Is that a flashlight in your basket?

This evening I got wind of some things taking place in my little low-rent community that were...unnerving.  I don't know if they are true but I thought that I should call the non-emergency number for my local police department.  I don't know of another way to say, "Hey Guys, here's some stuff that I think you should be aware of in the neighborhood.  If you are driving by my neck of the woods, please....drive a little slower.  Keep an eye on us".

It's hit or miss here with the police.  Here's a short story to illustrate the relationship I have with the local police from my point of view.

Back story.  Beautiful, middle aged woman wearing sweat pants, stained Google tshirt that she bought 2 sizes too large that is now tight in the belly is walking dogs.  Her unkempt hair flops in the breeze.

Entranced, a man of no particular racial origin, age or size (none that I could discern) who is riding past her on a brand new girls bicycle, cardboard still attached to the spokes turns around and begins to follow along side our heroine.  Uphill.  Up a steep hill.

I don't think I will fit on your handlebars, Tex.

Women don't like strange men doing such things.  Really.  We don't.  Really. Don't do that.  It's creepy.

So, I marched it back home and called the NON-emergency police line to say, "Hey, police dudes.  There is some girls-bike-riding-weirdo out there.  He made nervous and generally, I'm not because I have these large dogs I'm walking.  FYI..you might want to check him out, okay?"  I don't do this to pick on strange men.  No, I don't.  I do this because if I were hear of some 12 year old girl getting raped down the street from me by a man matching this description, I will never forgive myself. It's my duty to call.  In my mind.  Not SHOOT.  Just call. Isn't that being a good neighbor?  Part of the community?

So...here's the funny part.  I call the NON-emergency line.  They ask a few questions.  They offer to send an officer over (which, personally, I never know how to answer. Do I want the police at my house?  Not really.)  as the local tattle tale, this seems like a silly choice to me but then, I don't want them to think I'm shirking my responsibility either.  Plus, unless I am going to work, I always look like hell.  If someone comes over, that means I have to put on a bra.  Yeah, it's true.  I'm that sexy.

I digress.

One of the questions the dispatch asks me is, "What did the bicycle guy look like?" to which I replied, "He honestly looked a lot like Yasser Arafat" because the guy did look like Yasser Arafat.  His looks were not what made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.  His behavior did.

In my experience men of a certain age just don't travel on girls' 10 speed bicycles....

Men don't just stop in their tracks, not typically, not on their 10-speed girls bikes with new cardboard on the spokes, change directions to ride uphill just hear the sound of my breath rasping out of my throat in agonizing wheezes from my 30 years as an obese smoker.  They just don't.   So for me, looking like Yasser Arafat doesn't raise red flags.  Acting like I resemble Beyonce wearing a dress made of butter at an all you can eat buffet?  Sorry dude.  Red flag.

Here's the funny part.  When the local police showed up at my door, two seconds after I called, they can barely look at me.  The officer, who is rolling his head like a puppet because eye rolling isn't enough says, "Ma'am, this poor man is just on his way to work.  He is NOT a terrorist."

(Who said he was a terrorist?  Did I call the FASHION POLICE?  NO.  I did not.  Plus, I only wish I had that number. )

The officer looked and sounded so annoyed.  I didn't bother to correct him and I waited until he was safely behind the darkly tinted glass of his squad car to laugh and laugh.  To be honest, I was impressed they even knew who Yasser Arafat was in this town.  It didn't matter that I never, ever called in a "terrorist" sighting.

I never saw bicycle boy again.  Maybe his spokes caught on fire chasing after another woman, one more receptive to a man seated on hot pink pleather.

Tonight when I called in my latest NON-emergency "FYI" the officer who arrived at my door was dressed in a skin tight uniform that made me think of Mary Lou Retton at the 1984 Olympics and when I went to shake his hand, he recoiled in distaste.

