No Wonder There Is An Epidemic Of Brushfires and Children Smoking...

 I was going to light some candles, but couldn't find a responsible adult.

 

On Not Being Russian

I must not be Russian, because I lost my ‘pov’.

Arrggh. It is a bad joke, I know, but it leapt to the fore of my consciousness when I sat down to tap out my thoughts this day. It was another play on words among the thousands that have branded my hide with the mark of ‘dork’, almost from day one of me being able to speak English.

I fear it to be true. I am afraid I have no ‘point-of-view’. POV has escaped me. Sigh.

This mildly disheartening epiphany blossomed in my po’ lil’ head bone as I dallied in the upper reaches of the blogosphere, skimming on the currents, drafts and vortices that the lovely Interwebs offers to them that cares to read. I was dipping into some of my favorite blogs, catching up on reading, and just generally digging the flow of information.

The more I read, the more I sensed a somewhat common thread to many of the blogs oozing across the screen: themes. Many of them have a theme, even if unstated. By theme I mean that core set of ideas, guiding principles or vibe that gives them a digital “fingerprint”. The subjects vary, but in most and certainly in the best, I can recognize the voice of the author. Sort of like listening to music by U2 or Bob Dylan, or reading a book by John Thorne or Cormac McCarthy. I dig that sort of thing.

I’m not so sure it diggeth me. I was on and off of Irish Gumbo a few times in my travels, and it slowly dawned on me that I wasn’t getting that same sense on my own blog. I mean, I know what to expect, because I write the spooge that ends up getting posted. But I would be hard pressed to describe to someone who had never read this blog, what it is that defines it. What’s the hook? Humor? Sex? A fresh take on cruciferous vegetables (“…consider the broccoli rabe, the surly cousin to good ol’ broccoli…”)? I think maybe a better analogy is, how would I pitch this blog, if it were a book proposal? What is it that is the “voice”?

I find it mildly upsetting that I don’t seem to know.

There are so many fine folks out there who can do so many things so well, so much better than I that I often feel like I’m looking through the window of the bakery. Every so often, the door opens up and a pleased customer rushes out, baguettes tucked under the arm. I stand there swathed in the yeasty goodness that is the aroma of fresh baked bread. The door shuts, my hand is too slow to hold it open, and I am left wondering how I will ever bake my own.

Teapotta and Fugue in mE Minor

Unloading the dishwasher almost made me weep. I had washed my teapot, by machine.

This is no great thing, not on the order of a car crash or horrible elevator accident, but it caused me a great deal of consternation. I haven’t a clue why exactly, other than to say that standing there in the chalky bluish glow of the overhead fluorescents, in the middle of the kitchen with my little black teapot cradled in my hands, I was overcome by a fit of melancholy.

This was on the heels of a busy day after a long week, with another long week ahead. I was weary to the bone, and trying to keep from being pecked to death by the ducks of household management. I had looked for my teapot earlier, a little perturbed that I could not recall what I had done with it. I was too preoccupied and angsty about unfinished tasks that I abandoned the idea of a full-scale hunt.

I know what happened, now. It was the night before, and I was at the sink working my way through an unkempt pile of dishes to sort them for hand or machine. Ordinarily, I would have washed the teapot by hand, but I was robotically wiping glasses and utensils and automatically placing them in the dishwasher. In my fugue state, the teapot was just another lump of ceramics, to be dealt with expediently and quietly. So into the dishwasher it went.

You should know, dear readers, that I haven’t really washed my teapot in years. I use it every day, and it was a constant cycle of fill-heat-steep-pour-repeat. Always in motion, and engorged with boiling water, washing seemed unnecessary. There is a also a school of thought that believes a good teapot takes years of use to “age” and make great tea, and to wash it is a small heresy. It would disturb the patina. I do not necessarily subscribe to that theory, especially given that my teapot is a little, unprepossessing number glazed inside and out in glossy black. It is not one of those fantastic Japanese or Chinese cast iron or clay dragons (which I still covet), it is a humble bit of pottery made in production in England. It was given to me many, many years ago as a gift. I have loved it ever since. It was a bit like finding a lost puppy when I pulled it out of the dishwasher. I was so relieved to find it had survived the buffeting of the machine.

I felt at home, really at home, holding that teapot in my hands like a long-lost relative. It has been too long since I have had feelings like that, and the bittersweet pangs tightened my throat and made my eyes glisten. We are the little things that ground us: books, a string of prayer beads, teapots: all are bearers of memory and comfort, the subtle avatars of the parts that make up our whole.

Small, quiet, humble: it is my teapot, and it looks good. It is home.

