The Art of Eating

Last night I was eagerly anticipating a pumpkin pie we bought at the store earlier. Anyone who knows me, knows I practically OD this time of the year on everything pumpkin! It's really a good time of year for me to be alive. So I'm sitting at my desk working on an invoice, and my daughter brings me a wedge, (she knows better than to show up with just a slice), and a cup of hot tea. I don't know much about Nirvana, but I can only imagine that I may have come close to it last night. So I proceed with caution to thoroughly enjoy this pie. I'm very careful to not let any crumbs fall to the floor. I'm aware of the 5 second rule, or whatever time limit you want to allow, but I didn't want to put it into force. Eventually I finished without incident. Sat back and thought, "I'm really an expert with this fork." I wonder how I would do in other cultures where they use other utensils to shove food into their pie holes? I would experiment, but not with pumpkin pie. There would be a definite learning curve, and portions of food would end up a casualty. Five or ten seconds wouldn't be enough time to recover. I've attempted a couple of times to eat with chop sticks. This would actually be a good diet program for me, because practically nothing would make it into my mouth, unless I were to stab it. Some cultures eat with their hand. The right hand ONLY! The left hand is for all other business, and is considered unclean. Pretty sure I could accomplish this, being right handed and all. But could I do it as clean as they do? They seem to be able to eat, and still be in a pristine condition afterward. I'm pretty sure my clothing, along with my face and hands, your clothing, your face and hands, would all have to be washed following my meal. I know there's a 'proper' way of eating peas in this country, which has become a lost art. A hundred year ago, women of a certain class would eat a row peas balanced on their butter knife. This could make for some fun with food around the dinner table :) Humor me for a minute. Say we all practiced diligently at eating with various forms of utensils, and we seemed to have mastered all the world has to offer, in order to get us fed properly. Once the food is in our mouth, what do we do with it then? Is the mouth closed, are there smacking noises, heavy breathing through the nostrils, talking while masticating? Just because we graciously engineered and maneuvered our meal from the plate to an open orifice, does not mean we've successfully become a sophisticated dinner guest!

Lost Summer

I had high hopes for this summer. Thought I would be outside doing more activities, camping, riding my bike, patio dwelling, basically OUT OF DOORS! Haven't even finished my summer project of building an outdoor pizza oven. Depressing to think about, to say least. Perhaps I'm looking at it all wrong. There were several days when the heat was really out of control, and being outdoors was less than ideal, but I found myself outside for part or most of those days. Yes, I was usually working my tail off, (part of the reason summer has slipped by), but I WAS outdoors. I went camping in the spring, to help kick off my 'summer of fun', but then the floods came and drowned my hopes of camping in my favorite location on the planet (within an hour drive of my house). Between an extraordinary amount of work, and natural forces deciding for me, what I'm allowed to do and not do, I feel my summer is quickly dwindling. Kids have already started back to school! When I heard that, the feeling of dread overcame me, the same feeling when I was a grade schooler. Not that I disliked school all that much, but my endless summer had an expiration date. I was forced to take a short, and much needed vacation recently, in which I spent quite a bit of time outdoors, taking in the sights, sunshine, and enjoyment. For the most part, I crammed a summer's worth of fun into 4 days. So I salvaged what was left of summer. True, there is technically another month left, but face it, September 1st is really the deadline. Get all your outdoor activities rounded up, finalized, put away, and filed in the memory banks. The shorts and bathing suits will be ready for hibernation soon. The sweaters and sweat shirts are preparing themselves for action. The days are getting shorter, the nights are starting to cool a bit. Prepare for the autumn activities to start! The shortest season of the year :(