Now to be fair to myself I was fully dressed this time with make-up and had brushed my teeth so his rebuff seemed a little...hurtful? Confusing? Not neighborly, to be sure.

He said, and I'm quoting, "We don't shake hands ma'am.  It's too personal.  We can knuckle bump, though." and there I was, knuckle bumping in my driveway with Mary Lou and her partner, Officer I-don't-like-you-either.

It didn't matter.  All I could see was this.

To be fair, the local police have some really good officers on the job here.  Those stories aren't as funny.  After living here for a decade, I think it might be time for me to look into something more official like starting a neighborhood watch program instead of taking on the job of the old grumpy woman who calls the police over nothing all the time.  That's not good and it's not what I want.

I care about my community and I care about those, like police officers, who work so hard and risk so much to keep it safe.  That said, I think I need to have a better understanding about why the officers in my neighborhood are afraid to shake hands with the natives.  That can't be a good sign.

In the meantime, all I can do is pray that all those years of hand shaking aren't the cause of my seemingly permanent residence in Single Town.

Too intimate.  Who knew?

Your ever lovin',

Miss Pierce

What in tarnation??

What in tarnation??  What in the hell is that supposed to mean . . . that word ‘tarnation’?

My first recollection of hearing that word was from my youth . . . Saturday morning plopped in front of the boob-tube with a heaping bowl of Cheerios watching Looney Toons.   Yosemeti Sam would exclaim in frustration . . .  “What in tarnation??”

What in indeed.

Tarnation . . . a word used to express exasperation.  I always kind of thought it was a made up nonsensical word used in cartoons . . . after all, that was the only place I’d ever really heard it used.

It turns out it is, in fact, a real word.  Tarnation is defined as the act of damning or the condition of being damned. 

The word was popularized in gentler times when men were careful not to offend the delicate sensibilities of the weaker sex.  God forbid you use profanity in front of a woman . . . she might require the waiving of smelling salts under her nose or a cool towel touched upon her brow.  Basically, it would cause a scene.

So other words were used in the stead of everyday ordinary vulgarities. 

Many, many, many years ago . . . like a couple hundred or so . . . ‘tarnal’ was a vernacular form of 'eternal'.  ‘Eternal damnation’ was slangified into ‘tarnation’ and this became the acceptable substitution for expressing anger at something or other . . . most likely about how frustrating it was keeping women from fainting all over the place at the drop of a misspoken expletive.

Another good one is ‘where in the Sam Hill?’ . . . another Yosemite Sam favorite.  It’s a variation on the same theme . . . let’s not offend the babes and come up with a supposedly civilized way of saying something that everyone knows what it means but heaven forbid we say the actual words. 

‘Where in Sam Hill’ is simply a euphemism for saying ‘where in the hell’ . . . such a naughty, naughty word. 

Southwest Black Bean Chicken in the Crock Pot

4 Chicken Breasts (You May Even Start With Frozen)

1  8 Oz Can Tomato Sauce

1/2 Of A 6 Oz Can Tomato Paste

2  15 Oz Cans Corn

2  15 Oz Cans Black Beans

2  15 Oz Cans Kidney Beans

2  14.5 Oz Cans Mexican Stewed Tomatoes

1 Southwest Marinade Packet 

Sour Cream

Tortilla Chips or Whole Wheat Tortillas

Mix all ingredients except the chicken, cheese, and sour cream and tortillas in the bottom of a large crock pot. If you want it a bit thinner to eat as a soup, then add the liquid from two of the cans. Otherwise drain the liquid from the cans.

Place the chicken into the crock pot and cover it up with the sauce.

Cook on high for 4 hours. After it has cooked for 3 hours, take the chicken out, shred it and put it back in the crock pot for the remaining hour.

How to say goodbye.

If you've been disappointed lately because my posts have been non-existent or because when I do produce a post that it's on the grumbly side, well...there is a reason.  I've been stuck in my own head, lost in thought...I've been mentally chewing on shoe leather while walking in a fog.