Souls Among The Ruins

The forlorn remains took me by surprise, that day I came back the same way I went out. There they were, at the bottom of a hairpin turn that I had negotiated about an hour before. So intent on making the turn looking right, the ruins passed unnoticed on the left. It was not until I came back down the hill that I saw the two chimneys thrusting up from a lion’s mane of grass, sprouting at the elbow of the turn. I gasped, thoroughly surprised, and actually screeched to a halt. The brief yelp of tires on pavement sounded loud as howler monkeys in the quiet air of a drowsy afternoon. Fortunate I was that no one was coming down behind me. I pulled the car over to the shoulder, stepping out into the breeze.

The air was cool and faintly humid. The sun played hide and seek with fast moving flocks of clouds while the rustle of leaves and grass whispered in my ear, urging me forward into what used to be the front yard of a home. Is it trespassing when there are no walls, no doors?

Standing there, pondering the outlines of history slowly crumbling into the earth, a slow wash of uneasiness spread through my gut. I felt as if someone was watching me from just inside the trees that ringed the foundation. I shivered.

The sun moved a degree or two of arc as I stood there watching.  A gust of wind tousled the leaves and a burst of purple caught my eye. It was there next to the far chimney, and something was moving amongst the greenery. I made my way carefully around the top of the foundation, hoping the brick and tile would not collapse under my boots. It was as I stood behind the chimney that I saw the beautiful purple flowers on a bush growing next to the stack.

The bush appeared to be alive, moving not just under the influence of the breeze. I inched forward to get a closer look. The bush was bedecked with numerous butterflies, flitting softly among the purple blossoms. The breath caught in my throat. Beautiful, so beautiful, the colors of vibrating gemstones in the slow strobe of the afternoon sun. I crouched carefully beside the chimney, the blossoms caressing the tips of my boots. Scarcely breathing, I relaxed under the hypnotic influence of the butterflies. Then I understood. Then I knew. I realized I had been watched, from the moment my feet hit the pavement of the hairpin turn.

The walls were gone, long ago. The charred bones of the house lay in a shallow grave with a lid of clay and leaves. The plaster bits slowly succumbing to an impassive sun and the relentless turn of the clock, the chimneys like the ragged fingers of a giant beckoning to me…

Come and see, you who hurry, and greet the souls of those who called this home…

There was beauty here, once, and life.

I see the butterflies, and know Truth.

Wetware Filter: Skipping Stones On The River of Knowledge

The humor, to me, is obvious. This is not at all what I was supposed to write. Ha. You laugh, too, I can tell.

You see, what I was supposed to be writing was a third draft of another report for my job. It’s a worthy report, for a good client, with some interesting work to be done. I even e-mailed the draft to my home address, to whittle away on it after I stuffed some calories down my neck.

But it didn’t turn out that way. My heart whispered in the ear of my subconscious, and the two conspired to make the meat suit that is my body move in a different direction. Fatigue, hunger and the drive home became a drawn-out smear of rebellion against the long days I have already put in, with no more tolerance for the “have to do” and maintenance tasks.I was tired to the point of being weepy, almost. And so hungry I didn’t feel like cooking.

So it was that I found myself turning off the high road home and onto the low road ending in the dodgy embrace of a nearby purveyor of fast food, the golden brown and delicious crispy variety. I was too tired and hungry to be ashamed. Raw need and impatience created the Prime Directive my jittery mind could not ignore. To my credit, I exchanged the fries for a green side salad. The fast food equivalent of one or two Hail Marys and an Ave Maria.

Sitting at the table, chewing slowly and steadily while gazing with bovine lassitude at the surge of suburban life lapping at the service counter, my wetware performed a ‘count zero interrupt’. My brain decremented to zero, the grey matter quietly rebelling against the straitjacketed evening I had originally planned.

There would be no rewrites. No text edits. No rephrasing, no cutting and pasting of dry ideas and cost estimates. No, not now.

Instead, I ended up in the bookstore, i.e. ‘harem for the mind’. Ahh, books…I even had a vague plan to buy a specific book, but…but…they are all so pretty behind their brightly colored veils. I dallied, I lingered, exchanging sly glances and knowing looks with pretties of all stripes and shapes and bright colors. But even the king has to make up his mind as to his concubine…

This, dear readers, is what I came home with:

Tell me, O rapt ones, what does this say about me? What, oh, what was I thinking? I ask, because I confess that I do not know, only that there was a gossamer thread I followed in my mind…

1 down, 6 to go...

...and your pride is here on earth.

I guess the wages of sin pay pretty good, but how are the benefits?.

Love Poems About Everything

My lovelies, come to me...

And into my heart, whisper amour...(sigh)

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Oh, Jeez, Not Again Edition

Crikey, it seems like I was just here. Wait, where is here? Oh, that's its:

YEAH, WELL, GOOGLE, YOU SUCK: I can see it out of the corner of my eye. It's there. Hovering, taunting me. You know in the gmail sidebar, those little messages you can post up to announce your status? That's cool and all, but the one that just bugs me a little is the one that says "You are invisible". Gee, thanks guys, my self-esteem was already pretty low, but that is just gratuitous. Pile on, everybody!

