the pink icing got me

the pink icing got me. really. if it had not been for the pink icing, i would have been good. isn’t it always like that? you’re doing just fine and then some pink icing shows up on a brownie cake on your desk at work. and then all Spain breaks loose. (nobody expects the spanish inquisition!!!)

 

 

 

Not at all like when i was ten and used to sit on the floor of the library for hours reading about Jenny the cat, or some French girl with a horrible haircut and a bunch of watercolor nuns, while my mother and father roamed through the stacks, or did whatever they did when they went to the library. back in the days of run-on sentences from getting-up-in-the-morning until the head on my pillow sank into a white-cloud ocean-going-vessel set sail for Sleepytime. ah, those were the days, and the nights, and the dreams…mostly sweet, with kitty cat cakes decorated with lime, orange, and cherry gumdrops…back before looking in the mirror at Mister Hippo wasn’t a daily morning encounter.

Now don’t get me wrong, Mister Hippo has been there the whole time. Even on my vacations. But lately, Mister Hippo has…been…looking…middle age. there, it had to be said. middle. age. where the thirtyish looking body went, God only knows, replaced by a complete foreigner looking like Mon. Poirot and belching like a sea lion off the coast of California.

i found solace in Pepto, as in Bismol, but the raging circus from parts unknown disturbed my sleep. i awoke staring in the mirror like an Escher painting meeting an Edgar Alan Poe short story. Why are the eyes red? And why do I feel like I have been rummaging through the cask of amontillado when i haven’t partaken of liquid spirits since a glass of kosher wine with my spaghetti…many moons ago?  

if i had known that middle age was going to be like this, i would have come prepared. i would have brought a year’s supply of peppermints, a complete Shakespeare, and a lifetime-guaranteed Gumby…to yank and pull rather than go through a metamorphosis myself.

but no. age demands we take notice. i may still be able to pass for thirty five some days, but there are too many others featuring mornings resembling the day after Ghenghis Khan’s final invasion, days when i do not feel human until water is sliding down my face…and warm at that.

and while i have adapted to not being as handsome as i was, say, six months ago…i can still look in the mirror and recognize the spittin image of Clark Gable…and Johnny Depp…and even swish my hair back out of my face. i may be sitting in middle age, but i refuse to succumb to an image as Mister Hippo every morning. Maybe mini Hippo, but not full blown….

 

Buy it from your local farmer

In wake of the WalMart LSD-laced steak episode, I ask you: Isn’t it time we stopped buying meat at the grocery store and bought it directly from local farmers? (of course you urbanites will have to settle for mystery meat, it comes with living in a city…unless you find a way to get it from a real farm). I am looking up that number I saw in the local classified tabloid- time to buy some grass-eating steak.

I mean, I would rather trust the farmer than a meat packer making minimum wage at a part time job…so he or she can buy more drugs…

the lost years…or, “give me one more hour of sleep!”

So…I was reading through the news when I saw an article about sleeping. The article claimed that a ninety year old will have slept thirty years of his or her life. So, that would mean that he or she was up for sixteen hours every day.

This, of course, does not include that time period when you pretended to be awake for your school teacher/headmaster- we might add at least a year there.

And, what about those times when your wife was nagging you about fixing the plumbing and you took a little mental vacation to the Bahamas while you pretended to be awake? How much does that add up to your actual time sleeping?

And there are countless additional “sleeping moments” we could add, extending sleeping time another four or five years…especially if we count watching reruns on television when we were half asleep mentally. Well, some of us…or you. Not me. I gave up the Seinfeld Marathon Lifestyle a long time ago.

Now, I sleep and have trouble remembering my dreams. It is odd, but I simply cannot remember any dreams in the past few months…which may explain why I am feeling quite grumpy…

...and which is why I will likely slip into sleep as soon I finish this sente…

Continental Confusion

Parsley is so underrated. First, it is green. Second, It is savory. And, also, it compliments garlic, blends well with cucumber, and makes chicken look pretty (at least the legs, thighs, and breasts). When was the last time a condiment made your legs, thighs, and breasts look better…oh, never mind…

But really, you could do worse. Especially with what you have in the fridge…well, if you’re single. Trying to come up with new recipes is difficult. To make matters worse, many of us shop at the grocery with a short circuit telling us to “get out of the store! get out of the store! do it now! before it is too late! no, not that dark chocolate…it has 43 grams of sugar. get out of the store!”

So you pass by the frozen food section, trying not to look at the cute redhead, and dump several plastic-like bags of beer battered fish into the cart, some unknown and unpronounceable vegetable mix, and a can of fruit cocktail. Fruit cocktail- what the flip are you thinking of! You can’t mix it with anything!

