Spring Time

The pollen has hit us hard.  And, although we've been promised rain for the last several days, all we seem to get is a spitting that just makes the pollen stick even harder.

But, the good news is that the cucumbers, peas, and radishes are already popping up in the crop circle.  Admiring the freshly planted crop circle, last week, I realized that it was perhaps one of the few good things that came from a rather bad time a few years back.  I love planning what I'm going to plant each year, and I'm so proud of the veggies I pick.

Also, spring time brings out the sillies in our critters.  I let Chester have a "soft" toy, and it was all of 10 minutes before he tried to eat its' head.

We have a free loader kitty I've taken a liking to.  We call him Mr Peepers because he likes to sit in our windows and watch us.  He thinks the dog is silly and has little to do with him, other than keeping an eye on him. . . . and judging him harshly.

Still a problem

In January, in a fit of peak, I purchased a doodad thingie.  One of those computers that slide into your bag.  I can read books, check facebook, play games, and view movies/television on it.  I could do my finances on it, listen to music, or store all my photos too.  If I were organized enough.

But, now that I can literally carry a library of reading around with me, you'd think I'd have fewer books lying around, right?  Nope.  Today, the foot-of-the-bed haul was 3 books and 5 magazines.

I might have a slight problem with hoarding books, cookbooks, and magazines.  Might.

Just plain weirdness

Remember that episode of Seinfeld where Elaine gets "difficult" noted in her medical chart and by the end of the episode, she's begging Kramer to get a vet to prescribe medications for her?  Yeah.  The Old Woman likes to threaten that someday, if I don't watch it, that will be me.  What the Old Woman doesn't know is that I have a terrific relationship with my vet, and I'm confident she'd happily prescribe meds for me.  And, I prefer to think of myself as an "assertive" patient. 

So, after several months of being put on this drug or that one or tweaking it a bit and being introduced to a variety of machines that "go ping" I have finally been released from a not so fun chapter in my medical history.  But, now I'm hyper aware of anything that could be a symptom of recurrence.  And, frankly, it kinda feels like my brain has been co-opted by aliens.  Like the aliens who took one of my kidneys a few years back. 

You Take What You Can Get

This review of one of the newest Olive Garden restaurants has gone viral.  One site that reposted it, described it as "unwittingly hilarious."  I suspect, well know, that food snobbery is at play here.  And, Food Snobbery is something I know a little about.  I am a food snob.  I am highly critical of food servers, food preparation, and if I can make it myself (which is always better, well, almost, the local cupcake place has me beat) I never order it in a restaurant.

But, at the same time, I understand the reviewer's words and sentiment.  I live in culinary hell.  We have little variety in our restaurants, and most of them are big, cheap, chains.  (Side note, we actually do have several italianish/greeky places here.  They serve up the expected Americanized fare, but they are family owned and tasty.)  So, whereas Olive Garden is known for over cooking their pasta, drowning it in overrich sauces, and focusing more on the meat atop your pasta mountain than the freshness of their ingredients, if we had one here, people would flock to it.

Because, when you live in culinary hell, you take what you can get.

Lenten dinner

As  you know, we aren't exactly religious in our household.  (The cat enforced worship of the cats doesn't really make a religion.)  But, we do like to give passing nods to religious rituals. . . specifically foods.  So, I like to come up with interesting foods for meatless Fridays of lent.  (We use to host a lenten poker game. . . for easter candy.)

Tonight, I made something that would make a fine meatless meal.

I toasted (in a dry, cast iron pan) two, dried ancho peppers I'd split, (pulled the stem off, and shaken the seeds out of until) they looked blistered.  Then, they were submerged in hot water for 15 minutes.  After removing them from the hot water, I chopped them and threw them in the blender.  Also, in the blender went a ripe tomato, a serrano pepper, half an onion, 2 cloves of garlic, a generous couple of teaspoons of cumin and coriander (ground), and about a tsp of dried oregano (organic, from last summer's garden).  Also, about 1/4-1/3 a mexican beer.  It all got whirred up.

Then, I heated oil in a pan and poured the pepper mixture in and lightly fried/cooked it.  While it bubbled, (for 3-5 minutes) I mashed half a can of drained black beans in a bowl.  Then, added the mashed beans, the rest of the can, and another whole can of drained black beans.  If it looks dry, you can pour in some of the extra beer.  I thought it looked plenty soupy, so I drank the rest of the beer.