My grandfather, who lived a long and happy life, passed away recently.  His passing was ideal, if dying can be ideal.  He was at the end of a very long life in a very small town where he and my grandmother, who is still (thankfully) going strong, made their lives together and subsequently have lived forever.  He slipped away on a Sunday morning after having spent the night with his wife of more than 75 years.  It was peaceful, quiet and expected.  A perfect death preceded by a good life.

My grandparents surrounded themselves with generations of their own making and in a small town this translates into, really, a remarkably huge extended family.  If you aren't actually family, you probably grew up knowing my family and by extension my grandparents.   There is sense of a very large net there to hold them (I grew up with the family "gypsies" so my view is that of a person looking in from the outside).  From my vantage point, everyone in the community seems to know and even love my grandparents.  While this is probably an exaggeration formed by the rose colored glasses I tend to wear when looking at my family, I think you could say at the very least they were a well known and respected couple.   My grandparents lived good, respectful lives and were by all accounts, happily married.  For seventy five years.  A marriage of that length (and those that knew them together knew it was a good, loving marriage between two good, loving people) garners respect, if not affection.  The last few years in particular seems to have concentrated their general good natured-ness which complimented the fact that they appeared to physically shrink in stature, seemingly by the minute, giving them both a sort of Muppet like quality.  Respected yes, but also frail, good natured and only 3/4 "real".

I have thought a lot about whether or not to try and write a post about my grandfather after he passed.   Would it honor him?  Would it be cathartic for me?  Should I mention that the sense of humor that so clearly marks me (and most of my family, I am not actually the funny one. I just happen to be the only  one with a computer) was a gift directly from him?  Should I try to describe him or what he meant to me?  Do I even know what he meant to me?

My conclusion was this.  I don't have the skill required to do him justice.  I didn't want to write about my Grandpa in part because I thought I didn't have anything important to say about him or my relationship with him. I'm not the best writer.  Even more frightening...I don't have the skills to cover up the fact that my connection to him felt tenuous because in truth I am all about my Grandma.  I felt guilty because I didn't carry that gut wrenching love for him away with me after each visit, not the way I have with her.

When he passed, she was my concern.  Well, that and covering up the fact that I was NOT wracked with pain.

The way that I respond to the guilt of "not loving enough" is to, what else?  Ignore it.  I would try to think about how I would write about Grandpa and come up empty handed because I had nothing to say.  My thoughts would submerge looking for small intimacies or funny anecdotes and every time I would come up empty handed.  I was flying in a fog without my IFR. Then, a funny thing happened.  During a phone call with my Grandma the other day, I heard it in her voice.  She's okay.  More importantly, I think she's going to be okay.

After we hung up I went upstairs to put laundry away and suddenly, the fog lifted.  I remembered everything.  The memories I thought I didn't have, I have them.  The fact that I annoyed him with my selfishness as a child and even more so as an adult.  How I saw his eyes sparkle with love and amusement more times than I can count made those rare moments of disappointment in my behavior stand out.  I have stories, memories...hordes of them and they are private.  Not only am I not able to do them justice, I wouldn't want to try.  The important thing is that I remembered that I love him, or that I loved him and gratefully that he loved me, too.  Awkward, avoiding, just-out-of-reach, won't-return-a-phone-call, selfish, immature me.  I was loved by a good man.

What else is there to say?

Goodbye Grandpa.

With all my heart,

Jennifever

Girl with gun . . . A free people ought to be armed.

I recently acquired a US Revolver Co. (made by Iver Johnson) top break revolver.  The caliber is .32 Smith and Wesson which was originally a black powder cartridge.  This means that modern smokeless powder .32 caliber round will not work in this gun.  They will fit but it is a more powerful load and most likely destroy the gun if fired.  The loads are extremely difficult to come by, we will hand load them.  