And so you cover ground much more quickly…until the hormones kick in…and you discover you are clutching an avocado. And a package of smelt-like little chicken strips from the severed legs of surprised, but now deceased, poultry. God forbid you put them back, as the young cashier who seems to smile every time you look her way, sees you try- attempt- to put them back. In the drink aisle. Near some sort of new coconut water.

So when you come to the checkout line- or counter, and let the young woman caress your avocado into a plastic bag, you now have no idea what to make with this mess. You comfort yourself with the thought that no one will see your meal, even if you decide to eat fish and chips for the seventh time in a row.

But your muse is telling you- as you drive home- that you can do something with your mix, even the fruit cocktail. “Surely, there is something I can make…different.”

And you would be right. Even if you had the following ingredients, very little time, and an IQ bordering on the average intelligence of an African Swallow (or is it European?).

With glee- not watching the program- you cook your fishy-looking chicken strips in a pan, then follow the following incredible directions, making yourself look like a super genius…

1. Mash one avocado

2. Add two tablespoons of hummus, two tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil, and a handful (ripped, not shredded peacefully) of curled parsley. Mash with a fork, then stir.

3. Add a teaspoon of garlic (or add your own mutilated garlic cloves), a dash of hungarian paprika, a dash of cumin, and a dash of love. Mix well.

4. Dice- violently- a cucumber (best done while watching football, hockey, or hurling) into tiny little bits. Dump into a bowl with the other ingredients.

5. Add some chopped scallions on top (I didn’t have any).

Viola! You have a magnificent dinner…with or without accompanying diners.

to my loyal blogites

just a short note to say I am battling some kind of ferocious illness…the flesh is indeed weak and will some day pass away…but my spirit shall continue forever.

Rejecting the Refrigerator

Is anyone else tired of chicken? Not just any chicken, the plain chicken you get in the grocery store that you have to take home and put in the refrigerator. That chicken. That kind of food.

I’m tired of tasteless. My taste buds aren’t 95 years old. I’m not gumming my food. And my cultural inclination- when eating meat- is to embellish it, with or without sauce…

Or seven herbs and spices, the kind the colonel makes. The colonel used to make. The colonel used to have his workers make. After all, he’s dead, and so is his chicken…tortured or untortured…thrown against the wall or not thrown against the wall…Kentucky Fried Chicken, the eighth wonder of the world.

Maybe, in my longing for small, controlled plastic sealed mashed potatoes and gravy, I feel a certain affinity with the rest of the USA. That would make sense, as this Irish boy does not feel at home- some of the time- in this polyglot nation of fast food giants,

Which would make you cook at home most of the time. Which I do. Which is why I am eating fresh ingredients from my refrigerator’s vast domain. Which is why I am getting tired of eating yummy things that are healthy for me. Which is why I drool passing by the aroma of freshly frying chicken. Which is another reason for writing in phrases, breaking all the rules of standard English in one paragraph.

Perhaps, though, there is some truth to those fringe elements, those who have made documentaries of horrific tales of chemical additive addiction. And not just those who  religiously read The Weekly world News, but a vast contingent of average, law-abiding citizens.

People like this man….

 

who claim the colonel adds an addictive chemical making you “cleave fortnightly.” (Mike Myers, So I Married An Axe Murderer)

Nevertheless, I am determined…yes, I have pledged…to drive forty-five minutes to partake in the juicy-seared-goodness of the colonel’s chicken- regardless of that poor chicken’s previous treatment in captivity before succombing to the plucker,  the freezer, and trip to the restaurant.

I shall be away for awhile, enjoying my plastic tub of mashed potatoes and gravy, but I shall return soon to eat dinner at home, with or without sauce.

 

How do I love thee? Let me count the glaze

We face a growing problem in The West. An increasingly disturbing range of bulging behemoths spend reckless days before computerized game devices, munching on the joys of high fructose corn syrup, powdered sugar, and genetically modified substances.

Even the United States Military is awash in an epidemic of mastodon-sized munchkins trying to get inside the lean, mean, fighting machine. If recruiters are having trouble finding fit individuals among the epidemic of rotundity, the nation that once thought of itself as “the leaders of the free world,” might just become the leaders of the largest obesity bloc in the world.

Recently, a publication insisted that recent data from reliable sources, claims that Mexico is now the mas grande gordo nation on earth. I’m a bit skeptical about that, but if true, it would prove that exports from the United States do have some effect on the wonderful people of Mexico. Alas, it must also mean that the donut invasion of Mexico is complete, with remarkable success.