I let it bubble, stirring frequently, for about 20-30 minutes until they were less soupy.  I served them in tortillas with yellow rice, cheese, quac, sour cream, and pickled jalapenos.  It was tasty.  Not spicy in the least (without the jalapenos).  And, I have dinner made for tomorrow night, because once again we were stood up by the Chinese red army.

Shock.

My first job was with my hometown library.  I was that nerdy kid who pushed the cart around the library, reshelving books.  Only rarely did I get to wield the power of the check-out stamp.  Nearly everyday, one of my little friends from school would ride the bus to the library and follow me around, talking about all the issues under the sun as I worked.  He was a nerdy kid too.  We went off to different schools and different lives.  But, we stayed in touch, and remained friends.  We shared similar views on how the world ought to work.  We reposted each others' stuff from facebook regularly.

He married a woman who was smart and decent.  She has a kind heart.  They have two young boys.  He had just gotten his pilot's license and purchased a small plane.  He loves taking his boys up in the air.

He is a computer geek.  Just last week, we had him helping us resolve a computer issue in our office via IM.

If you ever read the comments on this blog, he was "library ghost."

He died last night.

Sudden and massive heart attack.  He's just a couple years younger than me.

I cannot even imagine what his dear family must be going through.  Boys to lose their father before they're men. A woman to lose the person in the center of her heart.  Because, already I can see the hole his death will leave in my life.

Julia Sugarbaker says it all

I spent way too much time coasting the couch this week and trying to hork up my lungs.  It seems that blowing my nose only encouraged the production of more snot.  The upside was that I got to catch up on my day time television viewing.  I discovered a channel that plays several episodes of Designing Women back to back.

I just love how this show, some 20 plus years old still holds true today.  Preach it Julia!!

Comfort Food

Mark your calendars. . . I followed a recipe . . . well, close enough.  I tinker around with Mac and Cheese on a regular basis.  Typically, I shred what ever cheeses are in the fridge, make a custard, add some hot pepper and dry mustard, noodles, and top it with a buttery breadcrumb topping and pop it in the oven.

I don't know what possessed me to try making it from a recipe.  A recipe from folks who probably have never had mac and cheese not from a box before.  I'm blaming this madness on the crud oozing from my nose/brain/throat these days.

First, make the breadcrumb topping.  I throw about an ounce of parm in the food processor and chop it up.  Then, a couple tablespoons of butter, whir.  Then, crumble up some well toasted bread and whir, whir, whir.

I shredded up about 3 cups (okay, maybe more) of smoked gouda, sharp white cheddar, and swiss cheeses.  I made a custard of 1 cup evaporated milk (honestly, I've never bought this stuff before. . . don't know what to think of it) a couple of eggs, some hot sauce, salt, pepper, and dried mustard.  I poured the custard over the cooked noodles, and started stirring in cheese.

Then, it went into the buttered baking dish and topped with bread crumbs.  The hardest part of following the recipe was using only half the box of noodles.  Every part of me said it wasn't enough.  It probably was enough, especially since Phenom doesn't eat mac and cheese . . . but still, how would the Chinese Red Army have enough to eat if THIS were the night they showed up?

I popped the whole thing in a 350 degree oven for about 30 minutes.  Then, I let it cool just a few minutes before digging in.

It wasn't bad.  In the future, I think I'll stick to my cream/milk/egg custard and leave the canned stuff alone.

Backstory

Today, between checking facebook a million times for a big announcement, I realized that ya'll might need a follow up/prequel to the story yesterday.

First of all, one of the plaster crotches is currently in a trash bag in the trunk of my car.

Several years ago, we had neighbors who, at one time, had been very wealthy.  They actually had a butler.  As they aged, and their children became impatient for their inheritance, there was a slow decline in their socio-economic status.  Eventually, the old man was left and needed to be placed in nursing care.  The house had been mortgaged a couple of times by the children, and there was little hope of selling it.  At one point, the children went in, laid claim to the valuables, and left one holy mess behind.  The realtor responsible for the house told them that they had to hire cleaners before she would show the house.

So, they hired a crew of people to haul everything in the house out, and dump it on the front lawn.  Suddenly, we were living next door to a landfill.  People were coming by, to loot, day and night.  Let me tell you, for a monkey with a finely tuned sense of paranoia, it wasn't fun.