GOOD THING I DON'T HAVE TO WRITE A REPORT: Looking around here, I am struck by the quantity of books that I have somehow accrued. As an example, to my right are a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, the Confessions of Saint Augustine and a book of poetry by the 13th century Persian poet Rumi. Across the room I have a shelf of nothing but The Year's Best Science Fiction, Numbers 14 through 25. (Holy crap, have I been reading them that long?). I have one short bookcase devoted to nothing but books on food, including How To Read A French Fry by Russ Parsons (and which I have yet to crack). There is a two volume set of works by Rudyard Kipling. The Fine Homebuilding master set of collected wisdom on ...fine homebuilding. My blue-cloth covered copy of Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad (in the top 3 of my favorite books). Now, if I could just find my long-lost manual on Getting A Clue, I'd be all set.

DO I HAVE TO PICK JUST ONE? Favorite object. Favorite tool. Favorite thing. I don't know if I have one. Or at least I haven't thought about it too much. I have a hand-blown glass sculpture based on a calla lily, that I acquired many years ago. I really like it, but just not sure if it is my favorite. A friend of mine gave me this plastic lens-shaped souvenir, it has a real scorpion encased it. That's cool too, if a little unsettling...

GREEN IS THE NEW BLACK: From a walk in the rain last Sunday. So much greeniness, I just wanted to wrap myself up in it and take a long, cool nap...

FINALLY, I'D LIKE TO THANK THE ACADEMY: Once again, dear readers, I have been blessed and honored with an award! This is really nice, and I'm feeling humbled and all warm and fuzzy. This is from Angie at Gumbo Writer, and I am very flattered she thought of me:

Please drop by her place, dig into some good stuff on writin' and eatin, and for the deets on the Humane award. Tell Angie hello and that I sent you. Hoo whee!

slurppp.slurrppp. That sound means we are at the bottom of the milkshake cup, peoples. As good as it is, there ain't no more. Still, there is always next Tuesday and another milkshake!

"I drink your milkshake!" Happy Random Tuesday, everyone! Don't forget, there is still time to enter the Stupid Photo Caption Contest, posted last Sunday, August 2nd, right here on Irish Gumbo! Enter and rejoice!

Joga Bonito! Futebol en Fuego (or an Evening Well Spent)

Milan vs. Chelsea. Just minutes away.

Our seats were primo.

There was noise. There was beer. There was footie.

Milan lost, 2-1, but really? It was an evening well spent. GOOOOOOAAAALLLLLLL!

Semi-Random, 'Cause I'm A Headless Chicken

Whew. A short one this week, folks. I'm tired and shagged out from a long squawk. So this week, it's random to the tune of one thing:

The lurvely and delish Marguerite at Cajun Delights bestowed upon me an award! Dig this:

I would tell you all about it, but...I'm tired. Please do stop by Cajun Delights, get the deets on this and many other tasty things (seafood, oh lawd, seafood)(and beer), and tell her I sent you.

Happy Tuesday, y'all!

A New Pair of Shorts

I had the realization recently that I find it difficult to write a short post. So here goes. Enjoy!

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Dude, Where's My Car? Edition

Go on. Take it. You know you want one. It's Random Tuesday Thought, yo! Grab it and go!

BUT HE MEANS IT IN THE BEST POSSIBLE SENSE OF THE WORD: You want to read something funny? My vote for the best Blog Post Title of the Year, read it here. Funny title, good article. And, no, I am not related to the author, although he is a friend and former neighbor.

I DO NEED IT, BUT NOT REALLY IN THE WAY THEY MEAN IT: Again with the random targeted ads. This stuff is comedy gold, I tell ya! There it was, floating in my sidebar:

"Need Cleavage Coverage? Make an impression with your resume not your cleavage. We can help!"

Okay, that's just a big, fat softball waiting to be hit out of the park. I'll start: "Pardon me, miss, can I make an impression OF your cleavage?" You guys, feel free to add your own joke...

A STUPID GAG THAT STILL MAKES ME LAUGH: This giraffe walks into a bar and says "The high balls are on me!" Now that's comedy!

ITS TOO BAD YOU CAN'T MARRY A SANDWICH (ALTHOUGH LEGISLATION MAY BE IN THE WORKS): I'm always on the lookout for new things to meet and eat (make your own pun there), so it was with great interest and perhaps a little lust that my "foodar"* went off like a cheap fireworks display when my blogging buddy cIII let slip in conversation the knowledge of the Hot Brown Sandwich. Bacon, turkey, Mornay sauce and tomato on toast. I likes me a good sandwich, and if visiting with The Goat and Tater Man hisself wasn't reason enough to visit the great state of Kentucky, the Hot Brown sounds like it runs a close second.

