I blame math

I admit it. I am a control freak.

I offer to drive because I like being in control of the vehicle and destination. I like being the lead duck. I like having a formula or equation. I like figuring out the solution.

Much of my "human life" has been spent truckling along my own little path. I generally assume that I don't make that much of an impact on the planet. (okay, part of that is by design so I can continue to claim the element of surprise when I and my kind take over) I have a quiet little life that is pretty much designed to be with in my control, more or less.

Not to say I can't handle the unexpected. It's just that over the years, I've always been pretty good at controlling that which I could and thus being able to roll with the unknown.

Like traveling. I love to travel. I love the planning. I like arriving at the airport early, having a treat and cup of coffee. Arriving at my destination in the manner in which I expected to. . . and then just letting the adventure happen. I'm very good with the logistics.

This past year, it's all gone to hell. I feel that not much has been within my control. I've had several losses, have more coming, and all of it is beyond my control.

Which sucks.

And, I blame math for convincing me that there is, in fact, and equation for every problem.

A good ol' Toad

For years, we debated if Toad were the next dali lama, or if he had already spent a life as a lama and his reward was to spend an incarnation as one of our pets.

Toad was totally at one with his world and he loved all beings. He was the only one of the cats who didn't mind the dog. He demanded from and gave affection to everyone who entered our home. In his younger days, before he lost his hearing, we could call him by making kissing noises. He loved to have his head kissed. Sometimes, after parties in our home, he would have multiple shades of lipstick on his forehead.

When he was a kitten, he was so rambunctious that we briefly considered giving him back to his mother's owner. (Our cat Mr. Cat was his father.) He didn't so much mew as bellow like a love sick moose. When we first moved into our current home, we decided to stop feeding all the neighborhood cats. . . within hours of arriving in this home, Toad climbed into a window, bellowed, and cats just started showing up.

Even after being fixed, twice, he was a randy thing. He liked to hump stuffed animals. He especially liked an audience. When we would have company, he'd drag a stuffed animal into the sitting room and we would rush to take it away from him before the floor show started. Other times, he'd hump away outside our bedroom door, bellowing away, trumpeting that he was getting some.

Most of all, he was a loving but annoying perfect cat. He died today, shy of his 20th birthday. He had a great life with us. I miss him terribly already.

Obligatory Xmas Rant

I had this thought, while driving home past the mall, tonight. Fake trees have ruined christmas. Because of fake trees, the christmas holiday starts before halloween in some stores.

I have vivid memories of going into the woods with the Old Man and Old Woman, finding a tree we liked (not too big, not the only one in the area) and cutting it down . . . usually just a couple days before christmas. In years past, people didn't buy trees until just before christmas . . . a dry tree and electric lights were a fire hazard.

But, now, you can pull a pre-lit tree out of a plastic bag, prop it up and voila! Instant christmas . . . only not. Because it was veteran's day yesterday and it is too early to be decking the halls . . . we haven't even had thanksgiving.

Frankly, I'm thinking that this earlier and earlier stuff is one of the reason christmas sales are down year after year . . . people get burned out on christmas before December even rolls around.

Love Fest

As I imagine humans to be, I was a shakey and uncertain "teen" monkey. Self-concious, desparately trying to hide from being noticed in a bad way by my peers, just trying to survive in a world where I was sure no one understood me. I did a lot of self-indulgent navel gazing in those days.

This afternoon, quite by accident, through the miracle of the internet, I found an old high school friend. This guy was tremendously unique. He sat next to me in homeroom and was artsy. He wore outlandish clothes, eye make up, and was thoroughly himself. He's now a very cool artist in New York City.

We swapped notes back and forth for a few quick minutes, and it was one big ol' lovefest. To my surprise, my friend thought of me as being "lightyears more intelligent than our peers" and hoped that my being nice to him meant he was smart too. Funny to hear how other people see you . . . when you really don't see yourself yet.