Then, on a Friday afternoon, as I was pulling into my driveway, I saw a foot sticking out of a large pile.  My first thought was that some poor looter had fallen in and couldn't get out.  After weighing my options, I was compelled to be the good citizen and wander over to offer assistance.  That's when I found that the foot was actually part of a large, male, prosthetic leg.

Later, that evening, while at a party, I retold this story and several of the people present decided that they must have the leg.  They hopped in a car and drove over and LUCK! the leg was still there.  Now, when this group gathers, the leg is present and appropriately decorated.  The keeper of the leg and I discussed getting more body parts.  But, he wanted to troll ebay for them.  I felt that they should be found items.

Which is why I now have a crotch in the back of my car.  The Leg now has hips.

Comic Relief?

Today I had one of those long, drawn out, civic leaders types of lunches.  Yes, we dined on steak and baked potatoes and salad. . . but we were served steak (well done) with flimsy plastic cutlery.  Frankly, I suspect it was a test.  I persevered and managed to eat my full lunch with out shooting meat across the table into any one's lap or giving up and forking the steak and just chewing on it rather than trying to cut bites.

And, then there were speeches and self-congratulations and obligatory standing ovations.  Although I know I should have stuck around and schmoozed a bit, I really just needed to escape the windowless hell.

When I got back to the office, this is what I saw behind our building.

Our office is just down the street from a charity shop.  People donate all sorts of crap to them all the time.  I'm not sure if the placement out side the dumpsters was artistic or ironic or lazy.  Perhaps one of the nice old ladies who works in the shop didn't want to handle the maleish bits any more than absolutely necessary.

I'm thinking I might need to pick them up for nefarious uses, if they are still there tomorrow.  If not, I'll always regret not taking them when I had the chance.

Mardi Gras!

Woot!  Mardi Gras is here!  It's my second favorite holiday in February.  This year, for the mardi gras feast, I made shrimp creole, Emeril's hot jalapeno crab dip, and world peace cookies.  (Someone else was responsible for the King Cake.  But, I found the baby, so I'll be bringing the king cake next year.)

So, start with 2 pounds of shrimps.  I like to peel them before I boil them.  I boil them in a broth of a sliced lemon, salt, and several peppercorns.  I boil them for exactly one minute and then pull them and spread them on a cookie sheet to cool them quickly.  (line the sheet with paper towels).

Then, throw the shells in the broth, boil a minute and turn off the heat.  Leave the shells in the broth until it cools.  Then, save a cup (or more if you want to freeze it) of the broth for the creole.

Next, prepare the trinity.  I had some left over yellow bell pepper . .  but about 1 small/medium bell pepper, 1 medium onion, and a couple ribs of celery chopped up.  Also, 2-3 largish cloves of garlic and a handful of parsley chopped.

Then, you want to fry up 4 slices of bacon, chopped up.  Get them crispy and remove them to a paper towel.  Add in a tablespoon or two of butter, and then saute the veg.

After you get the veg good and soft, add in a large can of crushed tomatoes, a can of tomato paste, a squeeze of lemon juice, a tsp of thyme, a couple of bay leaves, 1/4 - 1/2 tsp red pepper, a tablespoon sugar, a tsp of salt  (I also put a little salt in the veg to get them to sweat.)  and the cup of shrimp broth and the bacon.  Let it simmer, covered, for about 45 minutes.  If you are going to eat it right away, add the shrimps in and make sure they are heated through and serve with rice and garlic bread dripping with butter.  If not, cool the creole sauce and when you reheat it, add in the shrimps when everything is cold, and reheat gently.

I am sad to report that I failed to get a "money shot" picture.  I was so eager to eat and it looked/smelled so good, I totally forgot.  I think, if you make this, you'll understand.

Squandered

I've said, more than once, that I seriously dislike stupid people.  Not people who can't . . . but people who can and decide not to.

So, the train wreck that is/was Whitney Houston kinda bothers me.  Well, the unabashed romanticizing of her life bothers me.

It seems to me that there are so many humans who start out life with so many disadvantages.  Sometimes it's poverty or lack of access to proper medical care or isms or disabilities.  But, you so often see people who start off with disadvantages work and struggle and create something of their lives.  Whether it's the intellectually disabled person who has faithfully arrived at their job at the sheltered workshop for 20 years without a single absence, or the person from the third world who was just awarded a Nobel prize, they made something of their lives and contributed to the planet.