Iver Johnson was a U.S. firearms, bicycle, and motorcycle manufacturer from 1871 to 1993.  The U.S. Revolver Co. was an offspring and set up as a mail order only company to rid themselves of the Second Model frames when the Third Model (designed for smokeless powder) frames came out. They were of the same quality and had the same pricing as the Iver Johnson models.


Iver Johnson's have been known to be of lesser quality than their Smith and Wesson cousins but the values on the S&W's are well out of my price range.


This gun particular gun was manufactured between 1910 and 1923 but we have not ascertained the actual age because the serial number is under the grips.  The grips are mother-of-pearl, which are very fragile.  We could easily break them if we tried to remove them so we have not attempted to do so.

I have wanted a break top revolver for quite a while.  Many years, in fact.  Why?  Because its neat!  Most revolvers you see the cylinder will either be fixed or swing out. In a top-break revolver, the frame is hinged at the bottom front of the cylinder. Releasing the lock and pushing the barrel down exposes the rear face of the cylinder, which also extracts the cartridges.  

The condition of the gun is remarkable considering it's age and its difficult to find them at reasonable price in such good condition. A pretty cool little gun, but I don't know how much I'll be shooting it.

”A free people ought to be armed.”
~George Washington

It happened right over there, by the candy display and the drink cooler.

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of chatting briefly with a nice family I was in line with at the grocery store.  While their three adorable children wiggled and cheerfully spun in small circles or hopped on first this foot and then the other, the childhood version of patience, their parents talked to me about home schooling.

It caught my attention and something stuck in my craw, just a bit. A small, tiny, annoying thought just out of my reach.  Stuck. 

Home schooling.  It became fashionable some years ago after I was finished with my own education.  Not having children of my own, I never gave school much of thought after leaving.  I assumed that it carried on much the same way as it had when I was a large, bossy child.

Yay school! 

For the last few weeks I've had this little thing in my craw.  It's uncomfortable and it makes me pay attention to some things I've really never given a second thought.  Things like school.  Things like libraries.  Things like school lunches.  Immunizations. 

Although I realize I'm late to the game I must say I've realized a lot since that conversation.  Here in the U.S. our schools appear to be in a mess.  What's worse, by my way of thinking, is that we (my generation) seems to have responded to this mess with some kind of exodus.  Really?  We pulled our kids out of public schools?  From what I can see, if it is at all feasible, people pull their kids out and then blame the outside forces that conspired to ruin our educational system. 

While standing in line at the grocery store I saw a very large crevice open up in the ground and people were divided quite cleanly but all the resources seemed to land on one side of the gash.  

I am sure if I had children, I would never sacrifice their futures by putting them in a sub-par school system.  Never.  I would, however, seriously consider fighting for the integrity of my public school system.  I would consider them a part of that fight and that they would have a lot to learn about taking a longer view and about how democracy only works when we actively participate.  Actively.  Participate. 

Instead, I worry we are sending a message that capitalism trumps democracy.  I don't know about you but I am confident that making lots and lots of money is only rewarding if I live in a free society. Giving back to the community is something we must teach our children from the outset.  How will they learn to love what is best about our country if we teach them by example that there is nothing more important than winning, than chasing the dollar and that if circumstances dictate change, we change by buying better circumstances?   If mom and dad can afford to shield their young by using money, then our kids learn that instead of fighting the good fight and taking care of the communal property our tax dollars funded, we should take our "share" funding and go home.

It might not look like much but this building is important.  Crucial.  

The elementary school.  No religion is required to gain entrance.  All colors are welcome.  Rumor has it you can vote there.  If the kitchen is the heart of the home, the elementary school is the kitchen, or the heart, of the community.  Not church.  Church plays a hugely important role but it is not the heart of the community. 