Kentucky, here I come...

WHAT ARE WORDS FOR, IF NOT TO MYSTIFY AND BEFUDDLE: I have been working on an informal project as of late, trying to identify words that I really like, that really appeal to me. When I first started, I got all tangled up in trying to define the criteria by which I could decide why really like them. But that became too hard to do, too much work, too much angst over what should be a pleasant task. So I threw all that out the window, and wrote down the first word that popped into my head. That word? "Boing". Just that: boing. BoingBoingBoing. BOING! Not even a real word, but there you have it. Try using it in a business conversation today!

TURN THE HEAT ON AND SEE WHAT SHE SAYS: Over the weekend, the Wee Lass and I were timekillin' by watching some mindspooge on TV, SpongeBob or something similar. I looked out the window and said "Hey, it's a real nice day, you wanna go to the playground?" To which she turned her withering gaze on me and replied "No, Daddy, are you kidding me? It's too hot to think!" The thermostat read 73 degrees. At 80 degrees, she would probably pass out!

Okay, whew, time to towel off now, go find my car. Happy Random Tuesday, everyone!

*Special thanks to Darby Conley for that little gem. Darby, please be a good sport and know that I only streal from the best. I'm not plagiarizing, I'm proselytizing!

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Cold, Drunk and Pantsless edition

Heyyyyyyyy, everybody! You know what time it is, am I right? AM I RIGHT? Everybody? Please, somebody gimme some props...Grab a button, release the brakes and GOOOOO!

THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING, IF BY GIVING YOU MEAN BLEATING AND POOPING: Google is an amazing thing, no doubt. I recently became aware of the little targeted ads and headers that show up in the Gmail window. I knew they were there, just really wasn't paying much attention until recently, when I was waiting for something to load. I looked up to see this header: "GiftofaGoat". Huh? I clicked on it out of curiosity, and it took me to the webpage of a large worldwide charity organization. There on the page in front of me, was the headline: "HELP LIFT A FAMILY OUT OF POVERTY WITH THE GIFT OF A GOAT". It went to explain that for a few bucks, you can buy a goat for some folks who can use it to produce milk, get hides for leather, provide food and some other things that could help an impoverished family in a developing area of the world. Wow. I know what they mean, but wouldn't a fat stack of cash be just as useful? A lot less poop...

BUT I'M A DIFFERENT KIND OF MUTHA: Also on the random targeted ads I saw, and I have no idea why it showed up on my e-mail page, was the "Are You A Bad Mother? Take the Quiz now!" advertisement. It boggles the mind that such a thing exists. I would love to see the criteria they used to generate the scores. Sample question: "DO YOU LEAVE YOUR CHILDREN UNATTENDED AT HOME WHILE YOU GO OUT DRINKING? - A: Yes B: No C: I'm appalled! D: No, they act as my designated driver..." Of course, then it should be called "Are You a Bad Muthaf**ker?"...

KEE-RIPES I WANNA PLAY LIKE THAT: Enjoying my iPod at work, with the benefit of decent headphones, I was bowled over by what, to me, is one of the badassest bass lines I have ever heard in my life. To wit, "All Wrong" by Morphine, around the 2:30 mark. The sax is good, but listen to the bass:

PUTTING THE FUN IN FUNDY: According to the Wikipedia entry on the Bay of Fundy in Canada:

"Folklore in the Mi'kmaq First Nation claims that the tides in the Bay of Fundy are caused by a giant whale splashing in the water. Oceanographers attribute it to tidal resonance resulting from a coincidence of timing: the time it takes a large wave to go from the mouth of the bay to the inner shore and back is practically the same as the time from one high tide to the next. During the 12.4 hour tidal period, 115 billion tonnes of water flow in and out of the bay."

Personally, I kinda like the giant whale theory. It's poetic, trippy and cool. Either way, folks, that is a shitload of water in a short amount of time!

THE LAW OF PERCENTAGES SAYS HE'S BOUND TO SCREW UP: Watching Blue's Clues this past weekend with my daughter, it occurred to me that once, just once, I would like to see Steve get it wrong and write down the wrong things. So then everyone would be walking around trying to figure out what the hell is wrong, and all the little kids could scream "Hey, Steve, get a clue! Get a clue! They are right in front of you!" Ooooh, speaking of Steve (actual name: Steve Burns) he performs, along with Steven Drozd of The Flaming Lips, what is quite possibly the best song EVAH done about groundhogs. For your edification and delight:

Rock the 'hogs, people! Woot!