He did remind me that I introduced him to Laurie Anderson's music. I spent pretty much a whole summer listening to this song . . . back when I was cool.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-4xatLeWF8

NOLA Eats: Other food

Red beans and rice is a staple meal in New Orleans. It is the perfect food. Cheap, easy to prepare, nutritious, and can be well seasoned. The best red beans and rice we've ever had was in the student cafeteria at Loyola University in the garden district. Plentiful and cheap and very tasty. This particular plate is at Pat O's. Not bad, perhaps a bit too much sausage with the grilled bit and the chunks in the red beans. But a decent meal. I also had a salad with it. Pat O's makes a really nice balsamic vinaigrette dressing. The Phenom opted for the sample plate. Previously, he'd tried the red beans, but wanted to see what their jambalaya and gumbo was like.

The jambalaya was fiery tasty. I mean really hot. Like sweat breaking out on your brow and you can't stop eating hot. I don't know if Phenom even got around to the gumbo because the jambalaya was such a hit. I know that future trips will include a meal that is Pat's jambalaya.

The only bone I really have to pick with Pats . . . as well as other establishments is that the iced tea is unsweetened. Um, don't let the yankee tourists change the whole sweet tea thing!! It's the south . . . we need the tea to be sweet.

Another favorite spot of ours is the Camilla Grill. You have to take the St. Charles streetcar all the way through the garden district until it turns onto New Carollton Ave. It's a diner and only has a limited number of counter seats. They are well known for their breakfasts . . . especially something called a chili omelet. The guys who work there have been there forever, and get to know their customers over the visits. I can't resist their most excellent Reuben sandwiches. . .

They grill the pastrami and there is something about the russian dressing (which normally I wouldn't touch) that I love. Someday, I want to walk up to the Camilla Grill, one of the guys to see me, and just automatically throw a Reuben on the grill for me.

The Camilla Grill nearly didn't reopen after Katrina. But, locals would stop by and put little notes on the door, imploring the owners to reopen. When they did reopen, they took all those little notes, and made a collage out of them. It's hanging in the Grill now. I love it, and find it a touching reminder that despite it being a tourist hot spot, real people live and love and fight and die in New Orleans. I may love it as a visitor, but for the people who live there . . . it has an entirely deeper meaning.

NOLA Eats: Meals, Part One

I think I'm going to devote this entire post to Mother's. Mothers is just a couple blocks outside the French Quarter (on Canal St, hang a right at the doubletree and go a couple blocks) proper and thus is frequented by people in the know or locals. No drunken bachelorette parties from Florida here.

Their sign boasts "world's best baked ham" . . .

I usually dismiss such claims, because who doesn't make them, really?

Because, even after a night of fast and hard drinking, the Phenom was like a worm in hot ash and couldn't sleep, we got up early and headed over. We arrived just before 11am, which is when they start lunch service (although they serve breakfast all day) so, I had to put off my foray into the world of ferdi. Instead, I went for the 2 egg, grits, meat, biscuit breakfast, or "the usual".

I was done in by the usual. That has never happened before. Look:

My meal is in the front (yes, I'm gross and mix my eggs and grits) and the Phenom's "single egg and toast" is in the back. (the Phenom's one egg was more like one dinosaur egg). But, the really important thing here is the ham. SEE THAT HAM? It truly is the world's best ham. You know how good pot roast will flake with your fork? That is how tender this ham is . . . and it's juicy and flavorful . . . and I kept thinking that the cooking juices from that ham would make the best pot of beans ever. I'm still trying to figure out who I have to sweet talk to get them to ship one of their hams to the old people for xmas this year. I am now totally obsessed with this ham. The Phenom would like me to point out that he also ordered a bowl of grits, which was delivered just after this picture was taken . . . and it was big, and buttery, and the reason he couldn't finish his dino-egg.