Whitney Houston started out life way ahead in the race.  She had a family pedigree that bought her instant entry into the world of entertainment/fame/fortune.  She had an incredible talent.  She was beautiful.  She could have seriously contributed to the planet.  (I know, some would say that her music did contribute.  I won't argue with that, but I was thinking that she could use her position to advocate for medical care for the poor or food for the hungry or music education programs in the inner city.)  But, instead, she threw it all away on a spiral of self-pity and drugs and booze.

That's the stupidity I dislike in humans.

Boogie Woogie

Ten to eleven years ago, 11 of my friends produced 13 babies in an 18 month stretch.  Those babies are nearing middle school now.  I'm really good at baby gifts.  I'm good with little kid gifts.  I buy some sort of "doll" for most boys and some sort of car for most girls.  I've bought more than one kid sized hawaiian shirt.  I've bought toys that appealed to the parents as much as the kids.  Pretty much everyone gets a copy of The Monster At the End of This Book.  But, I'm not so sure how to be the world's best Monkey-elder to middle school aged kids.  Their interests are a lot harder to predict.  I totally don't get pop music these days.  I keep trying to remind myself the utterly horrid stuff I subjected the Old Folks to when I was a pup.  (And, despite my best efforts, I found myself singing/squeeking "lahve, lahve, lahve, I want your lahve" the other day while doing homechores . . . thanks to one of my favorite human children singing Lady Gaga over and over while we were on the phone the other night.)

The thing I'm wrapping my brain around now is that these not-quite-middle-school children are now starting to attend school dances.  DANCES!  AT THIS AGE?!  I don't think they are encouraging coupling up, in that the dances happen fairly early in the evening and the lights are on and there is generally just a lot of group based "wiggling", as the Old Man would call it.  But, still, DANCES! 

Gees, I feel old.

The Drug Habit in my own House

I made a startling realization the other day, one of our cats is a drug addict.  The drug being catnip.

Her name is Booger.  She showed up on our drive way, unweaned and tiny.  We bottle fed her for the first couple of weeks, and I took her to the office with me.  She would spend 30 minutes stretches chasing her own tail on top of my desk.  She has always liked to have small, dark, cramped spaces to hide in, away from everyone.  We call these spaces "Booger places."  Currently, she wedges herself under the wine rack for much of the day.  Booger is affectionate in her own way.  She likes to be petted, but on her own terms.  She lives in fear of being picked up.  If your petting seems too similar to an action that maybe, perhaps, will lead to an attempt to pick her up, she bolts.

One way I like to make toys for the critters is to take smallish stuffed animals, open a seam, restuff it with catnip, and sew it up again.  Even better if the stuffed animal is a gerbil or mouse or bird.

Booger has taken to a duck stuffed with catnip.  She spends a good deal of time curled up with the duck.

Now, with humans who have a drug habit, they become cautionary tales for the rest of the bipeds.  Who hasn't seen the photos of pre and during addiction?  The shiny hair, the clear skin, the youthful expression replaced with splotches, balding spots, green or lost teeth, the dead look in the eyes. 

Not Booger.  Booger's addiction makes her more social.  No more inclined to be picked up, but more willing to socialize or even be seen by guests.  I think I need to make her a few more cat nip toys . . . perhaps shove a couple under the wine rack. 

1500 Posts

I have been watching the ticker creep up to 1500 for the past few months now.  I started thinking, back then, that I should do some deep thinking and links to favorite posts . . . the blog version of the episode montage.

But, I didn't really want to read over the 1500 posts to find my favorites.  I know which entry is the most read; the one where I give instructions for making gumbo.  But, as I thought about the creation and history of this blog, I realized that the best posts tended to be written about travels, foods, or when I was fuming.  Lately, I've not been cooking anything out of the ordinary, I haven't traveled enough to make posts about meals a steady feature, and I've hit a nice, even patch in life.

Then, my afternoon at work ended in such a silly and typically bizarre way, I decided I'd write about it instead of subjecting the 3 people who read this blog to any (more) navel gazing.