WHAT, WILL THEY MAKE YOU EXPLODE?: Finally, because it is such a good source of randomosity (I made that up), yet another puzzling and funny targeted ad from the folks at Google. Just in case you needed some guidance, you can get "DangerousKissingTips", apparently guaranteed to make any girl "melt in your arms". Ewww. If that is what they mean by dangerous, I'll take a pass, thankyouverymuch. How do you explain that to her friends and family. "No, really, all I did was kiss her, and the next thing I knew she was soaking into the seat fabric. Really, I swear!". Better bring a mop and bucket, fellas...

pantpantpantshivershiver(hic)shivershiver(hic)...okay, now I'm gonna go put on some pants, get a blanket and wait for the room to stop spinning. Happy Tuesday!

No, Her Last Name Isn't "O' Furniture" - Good Things

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and genders in between, more good things have landed softly on my noggin. The intrepid Patty Mooney at A Diary Left Open has been kind enough to bestow upon me an award most excellent:

Burning Bright, most fitting, as that is how it feels sometimes when I sit down to write. Even better, that was the title of a novella by John Steinbeck. Very cool! Patty was so kind to give this to me, and it was created by Jen at Barefoot In The Sand. It's all so groovy, and I dig it. So if you can, drop some comment luv on 'em, tell them I sent you. Oh, and Patty has a great collection of lamp hats, check them out!

SHE WENT TO HAWAII, AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS AWARD: Seriously, though, the intrepid and lovely Pseudonymous High School Teacher also shook the awards tree, and I was the lucky fellow on whom the acorn fell:

Fo' rillz: See? It's an acorn! Pseudo graciously passed this along to me, and I'll borrow some wonderful word-ocity from her blog:

"The Renee Award, I’m told, is one of the most meaningful awards in blogland because it honors someone who is incredibly inspirational in his or her intelligent and witty writing.This award further celebrates a person’s smart, strong and inspirational spirit and it honors those who spread joy and love like an acorn, a small package growing into a tall and sturdy oak tree which spawns more acorns."

My moms often told me I was good at spreading stuff (stuff meaning b.s.), but joy and love? Well, man, that is indeed, the Balls*.

Many thanks to Patty and Pseudonymous, for reading and for making my day, twice over. Make sure to visit (San Diego and Hawaii, folks, dig the weather) and let them know I sent you.

*As my friend (and most gifted writer) cIII at The Goat and Tater would say.

Curry Me Home

Unlock the door, step inside, to be greeted with the sensual warmth of curry aroma...a fragrant memory of last night's dinner. Curried black beans and rice, with peppers and onions...all consumed by the light of a banker's lamp while the eater hunches over the keyboard and tries to shush the clamor in his head and the growling in his stomach.

Sipping a gin and tonic, he thinks it an appropriate libation to be had while swallowing the shades of a subcontinent all the way around the world. He swishes it around in his mouth and finds it amusing to be a citizen of a former colony of a once mighty empire drinking in the bitterness of a medicine that had its roots in another former colony, the liquid coursing in blood descended from ancestry once despised by that same mighty empire. Quinine on his lips, another mouthful of curried rice and all he needs is some jodhpurs, a helmet and a native batman to be at the table with the Governor-General himself.

Or maybe, the solitary eater told himself, I'm just full of shit.

No, not that. Full of rice and beans, maybe. And tasty ones at that. The warmth of the spices suffused his cheeks and belly rising on a faint tide of gin. Another chuckle and the shake of his head. Really, it's just dinner, one voice says, no need to turn it into a dissertation on the repression of minorities and foreigners in the framework of empires.

A sigh. Yes, I know, the voice on the other side of the table replies. It's just that I can't help it. I can't help but connect the dots, spin the web when I am surrounded by the silences of a near-empty house. Silences punctuated by the hum and click of appliances, voices in the hall, the faint patter of rain on the windows. In the absence of company, I tend to make my own, you know that, don't you?

Silence, with maybe what could have been a small sigh.

The radio goes silent, another glitch in the streaming audio. The eater pauses for a second, then decides he is too tired to reach the few inches to the computer and reboot the player. Instead, he turns his energy back to chewing the bright orangey-yellow spoonful of rice he had tucked away. Goodness, he thinks, goodness...how did this happen? No response to drown out the faint squeak and grind of soft rice, yielding graininess of silky beans rubbing his gums and coating the inside of his mouth with a paste of intense savor. Slowly, cattle at the feed, jaw moving and a slow swallow. The spicy mixture gently feeling its way to his stomach, he raises a napkin and pats his lips. The napkin comes away stained, gold and ochre dampening the paper. He smiles, admiring the color; pretty, like a tiger laying in a pool of sunlight. The smile fades, the eyes drop under a cascade of longing and loneliness coursing through his gently pulsating mind. His lips tremble. His eyes close as he whispers to himself.

What did you say? asks the voice from the other side of the table.

Nothing, the eater replies, nothing.

I know you did, I heard something, saw your lips moving. Tell me.

He sighs. The spoon lays in the bowl, a few bits of rice and a lone black bean lounging in a shallow pond of Indian echoes. He clears his throat.