The List

Sorry I haven't blogged in awhile. I've been preoccupied with the mindless time suck, known as Facebook. Plus, I've been wasting countless minutes in the black hole we all subscribe to called Facebook. Lastly, I've been feverishly productive, scouring Youtube for a wide variety of music, to post and entertain my cyber friends on Facebook. I can't wait until Facebook is a thing of the past, and I quit being drawn toward the mesmerizing bug zapper, waiting to kill my time. But tonight, my wife and I had an interesting conversation (I've heard communication is kind of important in a relationship), while starting to watch a DVR'd episode of Anthony Bourdain. She mentioned Mr. Bourdain, second only to me, is the sexiest man in her life right now. Amazingly enough, she's not necessarily drawn to the chiseled beefcake types. Oh, she notices and admires, but an intellect with a biting sarcastic side, and an occasional flash of humor, seems to pique her interest more. Top it off with a man who cooks and has his own TV show, WELL ... there you have her ideal stud of a man! So then we start to discuss others who may have made the honorable mention list. Mario Batali, not for his manly physique, but for his charm, culinary skills, plus he speaks Italian. What girl can resist the Italian language? We then moved on from chefs to musicians. Dave Matthews holds a solid third place. The guy plays a guitar, writes dirty poetry, and puts it all together in a song. How does a regular guy compete with that? Bono was mentioned, but she's not sure she can trust the suave Irishman. After all, he's not Italian. I thought I would bring up sports figures, but she quickly dismissed any candidates before thoroughly thinking it through. A decade or so ago, there was a young man who played football for the Cornhuskers, and then went on to play in the NFL for the Arizona Cardinals, whom she completely forgot about. Joel Makavicka pulled on the heart strings the first time she saw him. She thought he was so adorable, he could be counted worthy to be one of the harem she was putting together. I brought up another athlete, Joba Chamberlain. She had a valid reason for turning down Joba, because of the gap in age. I'm sure she's not real fond of the thought of being Joba's cougar. But if Joba were another12 years older, I'm pretty sure she would reconsider. She did say she would be happy to mother him though. Pretty sure he tops that list.

Double Standard

In case you don't know me all that well, and you're looking to buy me a gift, I happen to be a fan of just about anything fermented laced with alcohol. I'm not an alcoholic. I don't drink every day, and only drink enough to enjoy, not get drunk. Those days have disappeared with the dinosaurs, which, could also give you a clue as to how old I am. It is true, along with age comes wisdom. Another thing that comes with age is good wine. Beer also, but in a much shorter time frame, which is beneficial for me, because I tend to enjoy a beer more often than wine. But getting to my point of discussion, you may, at one time in your life, bought your favorite bottle of grapes, and it didn't taste quite how you remembered the previous 23 bottles. Since wine is made from a natural product from the earth, wine makers are subject to whatever the earth decides to part with for that growing season. A wine maker has the right to a disclaimer that says in part, 'It was an off year for our harvest'. It could be influenced by lack of nitrogen filled rain, too much rain, an unbalanced PH level, etc. There's a LOT of science involved, which I'm not even going to attempt to understand. I'm going to take their word for it. It has to be tough battling nature just to get the 'close to perfect' crop. So when this occurs, wine experts and amateurs accept this explanation, and just swallow hard until the next year's yield. This is where it gets difficult. I recently attended my second tour of the LUCKY BUCKET brewery. Afterwards, I had some questions, and happened to find the ear of one the brewers. He was sitting with a pile of paperwork in front of him, pretending to look busy, so I interrupted his 'good intentions', to talk about beer. If he's anything like me, which he apparently fit the description, he shoved the paperwork aside, and talked to me about something he felt passionate about. Paperwork will ALWAYS be there - my desk can attest to that fact. So I started my borage of questions, many times resembling a 3 year old. "But why?", "But why?". One question I had was, "Have you ever had to dump a batch late its stage, due to unacceptable taste or some other reason?'". After five years of brewing, they had to dispose of their first batch recently. I could tell this was a painful subject, but I pried further anyway. He proceeded to tell me how the beer industry is affected much in the same way the wine industry is affected. In order to make beer, it requires grains the earth produces. You have barley, wheat, hops, and whatever else you 'mash in' to achieve your desired taste. Once again, a huge amount of science, and total reliance on what the earth is going to give you to work with. One small? difference though. Beer drinkers will NOT tolerate a batch of beer that didn't taste identical to their previous twelve pack! They know what they like, and just because the label is the same, if the beer is off, they're searching for a new resource to appease their tastebuds. The brewer divulged a little info about this year's barley yield. He said the crops weren't as plentiful as the previous year's, so the heads of grain were smaller. You have to account for that in the recipe, because it's all done by weight. Smaller grain means you need more grain to accomplish the desired taste. More grain, means more expense to achieve your finished product. More expense, means less profit. But they can't jack the price up to recoup some of that cost, because every craft brewer is out there vying for your business, so they have to remain competitive.When it boils down to it (little play on words there), beer drinkers are more demanding of their source for a buzz, than wine drinkers. They're not tolerant of excuses, they hold their brewery to a higher standard. Wine drinkers appear to be more sophisticated, and seem to have a finely tuned palate, but I'm questioning whether that is the case, or they just have cheese recommendations to help disguise the beverage of an 'off' year.

