"There's furniture in the kitchen."
I wiggled the newspaper to indicate "transmission received" and feeling all Maine-like for no particular reason other than it's Fall Back week muttered an "Ay-yup" for emphasis.
"Oh, I get it." (She's a fast study, my daughter.) "The guys had to move all this stuff from there to here because they're going to paint the floors there."
"Refinish."
"Whatever. How long is this stuff going to be in here?"
I put down the paper, fixed my daughter with The Glare and transmitted the answer telepathically.
"Oh, until the floor is dry, cured or whatever, about two days."
I'm glad I learned telepathy. It saves a lot of time.
Monday, November 02, 2009
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Paying the Piper
Or in this case the plumber.
It all started with a damp patch in the front yard which led to a call to the Lawn Sprinkler guys who said: Not our problem.
Then it was a call to the plumber who said, "Youse gots a bad problem." The solution to the problem involved, in part, tearing a giant hole in the closet of a person who wasn't too terribly happy about the giant hole.
Once the plumber finished, the hole remained. It had to be fixed by the House guy. So, I called the House guy to fix the hole in the sheetrock.
Hilarity ensued.
Yeah, said House guy, we can fix that hole for about $300. Deal, I said. I should have stopped there, but noooooooo.
Hey, House guy, while you're here do you think you could do something about our gutters that seemed to have settled into the wrong angle, that is, they dangle and the rain puddles in a triangle, the plants below they do mangle.
House guy said, Fo Shizzle!
And, while you're at it, House guy, how about that trim that's starting to wear, and our hardwood floors need refinishing and I could sure use some carpentry magic on this cabinet so I could buy a HD TV and what about this and what about that.
House guy was very accommodating. Very accommodating, indeed! Nothing was impossible, it just took time and money.
The moral of the story is that I could have done this stuff a little at a time over several years, but as a professional procrastinator I'd lose my certification! Not worth it. Better to do it all at once. Oh, and let's throw in a new washer and dryer, especially if it has a computer in it. Oh, and how about the lights in the garage that haven't worked in 10 years.
House guy said, Fo $hizzle!
Did I mention new toilets? How could I be so remiss??
Ain't they purty?
It all started with a damp patch in the front yard which led to a call to the Lawn Sprinkler guys who said: Not our problem.
Then it was a call to the plumber who said, "Youse gots a bad problem." The solution to the problem involved, in part, tearing a giant hole in the closet of a person who wasn't too terribly happy about the giant hole.
Once the plumber finished, the hole remained. It had to be fixed by the House guy. So, I called the House guy to fix the hole in the sheetrock.
Hilarity ensued.
Yeah, said House guy, we can fix that hole for about $300. Deal, I said. I should have stopped there, but noooooooo.
Hey, House guy, while you're here do you think you could do something about our gutters that seemed to have settled into the wrong angle, that is, they dangle and the rain puddles in a triangle, the plants below they do mangle.
House guy said, Fo Shizzle!
And, while you're at it, House guy, how about that trim that's starting to wear, and our hardwood floors need refinishing and I could sure use some carpentry magic on this cabinet so I could buy a HD TV and what about this and what about that.
House guy was very accommodating. Very accommodating, indeed! Nothing was impossible, it just took time and money.
The moral of the story is that I could have done this stuff a little at a time over several years, but as a professional procrastinator I'd lose my certification! Not worth it. Better to do it all at once. Oh, and let's throw in a new washer and dryer, especially if it has a computer in it. Oh, and how about the lights in the garage that haven't worked in 10 years.
House guy said, Fo $hizzle!
Did I mention new toilets? How could I be so remiss??
Ain't they purty?
Saturday, October 31, 2009
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.
"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!
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!
Sunday, September 20, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, September 18, 2009
The Four Stages of Leak
There are Two Universal Truths:
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.
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.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
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!
Yes, she lives at the South Pole.
In case you're thinking of going down there to cool off, better check this out!
Monday, August 24, 2009
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!)
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!)
Thursday, August 20, 2009
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.)
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?"
I said, "Do you really want to see that stuff in court?"
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
United Breaks Guitars Part 2
Dave Carroll and the Sons of Maxwell continue the saga of his broken guitar:
Revisit the original story here!
Revisit the original story here!
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, August 02, 2009
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.)
Friday, July 31, 2009
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.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
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
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
Sunday, July 12, 2009
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!
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!
Saturday, July 11, 2009
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 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?
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
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!
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!
Monday, June 15, 2009
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.
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.
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