I was asking myself how it could be that this bowl of rice, this room full of fragrance and spice...how could it be this fragment of India makes me yearn for home?

The voice from the other side of the table did not answer right away. The eater sat with head in hands and struggled to gain some composure. The voice replied

.

Because somewhere, on the other side of the world, someone swallowed a mouthful of rice, bathed in spice and made with love, and their heart spoke to yours.

The eater opened his eyes, took the spoon and scooped up the last bits in the bowl. Yes, he told himself, yes, my heart had to travel the world to finally recognize its true home. The spoon found its way to his mouth...

...and the tiger stretched its glorious limbs in the golden light, blinking, then settled back into the warm lap of the sun.

The Invitation Arrived Early!

YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE: Ladies and gentlemen, I had been honored by a request to guest post later this week. The lovely, multi-talented and energetic renaissance woman who is Chef E has asked me to step in while she is on vacation. Chef, writer, teacher, author of six (six!) blogs, she has a lot of irons in the fire and enthusiasm to burn. I was flattered, and a little intimidated to be honest, when she asked me to guest on cookAppeal. She is persuasive, though, and I did get to write about one of my favorite things: FOOD.

I was scheduled to post up on Friday, July 19th. HOWEVER, due to an unexpected glitch, Chef E needed to fill a post slot TOMORROW, so she asked if she could pencil me in. Of course, I said yes. So, dear readers, please set your alarms, mark your calendars, make a note to visit me tomorrow over at cookAppeal! And while you are there, check out her blog, drop some comment luv and come hungry...so good, ya hurt yourself!

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Golden Hamster Edition

LET'S GET READY TO RRRRUMMMMMBBBBLE! It's that time of the week again , so let's go crazy and look for that purple banana until they put us in the truck!* Grab a button, and get all random and stuff!

WORD FOR THE DAY: The word for the day is "schlong". Say it out loud. "SCHLONG". Consider it carefully. Schlong. schlongschlongschlong. Now you can't stop thinking about it, can you? AIIIIGGGGHHH!!!

WEIRD AND LOVELY THINGS: The lurvely Purest Green at where there are no chickadees sent me a most amazing postcard of what she called "ghost surgeons". It was just weird enough that I had to see it. Check this out:

This is an actual painting, at the (I think) National Galleries of Scotland (PG, help me out here) called Three Oncologists. And it hangs in a portarit gallery. Commissioned in 2002. Pretty bizarro, and I'm glad (?) I asked to see the card. Speaking of cards, Purest Green has a bit of a small project to send postcards to people. Why, you ask? So she can send all the ones she has and then go buy more, silly! If you would like a card, drop by her blog, tell her I sent you, and ask nicely. And check out the picture of her with the big hat, fit for the Queen Mum.

WEIRDO RELIGIOUS FACTS, VOL. 1 - BOGOMIL IS BULGARIAN FOR "DEAR TO GOD": Among other things, the Bogomils (a religious sect that arose in 10th Century Bulgaria) believed that God had two sons, the rebellious Satan and the obedient Jesus. No surprise, the Bogomils were considered heretics. Still, the idea isn't that far-fetched...but I wouldn't want to be called "Bogomil". Sounds like infant formula for clowns...

HOME ENTERTAINING WITH IRISH GUMBO: When having squirrels** over as guests, make sure to have on hand some drink coasters that double as nut dishes. We must be gracious to ALL our guests, no?

WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE PICKLE?: It's a battle to the death. Dill? Kosher dill? Bread and butter? Garlic pickles? Cornichons? Gherkins? It's like you go to the supermarket thinking "Dude, I wants me some pickles" and you get there and there is Claussen and Vlasic and Mt. Olive and the store brand and the kosher ones you can only find in the refrigerated section next to the bottles of horseradish and a brand called "Ba-Tampte", oh and those ones that come in the bright yellow can that say "Mediterranean Sweet and Sour Pickles" and then when you go back to finally try them the cans still have pictures of pickles on them but they don't say "Sweet and sour" anymore, it's something else, so back to the other aisle and then kee-ripes its slices or stackers or whole or whole baby pickles or relish, oh, hell no I didn't want relish I wanted pickles, pickles, PICKLES dammit, why did this have to be soooo harrrrrddddd....(beats head on floor).

POOL DORK: For the first time ever, I had the pool all to myself. Actually, it was me and the lifeguard, but she wasn't swimming. So what is the first thing Mr. Michael Phelps (not) does when he hits the water? Takes off swimming like a brick and sucks in a big snootful of highly chlorinated water. Which leads to his imitation of a hippopotamus with a lung problem. Yeah, man, real smooth, hornking and snorting like that...

BUT CAN YOU PLAY KLEZMER MUSIC ON IT?: Finally, for anyone looking for a weekend project to do with the kids:

Whew! So there it is, another RanDoooM 2sDayyy Thawts! Happy Tuesday, one and all!