Friday night, we returned for the ferdi experience. First, I should explain, a Ferdi is Mother's version of the New Orleans classic sandwich, the Po' boy. A po'boy is sturdy french bread with the meat of your choice (often several, and/or deep fried sea food) and is dressed with mustard, pickles, and lettuce. The ferdi takes this to a whole new level. Sure, Mother's has the fried catfish or fried shrimp po' boys . . . but the classic is the Ferdi or the Turkey Ferdi. I opted for the Turkey Ferdi with ham.

That stuff on top is the money. They call it "debris" . . . it's pot roast that has been shredded and then dumped into the pan juices . . . and they top their ferdis with it. GENIUS!!!! And, because the sandwich is so substantial, they dress theirs with cabbage. I was done in by this meal too. Oh yeah, the turkey is roasted at Mother's and is just like eating that post thanksgiving turkey sandwich. YUM.

The Phenom ordered a bowl of their jambalaya. He liked it but said it didn't burn the way he was hoping it would.

Oh, there was a decent line, on Friday night, at 8:30 to just get into the place . . . and they had one of NOLA's finest handling the door. And, this is a place that's been open since the 30s. Below is the Phenom's jambalaya.

NOLA Eats: Non-Boozy Drinks

Yes, such exists. Mostly in the form of coffee. They make a dark, rich coffee which is part coffee and part chicory. It has less caffeine, and a rich taste well suited for cream.

Over the years, and with much experimentation, we have discovered that if you leave the bar (at 3 or 4 in the morning) and toddle over to Cafe du Monde for Cafe au Lait and Beignets before wandering back to the bed you intend to occupy for the night . . . you won't be hung over in the morning (around about 11am). I like cream in my coffee, since I am a recreational coffee drinker. But, the only time I ever put sugar in my coffee is when I can heap spoonfuls of powdered sugar from my beignets.

Oh yeah, since being hungover is something of a function of dehydration, drink the glass of water they give you. It helps. Beignets are lovely little pillows of fried dough. And, really, who doesn't love fried dough?

I'll write more about the Camilla Grill later, but for now, I want to mention one of their star attractions . . . the Freeze. It's a concoction of ice cream, milk, ice and flavor . . . I like the coffee but the Phenom swears by the chocolate. I give you the Chocolate Freeze. . . it's world famous.

And, although it's not strictly a beverage, I'm including it here because we don't do much in the way of desserts in NOLA. There is a little gelateria in the shadow of St. Louis Cathedral. It's owned by this cute little, hip italian couple I imagine are retired from something else entirely. They are Zagat's rated, have quirky theme nights . . . like Terrible Movie Night. But their gelato is the real deal. On my last trip, I had Balsamic Strawberry that was amazing and the inspiration for doing a series of entries about NOLA food. This trip, I had to try to decide between the Peach Proscecco or the Azteca. The azteca was a very dark chocolate with cinnamon and hot pepper . . . it was amazing and had quite a kick. But, I went with the peach because the girl working the counter told me that it was the end of the peaches and likely the last batch of the season. The Phenom had the banana, again.

Here's there counter:

And our Peach Proscecco and Banana gelato (with an orange spice iced tea).

NOLA Eats: Boozy drinks

The food was too much to put in one entry, so I'm breaking it up a bit. Of course, we have to start with the boozy drinks. I asked the Phenom what part of the trip he likes best, and he always says "the first Hurricane." I think because there are such good memories, dating all the way back to the spring break trip in 1984 with a grad school friend who grew up in the Big Easy. The Phenom still has such great, vivid memories of the great food his friend's mom cooked, the drinks, and just how much fun it was to see New Orleans for the first time. I think the first hurricane gives him just a tiny reminder of that first time.

Of course, the first night, we tend to over indulge just a bit . . .

Oh, who am I kidding. . . that's pretty much a normal night for us. For those of you who plan to visit NOLA, here is what you need to know about Pat O'Briens.

A) it is a very popular place with both tourists and locals. There are three bars . . . the main bar, the piano bar, and the patio. Drinks are priced based on the bar. . . cheapest in the main bar, most expensive in the piano bar.