End of an Era

It seems everything has a shelf life. Everything has its 15 minutes in the sun. Just like a season, it has to pass. It kind of saddens me to write about this, and I'm sorry if it bums you out momentarily, but I feel its only appropriate to give due recognition to my clock radio. My grandma bought it for me in 1986, as a Christmas gift, and has been serving me faithfully ever since. It saddens me because it could be the last thing I own from the greatest decade ever, - the 80's! Actually, I acquired a wife in the 80's, but she would be upset if I compared her to an object. Nonetheless, I've had the radio longer than my wife! So my point is, my beloved, faithful, bedside table, companion may be on its last leg. The radio portion doesn't really work anymore, but it was never good quality sound, even in 1986. Its main function was to wake me up. So this morning, instead of the familiar old buzz, buzz, buzz, alerting me to my senses, I could hear something like static disturbing my last few seconds of REM, like someone searching for a station on the AM band, in the middle of Nebraska's sandhills. I awoke to my beloved radio struggling to get an annoying noise out, to rustle me from sleep. I felt sorry for it, like when your dog gets so old, it can barely walk. You know its time left here on earth is short. I did some math to help bring things into perspective. You have to realize though, the snooze button and on/off switch, have been pushed at least 5200 times. Its hard to pinpoint exactly, because you have to factor in leap years, the mornings I didn't want to get out of bed, and hit the 'snooze' more than once, the times I may have been out of town, and was unfaithful to my radio by using another one. But still, roughly 5200 times! I'm sure my wife is going to read this, and my poor dying clock radio will receive its death knell. I just hope it receives a better parting than say, my Vans, Chuck Taylors, Ocean Pacific shirts, Members Only jacket, etc., etc. I'm pretty sure the Vans and Chuck Taylors have disintegrated and are part of the soil by now. In fact, they were falling apart by the time I was finished wearing them. The Ocean Pacific shirts were probably torn into strips and used to wash cars, wipe up paint spills, or clean the grease off of auto parts in a garage. The Members Only jacket, if its still in existence, is probably being worn by a homeless person. As long as he's experiencing the magic and groovin' the girls, I'm OK with that. But wait! As I sit here writing, it dawns on me that I still own my Coleco head to head football game! It still works like its supposed to. All hope of the greatest decade is not lost! Anyone up for a game? What?! You wold rather play Madden?

When I Grow Up

A young boy, or even a young girl for that matter, has dreams of being several different things when they grow up. Very few individuals are so extremely focused, that they end up being what they dreamed of at the age of ten. Grandpa was a diesel mechanic and the patriarch of our family, so of course I want to be just like Grandpa. When I was old enough to start helping work on vehicles, I realized this wasn't really my cup of tea. I stuck with it for as long as I could possibly tolerate, but I was still searching and dreaming. I helped my uncle for a short time, in his auto body shop. The only thing I enjoyed about that was the paycheck, and being located half a block away from Orsi's bakery. I mowed some lawns, and also worked for a lawnmower repair shop. Didn't really care for the repair shop. It was too much like automotive repair, plus the owner was a screaming, raving, lunatic, who liked to hear himself yell, not only at employees, but an occasional customer. I needed the money, so I stuck with it until just before graduation. So now I've graduated, and I'm unemployed, with not a clue in the world what direction I want to take my life. I couldn't afford college on my own, and didn't have any scholarship offers, because I was just a mediocre student with mediocre enthusiasm about school. So here I am wondering what I'm going to do with my life. At eighteen, its time to stop dreaming, and start acting. It just so happened, a friend of mine informed me that his dad needed some extra help. His dad was self employed and was a tilesetter. I wasn't one hundred percent sure what was involved, but I needed a job, and was willing to give it a try. It was very hard work, but rather fulfilling at the time. So I stuck it out, and am still doing it today. Since then, I've taken an interest in custom concrete work. As a tilesetter, part of our job training is working with concrete on a smaller scale than an actual concrete guy, but an important and necessary part of our job requirements. So I now dabble in custom concrete countertops, fireplaces, furniture, anything you could possibly imagine outside the normal realm of concrete work. But, for the last several years, I've started making my own Italian sausage. I was able to formulate a pretty good recipe from two different sources, and have been pumping out (literally) some decent sausage. I've had several people tell me I've missed my calling. One person wanted to back me in a business venture, and claimed he would purchase my product on a regular basis, and be willing to pay more for my product than other sausage out on the market. Things like this get me thinking. I'm 45 years old now,... what do I want to be when I grow up. There's the responsible side of me that keeps me going to work each day, and fulfill my creative side, and there's the adventurous side that wants to try something new, whether it be sausage making, or.... sausage making. I'm just wondering if the 'road to sausage' is going to become like assembly line work. I'm not built for that. But could I do it long enough to build a business, and then sell it for a ridiculous amount of money? Maybe. In the meantime, I digress.