*Bonus points and kudos if you know what that is from.
**Everyone except IB and cIII, that is.

Orville Redenbacher Would Be So Proud

“OOOooo, tha’ popcorn smell good as shit!”

I beg your pardon? Really? (shaking head, tugging at ear)

Did I just hear that? Turning my head to see who said it, I spied a pair of teenagers walking fast and not watching where they were going, pushing and shoving on each other. It happened in a nearby mall, one that I didn’t frequent all that much.

“Damnnnn…” said the one who presumably hadn’t made the comment about the popcorn. “Too bad I ain’t got a dollah!” Then they were gone.

I sniffed the air, and indeed there was the heavy scent of popcorn in the air. I looked over the rail down the floor below, where I could see the popcorn vendor’s cart in the middle. Nary an inkling of fecal matter, olfactory or otherwise, could I discern. Which is a good thing, I suppose.

Popcorn that smells good as shit? Really, what were they doing with the cobs?

Random Tuesday Thoughts: GumboIsAVirgin Edition

Can you believe it? I mean, seriously, really? It's time for "Random Tuesday Thoughts" courtesy of the UnMom, which many of you (i.e. all of you) have heard of. Apaprently, everyone except me. 'Cause in all the time I have been blogging, I've never done the random Tuesday thing. Never. Nope. Nada. Which means (gasp) i'mavirgin that this is the first time I have done it. So grab a button, or something, and get started!

DISH SOAP: I have a big bottle of Palmolive dish soap sitting on the edge of my sink. One of the big clear ones filled with green goo. I bought it because I was in a hurry, needed soap and forgot to consider that the word "Palmolive" gives me the creeps. I don't know why, it just sounds vaguely unwholesome.

FIX THE DAMN THING ALREADY: One of my neighbors has a job that apparently requires him to leave by 5:00 in the f*&%in' morning. I say f*&%in' because he also has a car that has a muffler that sounds like Snuffaluffagus (did I spell that right? who cares, I'm tired) with a head cold having a seizure. Seriously, I'm thinking about lending him some greenbacks, tell him to have that thing looked at. If it isn't broken, then he should be smacked around a bit. Dammit.

STR-STR-STR-STREAMING AUDIO: I listen to my favorite radio station quite a lot, by streaming it over my laptop through a wireless rig to my speakers. It sounds GREAT, mostly, except for the ti-ti-ti-times the au-au-au-audio player software gets the hi-hi-hi-hiccups. Then, it's just weird, I mean, really we-we-we-weird. I thought it must just be the beer talking, but it happens mostly in the mornings while I eat breakfast. And I don't drink beer for breakfast. Very often.

KIDS AND THE DARNDEST THINGS #1: A while back, me and the Wee Lass were bellied up to the dinner table, shoving calories down our necks, when the subject of music came up. In the course of our conversation, I was asking her what kind of music she liked. We sang a little bit of the Spongebob Campfire Song:

Hilarity ensued. Then, I asked her if she liked to "shake her booty", and emphasized the question by shaking mine with gusto. Wee Lass looked at me with all seriousness and said "Daddy, don't dance while you eatin'". Hmm. Good advice, indeed.

KIDS AND THE DARNDEST THINGS #2: Watching "The Little Mermaid", the wedding scene on the ship, where it is discovered that the evil Ursula has taken on the guise of Ariel. When Ursula is found out, reverting back to her octopus form, Wee Lass said: "Why would anybody want to marry someone so ugly?" I don't know, sweetie, money?

WTF Files: While looking for something else, I found this image in my files:

I don't know, man...

ITS FUNNY BECAUSE ITS STUPID: Not sure exactly why, but the following video makes me laugh until I nearly wet myself:

So there you have it, my very first Random Tuesday Thoughts, Gumbo-style! I'd say get over to Keely's and give thanks and drop some comment luv! Happy Tuesday!

Spice Boy Chronicles, No. 1: Vanilla Sugar

I was rooting around in my tacklebox* full of spices and seasonings the other day, looking for something what I can’t remember, and I rediscovered an old favorite:

Ah, vanilla sugar. I shook the jar to break up the clumps, and opened it to get a big snootful of what I consider to be one of the most delightful aromas in the universe. Standing there, in the kitchen, eyes crossing and head swimming in the scent wafting up from the sugar, I had a song begin to play in my head:

You still come to me in dreams
This little bed can barely hold
The dark beauty of your eyes
Burn like a fire in the cold**

Yeah, it’s like that.

The vanilla I’m rhapsodizing about is not vanillin nor is it vanilla extract. Vanillin is only the main aromatic compound in the mix of more than 200 different volatiles that are found in vanilla beans***. Vanillin alone cannot give enough depth to it. Vanillin can be synthesized from a variety of sources, mostly industrial by-products like wood lignin and (get this) coal tar extracts. I don’t know about you, but coal tar doesn’t exactly make my taste buds want to sit up and beg.