B) TIP YOUR SERVER WELL!!! These folks live off tips, and they will remember you for future visits and find you a table when it is crowded and come check on you often.

C) For most drinks, you can either keep your glass or you can return the glass to the bar for a $3 refund. Since we have a collection of pretty much one of each, we always go for the refund. If you want to keep your glass, there are helpful folks at the entrance who will put your glass in a box and bag for you.

D) And, lastly, know your limits. There is a hurricane on the menu called a Magnum. It is a freakin' huge glass ($75 dollar refund) and holds 3 gallons of the yummy, rummy punch. We saw one for the first time ever this trip. Ordered by a group of Asian doctors in town for a conference.
No camera tricks . . . yes, the glass is bigger than that dude. There was a member of their group completely passed out later in the evening and in need of medical attention. There were only about 6 people in this group . . . if you are going to order a magnum, you probably need at least 10 people who are seasoned drinkers who all had a steak for dinner.

Moving on, we also like to spend afternoons chatting up the bartenders at Margaritaville. I know, touristy place. . . but the folks behind the bar a usually locals and have fun stories. We like a drink that is pretty much the best smoothie ever with mango, strawberry, banana, and lots of rum. It's called a "Don't Stop the Carnival" . . . and we can't stop drinking them.

On the day we leave, we like to schedule a late flight so we can have an afternoon in Pat's courtyard (patio). We don't do the heavy hurricanes while soaking in that southern sun. I like their "extra spicy with extra green beans" bloody marys (drink on the right) and the Phenom likes the cat 5 margaritas . . . a margarita made with a bit of hurricane punch. The bartender knows how I like the bloody marys and I can honestly say, I'm completely faithful to him.

Just messing the the guy

I suspect that this rare parrot isn't actually mating with this guy's neck . . . rather just doing the most bizarre thing it could think of because he could. I'd do that . . . because, you know they'd let you because humans think we operate on instinct rather than intent.

Traditions

The Phenom's mother died about 11 or so years ago. She was an interesting woman. She was very money savvy. But she was from a small town, a child of the depression, and a girl at a time when it wasn't really expected that girls be able to do more than basic math and read and write.

She dropped out of school at 16 because she decided that she would make just as much working in the factory as she would in a year and a half when she graduated.

She wanted a large family, but only managed to have the Phenom. I've observed that in some ways, it was if she and the Phenom were of the same soul.

The Phenom sometimes regrets that his mother's cooking is gone forever. I observed her make biscuits, but I'll never make mine taste like hers. I can cook pot after pot of pintos, but they just won't ever live up to the memory. I don't try to compete. Sadly, I don't have any of her recipes. But, that could be a good thing . . . I never have to worry that I followed the recipe exactly and it still didn't quite meet expectations.

I did get her biscuit bowl. It is an inexpensive bit of stoneware with a blue acorn pattern. It is cracked on one side. But, it has made thousands of biscuits.

Tonight, I made a batch of MY biscuits in the bowl. And, after dinner, I wrapped the biscuit pan in a clean towel and set it on the stove for the morning. Just the way the Phenom's mother did. They may not taste the same, but I think he knows the respect is there.

Clueless Joe

The whole world is consumed with the whole flu pandemic thing, right? Bulletins go out about health and shots and washing of hands. Every meeting I attend these days has a bottle of hand sanitizer available. Flu shot availability is now a daily on the news. The flu is a big thing, right?

I have a friend who sends her child to the yuppie pre-school in town. Not daycare . . . Pre-School. This is where all the doctors, lawyers, bankers, and college professors send their children. They don't go everyday during work hours . . . they attend three mornings a week.

My friend called me last night with steam coming from her ears.

She had received an email from her child's teacher. Apparently, weekly email updates are the norm for pre-schools this day in age. She blathered on about the apple bobbing the class participated in the previous week. She was nice enough to attach pictures.