I have personally experienced the wonders of overindulgence in the powdery realm (There is nothing like working in a donut factory and getting to take all-you-can-carry bags of day old donuts home for the freezer, and the rest of the growing clann). So, in remembrance of those days, and in honor of the mastodonian growth of our local populace, I have penned a most wonderfully bad bit of poetry for the occasion.

O, how do I love thee?

Let me count the glaze…

waft so gently, waft so softly

O, waft, stuffed filled

with creme,

through the air, through the store

with a grand passion supreme-

O Donut, Sweet Donut,

For thee, I do declare

I owe you my happiness

for the dark chocolate eclair.

In your wax paper bags

In your cardboard boxes galore

you tempt me so tenderly

like waves crashing on the shore

let me drown’d in your aroma

let me dance on floured floor

O Donut, Sweet Donut,

Tis only you I adore.

A Peaceful Place

After reading a recent post online, I thought of this place…one of the most peaceful places I can remember…well, with the caveat that it was also in bear country, near wild huckleberries, a treat for bears.

But I did not encounter bears, I encountered this. I can imagine a region in Heaven being like this- a place so magnificent, so relaxing, you have to sit down and drink it all in…which is what I did here.

Living in Hamalot

I like being kosher, but just not right now. Right now, I have to finish the 3.5 pounds of ham I bought to support the local economy…and have an option to chicken.

I live in a town known for one thing- southern barbequed ham. If you live within a thirty mile radius, you’ve heard of it. If you travel through the area, playing tourist, you might miss it, unless you walk inside the town store.

When you open the door, the whole store smells like barbequed ham. It sits warming in a rotissere machine, not more than a few feet from a cooler filled with ham-accessories- rich, sweet baked beans, cole slaw, and southern potato salad. There are other things in the cooler, but it is difficult to concentrate in the aroma-cloud of ham. Everything in the store is secondary, for back against the wall, through junk-food aisles, it hides, like a prize generator hiding on an electricity-free night in the dead-heat of summer.

I’m working on the ham. It may be my last. I am trying to give up ham for good, which may not be too difficult. Before I moved here, I really didn’t care much for ham. Although not a practicing Jew- I’m a Christian- I ate more of a kosher diet most of my life.

And I have seen some things…things I try not to remember when eating ham. I’ve inspected farms and seen what pigs will eat. I will not disgust you, but it isn’t pretty. There is a lot of wisdom to eating a kosher diet, but I won’t go into that right now. For now, let’s just say, my time in Hamalot is soon coming to a close, and I’ll be leaving behind ham-eating for good. So, as I enjoy my last barbeque ham, I must admit that living in Hamalot has helped me understand the meaning of porky…and helped me plan some other alternatives to the tasteless chicken option.

Justice and mercy

I struggle with diabetes. Many years ago, I worked in a high stress, high performance, high profile career that contributed to a food and health lifestyle that lead to the development of that diabetes. It didn’t help that I made my own bread, pasta, and pancakes. Or started the morning with a mountain dew and a couple of candy bars.

When I came into the office in the morning, before we went out to work, everybody else was sleepy, waking up. I was zigging one liners, feeling totally off-the-wall. And, sometimes, I felt out of control, like I couldn’t stop being goofy. I had no idea I had high sugar levels. No one in the family had it…

I say all of this to say that this morning I have an A1C test, a particular blood sugar test diabetics would quickly recognize. I had been doing better, but a diet high in vegetables, low fat, and some fruit, with occasional forages with lean meat, is very difficult for a guy who grew up eating hamburgers, pasta, and potatoes nearly everyday for years.

So, I have listened to the doctor, studied on my own, and read the Word. It is the latter that I now know is the place to start in fighting this disease. The Word speaks of living a life that is not fast-paced, not high-stress, and requires vigilance.

It is not just what we eat that brings on diabetes. It is also how we think, how we live, where we live, what we do for work…so many factors effect health. In light of my present circumstances, I have more time to contemplate that Word. In essence, I am fighting diabetes, but also need to be sure of God’s direction- I am job searching.

How then shall we live?

What is required of us is  this: to do justice, love kindness (some versions say “mercy”), and walk humbly with God. (Micah 6:8)

*You cannot work in a high stressed job where people want you to manipulate people and “do justice.”

*Mercy (or kindness) does not include a job where we treat the poor with contempt. Being kind and merciful, walking humbly with God, would quickly bring a conflict there.

*A job that encourages senseless wealth accumulation at the expense of others cannot conform to this Word.

I would appreciate your thoughts, comments, and reflections.