Which brings me to my point.  If all the stay-at-home parents are literally staying at home, who is helping to take care of the schools?  I see plenty of discussion that we need to increase funding but I actually wondering if what we are missing is quite simply people who care.  You can't outsource passionate parents.  While I am certain that the home schooled children are properly educated and cared for,  I know for a fact that any school and the surrounding community would only benefit by having a lively, engaged and committed population ready to charge should the school lunch program start serving pink slime. (Egads).

My mom would have kicked the principals ass if they served this "lunch" in school.  

In all honesty, where did everybody go?  Why am I still paying taxes for this system everyone is so quick to abandon?   If you don't want it, can I get my money back or perhaps have it funneled into a high speed rail so I can get my commute time back?  Am I wrong? Do people take my tax dollars out of the crappy public school so their kids can study in a clean, healthy environment with organic oranges to snack on while the poor kids and I eat McDonalds for lunch? I think I'm right.  I think they are using my resources to better their kids at the expense of kids that honestly, I probably like a little more.

That's why I had to punch the lady that home schools her three children right in the grocery store. Hard. I bet her produce section is still a little tender. 

Your ever lovin', 

Miss Pierce 

Firewater Friday - Happy Birthday to me . . . Cheers!

Cheers!

Vodka And Strawberry Lemonade

Dangerously delicious . . . once you start drinking this you won't want to stop!

4 oz Strawberry Lemonade (from this recipe)

2 oz Vodka

Fill a shaker half full with ice cubes. Pour all ingredients into shaker and shake well. Fill a glass almost full of ice cubes, and strain drink into glass.

Once upon a time, there was you. Oh, and me. I was there, too.

There is a kind of person I have always secretly admired.  I see them only at work where they appear in meetings.  I notice that I never notice this type outside of work and I know, sadly, it's because they lose my attention.  The Quiet Type. When they have my attention, I am fascinated and more than a little envious. They are armed with good common sense and the only offbeat quality they seem to be afflicted with is that their cool factor is in need of a boost. I'm sure they have wanted to be more cool but honestly, that would ruin everything.

I watch them and think, "Maybe if I could simply learn to shut up in this life, I could be that person in my next life" and I dream of doing arithmetic without the whole scene ending in hives and tears.  They might be male or female but that quiet, thoughtful hardworking person seems so sensible in every way.  Married. A fully functioning filter combined with the ability to keep tabs on last years' tax returns without much effort. That consistent bringer-of-lunches in sensible containers.  I steal glances at their marginally out of style clothes and imagine them balancing the check book to the penny while their equally sensible children do homework or practice musical instruments in the background.  This is the stuff that I long for.  Everything in it's place.  The quiet contentment that comes from being loved and cared for by emotionally mature people.  Goofy jokes and puns that never sting with sarcasm.

Office people.  I like to watch them.  I like to see them appear again-and-again over the years.  It's nice to work in a very large office, too.  It has all the benefits of people watching at the airport.  I like not knowing names, being on the periphery.  I like people watching in quiet and making up my own stories.  I wonder why the guy I think of as "The Indian Barney Miller" always has bed head.  I am fond of him.  I like seeing him from time-to-time, a distant, disheveled touchstone in the elevator off to some meeting I will never know about.

Living in the periphery is not my game.  Not to the outside observer, anyway.  I know that I am larger-than-life.  I am large in every sense of the word.  It suits me.  I laugh too hard and with too much enthusiasm.  I can't help it.  My head flies back on my neck and my mouth opens up wide, like an eager PEZ dispenser. Even though I imagine every tooth is exposed to view, I don't care.  I know that generally speaking, the world is in need of people like me, too.  I am a character. Earthy, stoic, too sensitive, overly dramatic and motherly. I know this because people feel inclined to seek out my company for comfort or to try and advise me about how to better "fit in".  That's not really the point of being me, is it?  I wasn't built to fit in and the Quiet Type? They aren't built to be cool.  You have to be who you are made to be and work towards honing that into something you can be proud of.  Trying to twist yourself into a completely different shape is just silly.