Think about apple bobbing for a moment. A vat of lukewarm water . . . 14 known germ carriers slobbering and sneezing into it (I assume small children sneeze when they get water in their noses like monkeys do) . . . and then eating fruit from that vat.

Then, she goes on to say that of the 14 children in the class, 5 have confirmed cases of the flu and 6 others are experiencing viral symptoms (fever, vomiting, etc).

She is this week's moron of the week.

Sappiness abounds

One of the aspects of my life with the Phenom I appreciate most is even after a shocking number of years (I am far too young and cute to have been in an "adult" relationship this long . . . I am . . . SAY IT!!!!) together, I still learn things about him.

Recently, I was forced to attend a work function which required me to bring a "beverage to share." On a whim, I bought a six pack of yoo-hoos. Only one was consumed, so I brought the rest home to discover that the Phenom LURVES yoo-hoos. Personally, I'd never had a yoo-hoo before meeting the Phenom, but I'd always assumed that they were purchased for my amusement . . . never for the Phenom's.

Also, despite the reputation of being grouchy, the Phenom actually gets a lot of happiness out of relatively simple things. The Phenom is an avid tennis player. Recently, there was this notion that perhaps a wooden Borg racket should be sought out and purchased. Today, two such rackets were delivered. I came home to find the Phenom in our dining room, gazing upon the new trophies, and supremely pleased.

The fact I fried up a pound of the "good bacon" just made the day even better to the Phenom.

No wonder I'm just wild over this particular human.

I know that Asshat

I have this friend . . . the Hypochondriac. She's delightful, don't get me wrong. But, she frequently has days that are plagued with her "polyassalgia" (multiple people on her ass) and her sciatica . . . and what do you smell when you're having a stroke?

She has a young child, and one could accurately describe her as "young at heart." When we go out to eat, she always has to puff the paper off the straw towards one of our dining companions. She delights in getting someone in the face, cleavage, or hair with her straw paper.

Today, I was feeling, well, kicky. So, for the first time ever, I decided to retaliate. I gave my straw paper a good, quick puff . . . aimed right at her. And damned if it didn't take flight, whizzing right over her head and landing beautifully in the plate of a patron at the table behind us.

I'm pretty sure the word "asshat" was muttered my direction. . . and I totally deserved it.

Hey, the Jerk Store called . . .

In my household, we like to say that every situation has a Seinfeld parallel. I frequently don't get a chance to deliver the truly stinging. . . utterly snarky response.

I'd like to say that it's because I am a well brought up monkey and that the Old People taught me better. The truth is something closer to being both a craven coward and not thinking up the really perfect response until long after the moment has past.

I had one of those situations this weekend. Coming up with the snarky zinger was what propelled me the rest of the way home from my little weekend get-away.

Here is what actually happened.

I was driving back from the fall destination of choice in these parts when I decided to make a quickie stop at a McDonalds to, um, avail myself of the facilities and perhaps order some fries for a road snack.

In the loo, there was a bit of a line. The first stall to open up was with out toilet paper. I waited. The second stall to open up had two rolls . . . so I nicked one of the rolls and handed it to the woman behind me in line for use in the without stall. I happily relieved my pressures, until I became aware, midstream, that a woman was standing outside my stall angrily demanding to know what was wrong with the door. She declared loudly that the door wouldn't open. It must be broken. Why can't she open the door? Will someone please run get the manager and report that a stall door in the bathroom was in need of repair? Why won't this door open?

At which point, I finished my reason for being in the stall, zipped up, and flung open the door. I stared at the woman, who was a tad startled to see the door magically open, and asked her "May I help you?" To which she HUFFED, YES, HUFFED, and replied "what, it locks from the inside?" I sneered at her "Yeah, they all do."

What I thought up in the car and could never deliver but wish I had the guts and opportunity to say is:

"I realize the coyotes who raised you take a piss anywhere and in front of anyone, but I think you'll find most humans dislike an audience for such bodily functions. This is why you will find that pretty much ALL public loos lock from the inside. To keep jerks like you from watching people like me from being able to watch me take a piss."