We were leaving after a long week.  Piles of reports are now sitting on my desk waiting to be mailed off.  Preparations for the meetings next week are well underway.  And, we'd had a full day of listening to the student intern babble.  (We call the intern "Baby")

Baby is enthusiastic.  Baby is more than willing to be used and abused in the name of her internship.  Lately, she has even been offering to buy our lunches.  So, on the way out of the office, Baby decided she should take our trash out, just in case there was food in it and just in case the regular cleaning person some how missed it.  We headed out, locked the building, joked about our drinking goals for the weekend, and she disappeared around the building with her book bag, purse, and our trash.  A few minutes passed and she didn't come back.  So I went to see if perhaps she were handing out her last dollars to homeless people, when I found her trying to figure out how to open the dumpster lids.  I asked her what what wrong, and she explained that her keys were in the hand with the trash bag, and she had tossed her keys in the dumpster too.

And, interestingly, my college education prepared me for exactly this situation.  Only, as a non-student, I have much better tools at my disposal.  I ran back to our office and grabbed the ladder and our extended reach/grabber tool.  As I returned to the dumpsters, I found baby perched on the side of the dumpster, ready to jump in.  I called to her to stop.  And then set up the ladder, climbed up, and easily reached in with the grabber.  (So much easier than the time I hoisted myself in and out of the dumpster to retrieve my roommate's keys.)  As I returned the ladder and grabber tool, my co-workers marveled that I knew exactly what to do in the situation.  I said it was why I was the boss, but really, one of my talents is being able to assess a situation pretty quickly and act.  I also pointed out to Baby that she hadn't thought through how she was going to get out of the dumpster, and you should never jump into a situation if you don't have a plan for getting out.

The Luckiest Little Monkey in the World

It took me a long time to be comfortable enough in my skin to be a good friend to humans.  I spent so much time, as a young monkey, worried that I might be discovered, outed, exposed, that I never really allowed myself to really have a connection with individual humans.  As I spent more time living among humans, I got more comfortable, and was able to be more relaxed with humans.  With a few false starts and wrong turns along the way, I have finally arrived at a place where I feel pretty comfortable with my place in the world.

And, then there are times when I'm just blown away by the capacity humans have to express love and affection.

This week, I have been the recipient of overwhelming love and affection.  I'm still in awe.

The SMLF has decided that I needed a full week of birthday celebrations this week.  Every day this week, a different monkey has been responsible for a different treat.  My yard got "flocked"

There have been lovely lunch time treats too.  Homemade baklava, homemade lollies, and an ice cream sundae bar.  There are still treats to come.  But, most importantly, I am just so appreciative of the great lengths my friends have gone to in order to make me feel loved and appreciated and celebrated.

I am so very spoiled.

The Trouble with Paula

The news cycles around the whole diabetes thing and Paula Deen has finally quieted.  As someone who is fascinated by the subject of food and addicted to cooking shows, I have spent too much time on this news story.

First off, I don't watch her show.  She personifies a form of southern womanhood I find pretty annoying . . . the fuzzy haired, incredibly loud, taking pride in being uninformed, overly entitled stereotype.  You know, women who have a theme sweater (many with blinking lights) for every day of October and December.

And, I followed the media fueled "feud" between her and my boy, Tony.  He was right.  The diet she promoted on her show wasn't healthy.  She elevated indulgence into the everyday.

On one hand, her signature style is "too much is not enough."  And, you wouldn't really expect her to do a complete about-face just because she could no longer handle the diet.  She had a formula that worked, why change it because of her personal health problems?  I get that no one wants to become the poster child for their particular circumstance.

The thing that irks me is how she continues to flaunt her poor diet.  And, like my previous rant about Newt and the personal nature of what makes my left eye involuntarily twitch when I hear his voice, there is a fairly personal reason I find Ms Deen's current behavior so troubling.  Years ago, I had a friend who had diabetes.  She was advised to try to control it with her diet.  She was scheduled to see nutritionists and dietitians to help her develop eating habits that would both satisfy her as well as meet her health needs.  And, she stubbornly refused.  I remember one day, speaking to her on the phone, when she told me that she was having to go on insulin because the diabetes had progressed.  Then, she told me that her nutritionist had told her that she shouldn't eat more than 1/2 a banana in a day, due to the sugars in the fruit.  My friend didn't like bananas, so this should have been easy, right?  No.  My friend hated being told she couldn't or should do something more than she disliked bananas.  She went out that day and bought and ate 5 whole bananas. Then, she bragged to me that she hadn't ended up in a medical emergency, so maybe they didn't know what they were talking about after all.