It's a hard world and I know that there is a need and a reason for each and every one of us. I like the feel of being me.  Knowing that I often seem taller than I am.  I enjoy, strangely enough, this feeling of always having a way of making people a teeny weeny bit uncomfortable.   Even in the way I live in my body....too fat.  The way I come across...too negative, too sensitive, too open.  The way I laugh....too loud.  My insecurities are too apparent and sometimes folks rush to my aid, compelled to school me on the art of self-protection.  Yet, it's all a ruse, really.  The truth is, I feel compelled somehow to push all of you a little too far sometimes, to say too much.  There is some part of me that feels that the only reason I am here is to make you think, to feel, to see things perhaps a little differently than you did before.  Helping you accept and love who you are when I am at my best and at the very least, getting a laugh out of you.

I had a roommate tell me once, "I don't know what it is about you, Miss Pierce, but you can make me feel worse about myself than anyone else ever has".  That was painful for me to hear but in that moment I understood for the first time that I have a voice.  A powerful voice.  In the next moment, I vowed to use that voice for good instead of evil.  It stands to reason that if I can make you feel horrible, I can make you feel wonderful, too.

The journey towards goodness is a long road.  It's pretty rocky terrain and honestly, I don't mind.  As long as I have the energy to do so, getting back up is not a problem.  Learning to take a hit isn't nearly as hard as it is keep yourself down.  A person practically springs back on their feet once they realize that keeping themselves down sucks.

On that note...let those dancers dance...someone better sharpen pencils for the accountants....the alcoholics are running out of beer...the scientists are busy studying the religious zealots....we better get shoe polish and brown paper bags for the sensible ones...god, keep the crafters away from the angry goths, if they get glitter on those black trench coats again all hell is going to break loose...somebody get me a donut, stat.  Indian Barney Miller has another meeting on the 18th floor and if my blood sugar gets any lower I won't be able to interpret his hair.

I'm glad we're in it together, my babies.  Now, go play nice and if you can't do that, then be yourselves.

Your ever lovin',

Miss Pierce

New Brew Thursday - Moat Mountain Iron Mike Pale Ale and Chatoe Rogue OREgasmic Ale

There are many types of ales . . . Pale ones, Brown ones and Ales that hail from Scotland and Belgium, there are Old ones and Mild ones and so on and so forth.  They all have their own special characteristics, but in general ales are brewed from malted barley and hops.  

Ales are top fermented at a warm temperature because of the variety of yeast used.  Ales tend to have a sweet, full bodied, fruity taste and, depending on the amount of hops used, the hoppy bitterness acts in concert with the sweet malt to create symphony of flavor.

One of my favorite ales is Iron Mike’s brewed by Moat Mountain Smokehouse and Brewery.  Moat Mountain is a small brew pub the makes micro batches of some marvelous beers.  Located in the Mount Washington Valley of the White Mountains in New Hampshire, it is one of our favorite places to stop for beer and food when we vacation there. 

Iron Mikes is a pale ale that comes in BIG 24 ounce cans . . . and like it says . . . everyone likes big cans! 

Don’t be put off by the fact that this beer comes in a can.  The can does an excellent job of protecting the beer from ultra-violet light.  Not that I don’t like bottled beer, but the cans protect the beer from skunking much better than bottles that allow the evil light in. 

Poured into a tall, cold glass Mikes flows a paled golden color with a fluffy head.  It imparts a citrusy aroma that is a mouthwatering tease to the grapefruity flavor.  It’s hoppy without being overly bitter . . . Mikes is nicely balanced and a truly refreshing brew.  A very drinkable 5.6% ABV . . . sit back, have a couple and chill.  All hail the pale ale!

For more information, check out Moat Mountain's website or visit them on Facebook

A new-to-me ale that I picked up recently was Chatoe Rogue OREgasmic Ale brewed by Rogue Brewery. Rogue is easily one of my favorite micro-breweries.  Located in the pacific northwest they are another brewery that made their start as a brew pub but have now expanded distribution so that we on the east coast may enjoy their yummy beers.