Sigh. I think I'll continue to blame it on being properly brought up.

70 YEARS?!!!

So, world war two started 70 years ago. I feel like I've been living with wwii most of my life. The Phenom has a particular interest in wwii and the holocaust. . . our home is littered with books on the subject. The old people were shaped by the war.

The Old Woman was just shy of her 18th birthday on this date 70 years ago. Her mother had recently died and she'd been sent to live with a much older, spinster sister. She was fairly miserable. Miserable enough that she eloped with the Old Man just 3 days after her 18th birthday. She went home from school at the holiday break to tell her father she was married, but her father was murdered before she had the chance to speak to him.

It was an uneasy and frightening time for her, personally and in the world. By the time the bombs were dropped, she had three young children.

The Old Woman once told me that she was in favor of the bombs. This shocked me, being that she is a peaceful sort. She explained that the times were scary, and she knew she didn't want her children growing up under a dictatorship. She also knew she wanted the war to end before her children were old enough to be sent off to fight. She says experiencing the fear changes the way you think about it.

The combination of the very academic conversations in my home with the influence of the Old People . . . world war two is never really 70 years behind us. And, it's one of the reasons I'm such a peace loving sort of monkey.

My political debate

Can a politician be a bad person but a good leader? Can an individual balance personally bad acts with public acts of good? I go 'round and 'round on this issue. I haven't yet found the answer.

With Bill Clinton, I admit I still find him a bit creepy old perv . . . while also continuing to be rather fond of pointing out some of the good things he did do. Although, I will own up to thinking that perhaps Clinton was more of an opportunistic animal than I would have previously admitted. The whole refusal to declare Rwanda a genocide? BAD PRESIDENT! BAD!

W . . . I haven't really decided if he really was as evil as Uncle Dick. I think he wasn't terribly smart and he was easily swayed. I think a lot of people died needlessly because of his agendas. . . whether they were his in reality or those he was led to believe were worthy. He was quite the jerk as a young man. Ego and sense of entitlement way out of proportion with his actual abilities. But, it appears that he was a good, and faithful, father and husband. (I guess this is more an example of a poor leader but redeemed person.)

The debate renewed in my house yesterday while watching coverage of the latest Kennedy funeral. Ted Kennedy was a champion of causes I believe in. My favorite remembrance of him this past week was a story about someone telling him he should support a bill that would deny welfare benefits to mothers who gave birth out of wedlock. Kennedy was told that if he didn't support the bill, he'd likely lose his next election campaign. Kennedy said that he wasn't going to get re-elected on the backs of poor children. He said that he didn't need the job, but those children needed food. Nice, right?

But, he is responsible for the death of another person. He hasn't always conducted himself in a way that even he was terribly proud of.

I know, every single one of us has something in our lives we'd rather not have to explain on Larry King or have splashed on all the magazine covers at the grocery store check out lane. But, I can't help but think that if you are pursuing a very public life . . . through "fame" or politics. . . perhaps you ought to be a bit more aware that everyone has a camera and no one turns down their fifteen minutes. Especially when it's about someone else.

explainin'

I've been a sick baby bongo. Nothing serious. Although, in a fit of hyperbole I started to fret the the Phenom doesn't know any of my passwords and will never be able to pay my bills.

But, I'm now a walking example of better living through chemistry . . . and jello.

I'll be back to antics soon.

Bongo's Gumbo

Ingredients:

whole fryer chicken cut up (bones and skin intact)
1 package new orleans style smoked sausages (about 12-16 oz)
1 really big or 2 medium onions, chopped
1 green pepper, chopped
3-4 ribs celery, chopped
5-6 large cloves, chopped
1 cup veggie oil
1 cup plain flour
creole seasoning
chicken broth ( I used 80 oz swanson's low sodium)
1/2 tsp dried thyme leaves
salt/pepper
1-2 lbs chopped okra

Step one: chop up your pepper, onion, celery, and garlic.