Textually Active

It took me awhile, but I finally caught on to text messaging, and have found it very useful. So now I use 3 of the multiple features on my phone:) It comes in handy when you need to ask someone a question that usually requires a 'yes', or 'no' answer. I occasionally have to deal with a couple of individuals throughout the day, who, once they have you on the phone, you're captive for the next 15 minutes. They blab non stop, and say the same things over and over. Sometimes I get off the phone with them, and think, "What was the answer to the question"? For people like this, only texting should be allowed. They have to make it short and concise. I am fully aware that texting while driving is illegal, and in the past, I've been guilty of such criminal activity, but now I try to wait til I'm at a destination, or at the very least, stopped at a red light, before I respond. Some may consider texting the 'only' way to effectively communicate these days. It may be quick and to the point, but it loses the sincerity of the human voice. For instance, a person may be hesitant to tell a lie face to face. It's a bit easier over the phone. Texting has taken the guilt completely out of it! Think of your grandparents' generation. When they were young and dating, they would actually take the time to sit and write a letter, or send a card with their feelings and sentiments. Years later, they can still dig that card or letter out of the closet, and feelings of endearment may come over them again, as it did so many years ago. Todays texters, do you think they look back on the text messages from years ago, and get to relive those magical moments? Nope, your mailbox if full - time to delete. So the more we're attached to inanimate objects, the less the world has to practice loving and showing consideration for one another. All I'm saying is, the more technology advances, and the general populace embraces it, I feel there's a price to pay. Texting definitely has a benefit, but human contact is far superior. There's a time to shut your text hole, and open your pie hole.

The Weekend

Most people work for the weekend. You start hearing TGIF on Thursday afternoons. And this is true for the majority of America that works a 9 to 5 job. Self employment, on the other hand, plays by a different set of rules. Your 'weekend' is going to vary drastically from the established weekend everybody else follows. Let me explain. This particular weekend, I have to go look at a job this afternoon. These folks are in a hurry to get their bathroom whipped into shape so they can put it on the market to sell. Once we iron out a few details, they're going to pull the trigger, which means the ball has just been putted on to my green. If my work load were a little heavier at this moment, I would be there Sunday morning, tearing their bathroom apart, getting it ready to put back together on Monday. Self employment is not bound by 9 to 5, Monday thru Friday. You tackle it as it walks through the door. The work comes and goes in waves. Sometimes tsunamis. I hardly ever work a 40 hour week. If we're slow, 30. If we're busy, as much as 70 to 80. Holidays are just another day. I have, at one time or another, worked on every single holiday. It's not that big of a deal to me, but the people who are enjoying their day off with their families, you would think the last thing they would want, is to hear power tools being run in their house on their holiday. Self employment can bring some rather big challenges concerning work load. There has been stretches where I've worked 35 - 40 days straight, with no days off in between. Unfortunately, there have been days where I did not see my children. Up and out the door early, home by 11 PM. On the flip side, there have been weeks where my children are sick of seeing me and ask, "When are you going back to work Dad"? Then there's the dreaded paperwork. I hate paperwork! My desk is a constant clutter. I feel as if I'm shifting piles from one location to another, just so I can feel like I've accomplished something at my desk. Computers were originally designed to greatly reduce the amount of paperwork involved in running a business. I think its just added another layer of work to the secretary, namely me. You have to record things in a computer, and keep hard copies in case your computer crashes, or, the IRS wants a peek at what you've been up to. Many times, weekends are spent, what I like to call, 'Doing my homework'. So now that I'm finished ranting about 'Living the Dream' of being you own boss, I'm putting on my game face for the day. Enjoy the weekend all! It is Saturday, right?