Vanilla extract certainly has its uses and I like it. But it is best when you need more the taste than both taste and smell. Cooking and baking has the side effect of volatilizing many of the delicate compounds that make up the scent. Extract certainly can give you the sense of it, but for me the heavy alcohol smell is too cloying and covers up some of the other entrancing facets of vanilla-ness.

No, what I am talking about is the vanilla bean itself. Long, thin, deep mahogany, like a French green bean mummified by the sun. If you are lucky you might even get one or two that have vanillin and glucose crystallized on the surface. Sort of like a long-legged supermodel wearing a diamond-encrusted bikini.

The taste of vanilla I adore. When I used to drink coffee, I liked to put some vanilla sugar in it now and then. Kee-rist, that was good. I still sprinkle it on my cereal sometimes. I also discovered that it is awesomesauce to put it on some peanut butter toast dotted with melted chocolate chips. Yeah, man, a sure fire way to get the day started off right.

Nothing, but nothing smells quite like a fresh vanilla bean. Many of you probably already know that if you take a vanilla bean and bury it in an airtight container of sugar, the aroma and flavor will permeate the sugar in about a week or so****. Refined sugar for me is…meh. Vanilla sugar, on the other hand, is ohmygawdgetmyfaceoutofthesugarbowlbeforeIsuffocate. Few scents have quite the effect on me that vanilla does. I have always been drawn to the aroma, even before I learned to enjoy the taste. Aromatic exotica, I like to think of it. It smells spicy-warm-sweet-caramel-honey-flowers, if that makes sense. To this day I cannot come up with words that adequately describe the aroma, without breaking it down into dry, terse descriptions that do not convey the “vanilla-ness” of vanilla.

The smell of vanilla conjures up a lot of things, from a sense of hominess (grandma baking cookies) to faraway lands (Madagascar, Indonesia) to sensual adventures (I smell vanilla:I think boudoir). The aroma of vanilla is a delicious paradox, combining the pleasures of the known and the mysteries of the unknown in one deep, complex scent. This scent hits the pleasure buttons of the boy I used to be and the man I became. Not often one can find something that reminds of grandma, and things that one probably would be embarrassed to discuss with grandma!

So it was that cookies and lust were simmering in the kitchen of my mind. I was amusing myself with the notion that a flower, an orchid from places so far away could excite me emotionally and physically, could make me feel good and relaxed. I was also curious, so I did what any self respecting food nerd would do: research.

What I found was all sorts of information relating to the therapeutic, medicinal, stimulative and calmative (paradoxical, but there it is) benefits of vanilla. Many of these have been posited over the course of thousands of years, and have begun to attract attention from modern science. It is possible that vanilla, or its scent, can have positive effects on a variety of ailments and conditions. Things like respiratory conditions, digestion and heart problems, claustrophobia and anxiety, even mild erectile problems*****.

Goes a hell of a lot further than just flavoring ice cream, doesn’t it?

However, the one bit of information that really made my jaw drop, laugh out loud and turn on that little light bulb in my head was thoroughly unexpected. It had to do with the name ‘vanilla’. According to my information, it was the Spanish that were the first Europeans to have the privilege of tasting vanilla. As with so many things in history, them what are first get to slap a name on it. In this case, the Spanish named it vainilla, which is the diminutive term for ‘sheath’ or ‘husk’. As is often the case, vainilla was a word derived from a Latin word which literally meant ‘sheath’ or ‘scabbard’. That Latin word?

Vagina.******

Well, then. Vanilla: smells good, tastes good, good for what ails you. I knew there was a reason I liked vanilla so much.

*That’s right, tackle box. What? Did you think I would keep them in a purse, or satin lined bag? Hell, no. My tools belong in proper boxes, dammit.
**From “I Dream An Old Lover” by Jeffrey Foucault, on the album ‘Ghost Repeater’. Great song.
***The geek confesses: I have on my bookshelf not 1 but 2 copies of “On Food and Cooking” by Harold McGee. All thanks to his work that I can spout food trivia like the 200 compounds bit. I have 2 different editions because I wanted to compare the updated version with the original. See? I’m a geek.
****Take a vanilla bean, split it or leave it whole – your choice – and bury it in a canister full of white sugar. Leave it for a week and then give it a sniff. You can take the bean out and use it for something else, or leave it in for a stronger hit. I was reminded of this while perusing the Penzeys Spices catalog. Jay-zus, I’m a geek.
*****There is recorded evidence that the scent of vanilla can improve ‘blood circulation to the male member’ i.e. it puts lead in yer pencil. I think I read that the same study showed a combination of black licorice and doughnut worked even better. Twizzlers and Krispy Kremes, anyone?
******I am not making this up.