OREgasmic Ale is one of four special brews that are marketed as GYO (grow your own).  This particular beer is made with Dare malt and Revolution hops which Rogues grows on their micro farms . . . get it?  GYO?  

This ale has a golden amber color that holds it's creamy head.  Pouring this ale will release a piney/fruity aroma.  OREgasmic is a full bodied beer that tastes of hops and malt and caramel . . . 

. . . an amazing blend of flavors that are very well balanced.  It finishes clean with little to no after taste.  Quite delicious!  6.0% ABV

Visit Rogue at their website  or on Facebook 

I don't, for the record, have a Tweety Bird fetish.

I’m an early bird . . . early to bed, early to rise, getting the worm and all that.  

Hubby is a night owl . . . if it was practical he would stay up all night and into the wee hours of the morning.

Even though he can’t go along with his biological clock he’s still not ready to go to sleep when I am . . . which I fully admit is toddler early but that’s when I get sleepy . . . but I still want him to come to bed with me.

Why?  Because I just so happen to love him and like to be near him.  I sleep better when he’s in bed next to me.

You might think this would cause some feathers to fly in our love nest.  But since we are pretty  much attached at the wing tips, it really doesn’t.

Why?  Because hubby is a big sweetie-bird and willingly comes to bed with me . . . just so long as it’s not too early.  There are  certain time parameters . . . if I ask too early then he asks if I know what itme it is.  Of course I know what time it is.  Sheesh.

So, even though he’s not ready to go to sleep, he plops himself in bed between me and his laptop.  So that he can continue to do whatever he’s doing and I get to snuggle.   

Yeah, I know that the laptop is taking up space on the bed but that just mean that my hunny is closer to me.  It all works out.

Funny story that sort of related . . . the other night hubby was ready to go to sleep and he rolled over to cuddle.  I was facing away from him and he spooned up against me and put his arm over me. And then, because he wanted skin to skin contact, he put his arm under my shirt to rest his hand on my tummy.  I was aware of what was going on because I woke up when he flipped over.  So there his hand is on my belly and the next thing I know he stuck his finger in my belly button. Just a quick beep . . . it was kinda cute.

 

So the next day I mentioned it to him and he had zero recollection of this.  He even went so far as to say I made it up.  But I didn’t. 

Cuddling included belly button beeping, I guess.  :)~

Espaguetis (Spaghetti a la Dominicana)

A wonderful and surprising combination of flavors. 

1 Lb of Spaghetti

1/4 Lb. of Dominican "Salami" Diced Into Small Cubes

1/4 Cup of Ground Parmesan Cheese

1 Tablespoon of Capers

1/2 Cup Pitted Green Olives, Cut into Pieces

2 Tablespoons of Olive Oil

1 Large Green Bell Pepper Cut Into Small Cubes

4 Plum Tomatoes Cut Into Small Cubes

2 Cups of Tomato Sauce

1 Large Onion Sliced Finely

1 Pinch of Oregano

1/2 Tablespoon of Mashed Garlic

1/2 Cup of Evaporated Milk                       

Pepper

Salt

I didn’t have Dominican "salami" so I used Chinese pork sausages.  They are slightly sweet and a little spicy plus they add color.  Very yummy!

Boil the spaghetti until slightly softer than al dente having added a teaspoon of salt to the water. Drain the water and reserve the spaghetti.

Heat a tablespoon of oil in a pan over medium heat.

Cook and stir the salami (or sausage) until it browns.

Add the onions, pepper, olives, garlic and capers and cook and stir for a minute.

Add the tomatoes and oregano; simmer over low heat until the tomatoes are tender. 

Add the tomato sauce and the milk and mix well.

Simmer over low heat for a minute. Stir often.