Mother Tongue

Last night, over dinner, I was talking with a friend about the English language, and what would be considered proper 'English'. In other words, what 'English' is considered to be spoken correctly, or as close to correct as possible. The 'English' spoken in Great Britain is who we have to thank for bringing English to this country. So technically, it's the older, possibly original, English spoken by anyone. Does this mean those of us in the Midwest have an accent? We're all very well aware if you travel to different portions of this country, you're going to hear different accents and nuances in the English language, some subtle, some not even recognizable. My friend brought up an interesting point. He says 'fact'. I don't know that for sure. The 'English' spoken in the Midwest is the most recognizable, and is the easiest form of 'English' to actually learn. Then there's the Aussies who have bastardized the British accent to the point of making the language funny. And how about those Irish? To me, it sounds as if they're just making up words to fill in the blanks, because they don't know the proper 'English'. The Cajun people, I don't even know where to start, but they are fun to listen to. So if the English language is so diverse, and seems ever changing, how about other languages? Do they have the same identity crisis? The French spoken in Quebec, is it the same French spoken in France? The Portuguese used by the Brazilians, did it survive the trip across the Atlantic, or has it morphed into a dialect? I just want to know who is speaking correctly, and who needs speech therapy.

Proceed With Caution

If anyone knows me well, you're aware of my 'less than enthusiastic' attitude toward soup. I am not a fan, and will not push the 'LIKE' button - usually. I'm not a total hater of all soups, just the ones that don't taste good, or the ones where ingredients are floating in a bathtub of broth. Many people feel you can turn any ingredient into soup. "Hey, a leftover cheeseburger! That would be good with rice and celery". I just threw up a little as I was writing that. So many soups have ingredients that are hidden or mysterious,... until you put it in your mouth. I don't appreciate the tofu that looks like a noodle, or a chicken part that is diced so you can't distinguish the fact it's a piece of liver. Recently someone was disappointed when they found out the jalapenos were actually okra. I will admit, I do enjoy a hearty, thick soup that could really be eaten with a fork if I so choose. The list is short though. Chili is acceptable, along with beer cheese soup. A friend makes a steak and mushroom that I actually crave. I'll have to sit and ponder this for awhile to come up with others. There's a few I don't mind if I doctor them up before entering my mouth. Sometimes sour cream does the job, or a whole handful of crackers or potato chips to soak up the bath water. If you invite me for a meal, I'm not going to cry about being served soup, but I'm probably going to eat a peanut butter sandwich when I get home, to actually fill my void. I know when times get tough, I may be brought to the reality of broth with a rock in it, but that's where imagination will have to fill in. If I paint tines on my spoon, maybe that will trick my brain. My stomach, I don't know.

In A Hurry?

So last weekend, I needed a few things at the grocery store, for a get together. As usual, I try to squeeze the most minutes out of my day. So I thought I would pop in to a grocery store on my way home - one I don't usually shop at. Stupid, stupid, stupid idea! First of all, I'm not sure where everything is located, so I have to spend extra time searching the aisles. Second of all, it's a Saturday, which brings out every non - English speaking person, AND their twelve relatives in tow, plus every old person at the wheel of a motorized cart. It's like a demolition derby, south of the border! Simply put - CHAOS! So I quickly maneuver the aisles with speed and precision, dodging motorized carts trying to take my knees out, and leaping over crying, snot - nosed kids, laying in the middle of the aisle, acting as human speed bumps for the motorized retired NASCAR racers. I've procured my four items, now time to plan a strategy for the checkout and exit. Squeeze between the big butted person bending over to pick up the screaming, dirt faced, toddler, and the old guy in coveralls, who wreaks of cigarette smoke, and kitty litter, dodge another cart that just ran into a display of Captain Crunch, juke the guy who looks like he's in as big a hurry as I am, and jump into the 'Express Lane', where only individuals with twelve items or less, are allowed. Then it comes to a screeching halt! The two women at the front of the checkout, have a whole basket of groceries, enough items to occupy three 'Express Lanes'. They must have misunderstood the sign, and messed up on their addition. If you can only count to twelve, then you have to start over, which means you have twelve items, twelve items, and eight items. That apparently qualifies you for the 'Express Lane'. But wait, they almost forgot the coupons! And to slow the whole process down, the older one (the one without the dentures), is doing all the communicating with the checker, which means the checker is only understanding 25% of what's being spoken. Top that off with a checker who's obviously 'less than thrilled' to be there, and you now have the slowest checkout line in the store. In fact, the line next to us shoved three individuals, with fully laden carts through, in the same amount of time it took to get the 'dream team' of two women through. Instead of saving precious seconds, it probably cost me fifteen minutes. And of course, Murphy's Law dictates that since I had to use the bathroom in addition to being in a time crunch, this was surely to occur. Lesson learned? Probably not. One positive thing that came out of this excursion - I got caught up on all my super market tabloids:)

Stumped

Double-sided tape is a wonderful invention, but which side to use?