the road to the top of nowhere?

i have a headache the size of a mountain this evening…and it does not come from scaling heights to glimpse a fantastic view, like this one above Lost River, deep in Nowhere, West Virginia. No, it is a problematic headache, the kind that Jacob had before he wrestled with the angel, or the kind that Moses had as he looked up at the peak  they called “the mountain of God.” I admit, sometimes in this walk of faith, I feel like a Sontaran in a candy shop- not quite knowing how to respond tactically to something that currently makes no logical sense. Still, I cling to what has always worked- to wait expectantly for the Lord…as He is the God of my salvation. (Micah 7:7)

This picture- from the past- reminds me of the time I climbed this mountain- not alone then. It reminds me that people, in their selfishness, can choose the wrong road, the wrong mountain height, only to find themselves so waylaid and so far from home. I do not want to go there…so I will continue to trust in the Lord, even when my thoughts are so much smaller than those of the Lord.

Clueless

Pardonez-moi, but I seem to be missing something. Something green and familiar. Not that I am complaining. No, that would be silly. But it would be nice if at least one person…even a relative…would drop in from the emerald isle…or maybe, just maybe, a Scottish red-haired gem-de-la-femme…

Culture is a rather sloppy thing to sort out. I once met a girl from Inverness- years ago before I had the guts to hold onto her…who taught me how to make something she called “Scottish Rice.” I watched as her friend emptied ingredients into a bowl, then cooked some rice, and finished the coveted dish. But when they doled it out onto plates, I found myself thinking how oddly familiar it looked. And then I realized, it resembled something my college friends made when they were low on funds.

Recently, I visited a “follower” to read her latest post, and found myself feeling woefully ignorant. In two successive posts she mentioned fruit and cultural characteristics so foreign to me, I stumbled across the page and landed on my cultural backside.

But it is culture that makes us interesting to one another. We can find deep pleasure in experiencing difference, while human nature remains the same (that’s “sane human nature”). Love will always be supreme, whether it is practiced or cherished or not…I am a teddy bear…and what the world needs now is love sweet…so much so, that I need a visit from some of my clann across The Pond…and, of course, I would not mind hearing from The Pond- Amy Pond herself…Karen Gillan…but I suppose I am dreaming again…but maybe, as I am leaving the Tardis…wait, I’m still awake!

The Perils of Making Chicken Soup

I gotta tell ya- celery is underrated. Without it, chicken soup is just a whole lot of chicken and broth, irregular vegetables, some nice herbs, garlic, and a lot of slippery floor. The latter is a result of being single and not having anyone come over and say, “Hey, Daithi- you gonna clean up that floor?” Not that I am a slob or anything. I mean, what single man vigorously scrubs his floor around the sink and stove twice a day? Come on, that’s so “Martha Stewart.” Chicken broth just naturally spills over onto the floor. It’s a given as an adult single male trying to contain a fowl liquid. Besides, I would never invite Martha Stewart over for dinner- my plates clash with my silverware.

And, you know- I’m sure she isn’t a celery aficionado. But I am. I have been, ever since Peter Davison attached a celery stick to his lapel as the fifth Doctor (Doctor Who). He seemed to be a pretty stable guy, you know- the kind of guy you’d give your dog to – on a leash- if you had to catch that wayward frisbee headed for the pretty woman walking down the street…

But this isn’t about Peter Davison, who, by the way, was the most happy man on BBC-TV during his reign as the smiling veterinarian on “All Creatures Great and Small.” No, this isn’t really about celery, it is mostly about slippery. For everyone knows that making chicken soup “from scratch” is a dangerous thing- especially when you’re wrestling with a stock pot full of broth.

My favorite part of the broth making process involves plopping ice cubes into the waiting vat, then watching them vanish into the swirling fat-laden ocean. By then, the radioactive-like steam rising from Chernnobyl-I mean, the pot- has disappeared into enticing vapors floating around the kitchen. Next in the process, one must use magnificent dexterity, pouring the liquid into level-placed plastic containers. But it isn’t so much the liquid that is the problem, but the containers, which were manufactured in China…while the lids themselves were made in West Detroit on a Monday by people trying to decipher Chinese measurements. I’m sure they are able to decipher Chinese as well as I  can follow a camel herd in Uzbekistan. This becomes evident when trying to screw on the lid- it always fails to match the grooves…and suddenly, I am drenched in eau de chicken broth…

…which is a bad thing when you are as talented as I am. My only consolation is knowing that neither Martha Stewart, nor Peter Davison, can see me now. I feel more like Jamie Oliver…the naked chef…and I am putting those clothes in the washer- Now!