When I see Ms Deen scarfing cake on morning talk shows, I have to think back to my friend . . . now dead . . . who also flaunted the diet that would have made her life more comfortable and longer.

The Trouble with Newt

I find it pretty amazing that the media hones in on Newt's long history of marital infidelities as possibly making him questionable as presidential material.  They seem to have forgotten, completely, that he was forced to resign from congress because of ethics issues.  I'm thinking that ethics violations sufficient to make congress tell you to pack your bags and leave the key on the front table on your way out automatically negates your fitness for the presidency.

But, my issues with Newt are a lot more personal.  Remember that speech where he said poor children don't have the ethic of showing up every Monday? Putting in a full day?  (I thought we trained that into all children, irregardless of socio-economic status, by making school attendance compulsory.)  His self-righteous, mean-spirited, ignorant spewing of his opinion of poor children (as if they were truly the problem bringing down wall street . . . what with their wanting to go to quality schools and eat and be safe in their homes) he reminds me of the Old Man.

As much as I love the Old Man, he suffers from "white old man" syndrome.  He is stuck, in his own mind, in a time where work was harder, walking to school barefooted in the snow up-hill both ways was harder, and a nickel bought a whole lot more era of his life.  The fact of the matter is, in the "good old days" people were pining for another era they thought were easier, simpler.

You'll never move ahead if you spend all your time looking in the past.  I think it's time for Newt to take his nostalgia and find a quiet beach house somewhere, and leave good, hard-working, folks alone.

My other world

Today, I had one of those days when all tasks magically doubled themselves.  I had a 22 page report due (actually, due tomorrow) and after submitting it, HQ happened to mention that they needed the same report filled out for a separate project and I wouldn't mind, would I?  I have a budget due but we have to use some new computerized system that requires regional managers to sign on and sign off . . . good luck chasing them down.

There was other stuff too. . . plus getting ready for the regional manager's meeting later this week.  And, there is  my guest hosting of a student group complete with age appropriate activities to prepare.  It's enough to make a monkey decide a little mental escape is needed.

In my other little world, where I've won 100 million in the lotto . . . this is what I'd be doing this carnival season rather than pushing papers.

Or kicking back on a balcony with a tall, frosty drink and watch the parade pass me by.

"You know, I thought he was a lot smaller."

On this day, 11 years ago, I read an article in my local paper about a poor dog that had been given to the humane society in our community when its' owners moved away and couldn't keep him.  The article said it was an older dog, and a private donor was willing to pay for the dog's upkeep if someone with a yard could take him.  I called the Phenom and read the article over the phone.  We decided to visit the humane society that afternoon.

When we arrived, we were introduced to the volunteer in charge of adoptions.  She was busy with the afternoon play/kennel clean/feed.  They would release 5-8 dogs into the play yard and clean their kennels, place clean bedding, refill food and water bowls, and then bring the dogs in from the play yard.  One dog in the batch coming in didn't come in.  So, we followed her out to the play yard to corral him back in.  This cute, little dog came charging over to us with a ball in his mouth.  We threw the ball and he went bounding after it . . . and returned right to us.  Within a minute, Phenom was kissing it on the head.  Our rule is "you kissed it, you bought it."

So we filled out the paperwork.  We must have passed muster, because a couple days later, they called to say we'd been approved to adopt Chester.  (Side note, today I read this article about the screening processes of some rescue groups.)  We bought a kennel and dogloo and toys and a collar and leash and harness we could use to seat belt him into the car and food and toys and a brush and toys.

The next afternoon, Phenom collected our new family member while I had a meeting.  Yes, I was jealous I didn't get to be part of the pick up.  But, I arrived home just minutes after Phenom and Chester.  While we watched Chester tear around our yard like a pardoned inmate, we looked at each other and both said "You know, I thought he was a lot smaller."

Chester is a fun loving, sweet, hyper pooch that is pretty much like having a perpetual 4 year old boy.  He explores the yard, doesn't always come when called, likes to pester cats, prefers junk food to his meals, doesn't like to share his toys or people, and has been worth every minute.

Happy Adoption Day, Chester!