Step two: season liberally the chicken on both sides, chop sausage into disks, set aside






Step three: in a heavy, cast iron pan, heat to just smoking 1 cup veggie oil. When you see a whisp of smoke, carefully add in and stir the flour. It will bubble up and be very very careful you don't splash it on you. Stir (with a whisk or wooden spoon, I usually employ both) until it is about a shade darker than peanut butter. You can drop the heat to medium. DO NOT LEAVE IT FOR A SECOND!!!! Add in the veggies and move to a cool burner. The residual heat from the pan will continue to darken the roux and cook the veggies. I add in about 1/2 tsp salt and the thyme at this point. Stir it frequently, more at the start, less as it starts to cool.

Step four: Put your big, huge soup pot on the hot burner, heat up a tablespoon or so of veg oil, and in two batches, brown your chicken pieces. Pour off the excess oil/fat and brown the sausage.

Step five: add in the chicken broth and the chicken pieces. Let the broth come to just a simmer and very carefully add in the roux and veggies. I added in another sprinkle of salt and several grinds of black pepper at this point. Bring to a boil, drop to a simmer, and cover. Cook about an hour or so.







Step six: remove the chicken pieces and let cool a bit. Turn off the gumbo. When you can handle the chicken pieces with gloved hands, remove the meat and shread it. Toss the fat, skin, bones, icky bits. Add chicken back into gumbo. As the gumbo has cooled, you may find a layer of fat has risen to the top. Feel free to skim it off before adding in the chicken/okra. Turn heat back on, bring to a light boil and add in okra. Drop heat to simmer, cook okra 20-30 minutes. Serve over rice. Gumbo gets better if you let it sit in the frig a day or two. And, you may want to invite an army of spider monkeys over to eat, because you'll have enough to feed them.

Romance lost

Years ago, I would chop all the ingredients for my homemade salsa by hand. I'd dip the farmer's market ripe tomatoes into boiling water and then into ice water so they'd peel easier. I would finely chop onions and jalapenos and cilantro. I'd mix it all together lovingly. It was time consuming, a real treat in our home, and not made very often.

Then, I scored a food processor off the clearance table at Williams-Sonoma.

Suddenly, salsa could be a weekly event. I even was willing to used canned tomatoes. It came with two work bowls, so we could have hot red and mild green salsas at the SAME TIME.

It was wonderful and convenient. But, I couldn't help but worry that possibly I was losing some of the craft and love of the hand chopped. I missed the romance of spending an afternoon making salsa The Phenom would gobble down. I missed it for just a few minutes. The Phenom gobbles down the machine made stuff too.

But, I was reminded of the touch of romance lost when I heard this story on NPR this morning. I understand the need for more and more accurate measurements of weight for the important work of science. But, I couldn't help but think that perhaps we were losing some of the romance of the story of the original kilogram. . . and the faith we put in its' weight.

Revenge

I like to kid my friends who have children that the sole reason I spoil their children is because I don't know which of my friend's children will someday have the task of putting my hairy, wrinkled butt into a nursing facility. I kinda am banking on all of these children having at least one memory of me letting them have the gumball their parents said no to . . . or getting them the really cool christmas gift . . . or coming up with the perfect rainy day activity and decide to put me in the home where the orderlies will change my diapers more than once a day.

Now, I'm thinking that it will be a tasty revenge to just be a pain in the arse.

Remember the Old Folks and their dire condition? The worry? The late night baking just to keep me from hovering over their sleeping bodies with a mirror to make sure they are still breathing?

In the last 36 hours, they have driven across three states and back. Why? Because the Old Woman had been given a photo of a house she once lived in and developed a hankering to see it in person. That, and visit the dead peeps one last time.

You cannot imagine the worry . . . and the incredulousness I'm experiencing at the report that they had a fine trip, ran no one off the high way, and are in good spirits. Where was that pool the old people went into to get young in that movie?