have done that, but I did.  Sioux me.  (that’s a joke)

Later, when I deemed the stew was ready and the fry bread had been prepared, I called the adults to the table and we served up.  It smelled great.

Just as we were sitting down to eat, the storyteller drove up, got out of her truck and gave us some last minute information.  She had changed from jeans and a work shirt into a long, buckskin dress and beads.  Her hair was tied back in a long, black pony tail.  We’d have to push the campfire time back an hour to 9 o’clock she told us and I assured her that wouldn’t be a problem.

As she turned to leave, she paused.  I figured she had more to tell us but she just stood there looking into the distance.  She tilted her head up and closed her eyes.  After a few seconds she turned to me and asked, “What is that I smell?”

I was caught off guard by her question but recovered enough to reply, lamely, “Dinner?  Would you like a bowl of winter lamb stew and some fry bread?”

As in a trance, she nodded slowly, sat herself at our table and we set her up with the last bowl of stew (there wasn’t much left) and a small piece of fry bread.

She ate slowly and in silence.

Sensing something different going on, and with a guest present, we all ate in silence; the normal banter abated.

When the storyteller finished her meal she looked up at me and said, and I’ll never forget her words,

“My grandmother made this.”

I took it to mean that her grandmother made the same lamb stew, although as I reflect on that moment many years later, and many reflections later, I’m not so sure.

“My grandmother made this for me as a child.  She roasted the corn which was not the tradition, but she did it anyway.  I remember the smells.  I remember the texture.  I remember the taste.  My grandmother made this.”

Rising from the table the storyteller said her good-byes and told us she’d see us at nine at the campfire.  I recall her eyes cast down as if deep in thought.

As she walked across the grounds to her truck she paused, looked back at me and said, “Thank you.”  To this day I can’t remember if I heard the actual words or read her lips.

We held our campfire at the shore of the lake.  Sang songs.  Performed skits.  Typical Scout stuff.  Around 9 P.M. a torch-lit canoe glided across the water carrying the storyteller.  We told the boys she would be coming and there was much anticipation.

Once on shore the storyteller introduced herself and told the boys that everything she was about to relate was the Absolute Truth.  Ah, the mark of an expert storyteller.  The boys were held in rapt attention for nearly 40 minutes, twice as long as I expected.  The story was about a grandmother and her experiences as a child.  I confess, I got lost in the story and don’t remember the details.

Then, it was over and the storyteller glided back across the lake to her home and her bed and a good nights sleep.

Not so me.

Around 3 A.M. I awoke with a start.  My heart was pounding.  I was sweating.  I had been chased by something, but now I was awake and the something was gone and I was in my tent looking out into the night across the lake.

Whooosh!  A meteor flashed across the sky.  The Leonid meteor shower!  Whoooosh!  Another one even brighter than the previous.  

Whooosh!  The brightest yet, illuminating the entire lake shore.  And, as I looked out I saw an old lady standing on the shore of the lake.  She was very tall, wore a long, buckskin dress and beads.  Her grey hair was tied back in a long pony tail.  

The lady raised her left hand which I saw by the light of a dying meteor.  I raised mine in return.

Whooosh!  Another meteor exploded in the early morning sky into a shower of green and yellow sparks and I blinked in reflex.  When I opened my eyes and got accustomed to the night, the lady was gone.

I watched the meteor show for a short while after that then drifted off to sleep.

The next day we struck camp, packed up and headed back home.  I thought about the storyteller and the lady from the lake.  I was half-awake.  Maybe I imagined the whole thing.  In time I put the weekend behind me.

One thing I can tell you, though.  I’ve never been able to duplicate that recipe for winter lamb stew and I’ve tried many times.  I’ve done the roasting, I’ve tried combinations of peppers and squash and it’s close but no cigar.  Not quite the same satisfying taste, not quite the same texture.  Not quite the same as I remember.

Oh, and one other thing.  I tried to contact the tribe so I could talk to the storyteller and find out more about her and her grandmother and maybe that recipe, and the tribe has been pretty adamant about this:

“We don’t have a storyteller.  We’ve never had a storyteller.”
 

Conjunction

Tonight the Moon, Venus and Jupiter did a little dance.

In case you missed it, and will have to wait 500 years or so for the next dance, here it is.