Season with pepper and salt to taste.

Serve hot over the spaghetti and top with grated cheese.

I don't, for the record, have a Tweety Bird fetish.
Brian Lamb

Or wear some stinking merkin for a beard

I come across some pretty weird stuff on the interwebs.  One such bizarrity is a merkin. 

The first thing that popped into my head when I saw this word was that I thought it was something like a murse . . . you know, a man-purse. 

Holy cow, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Like I said . . . weird stuff.

So, what exactly is a ‘merkin’?  I can tell you it is not related to man bags.   If you really must know . . . read on. 

My first stop was a dictionary.  It seemed a logical place to start.  Merkin is an artificial hairpiece.  But not for a head . . . what it is is a  . . . ugh . . . a pubic wig.  Yeah, you read that right; a pubic wig.

Basically, a merkin is a wig for women with no pubic hair.

About 300 years before the discovery of penicillin, loose women with a penchant for indulging in fleshly pleasures and got themselves a raging case of the clap had no way to cure the cooties.

One popular treatment was the application mercury which, among other things, caused the hair  . . . uhm . . . down there to fall out.  Other venereal diseases caused nasty sores.   So the ladies of the night would use merkins to hide the problem from their gentlemen customers  . . . that and adulterous wives would use them to hide their problem from their husbands.

 

Also, improper hygiene was commonplace; therefore, lice was a big problem.  An effective treatment was the removal of all body hair . . . including down there. 

Obviously, its embarrassing not to have pubic hair . . . I mean, you never know who might see what you’ve got going on down there.

Nowadays, strippers who work in places where full nudity is not allowed will don a merkin so that she will not be completely nekkid.

Merkin . . . now you know.  Maybe you wish you didn’t but it’s too late now!

Bailey's French Toast

Bailey’s Irish cream adds a ka-powie to French toast . . . and when made with cinnamon bread  . . . zing!

4 Slices Cinnamon Bread

2 Eggs

3 Tbsp Irish Cream

1/8 Cup Sugar

1 Tsp Vanilla

Mix together the ingredients.

Soak the bread in the mixture. It should soak up everything

Cook over medium until golden brown.

Plate and serve with the topping of your choice . . . and that should be a pat of butter and real maple syrup!

Yum!

Men still have to be governed by deception

Herring . . . a fish, of course, but also a food staple for many cultures all over the world.  But this excellent source of protein and nutrients spoils quickly and must be preserved in some manner almost as soon as they are caught.

Before freezing was available, the only practical way to preserve the fish was cure them by means of salting and smoking.  Preserved in this manner the herring can keep for months but have to be softened and desalinated (by means of soaking) to make them edible once again.

Although the flesh of the fish is white, when the fish is heavily cured (up to 10 days) it turns a deep crimson color . . . and gets pretty stinky, as well.  From this we get red herring . . . the food product and the idiom . . .  something that distracts attention from the real issues.   But how does the fish relate to this expression?

A popular English journalist of the early 1800’s wrote a fictional story about how as a boy he had used a red herring as a decoy to deflect hounds chasing after a hare.   He further used this story as a metaphor to criticize other members of the press who printed misinformation without the benefit of verifying the facts leading to domestic complacency in the face of external threats . . . namely; falsely reporting that Napoleon had been defeated and therefore was no longer a threat to the nation. 

He wrote “It was a mere transitory effect of the political red-herring; for the scent became as cold as a stone.”

He repeated this story enough that the symbolic implication of ‘red herring’ became well-established.  The unfortunate result is that people also began to believe that laying a false trail of stinky fish was a normal practice amongst huntsmen.

Homemade Strawberry Lemonade

1 Cup Sugar

1 Cup of Water

1 Pint Fresh Strawberries

1 Cup Fresh Lemon Juice (About 8 Lemons)

5 Cups Cold Water

Make a simple syrup by combining the sugar with 1 cup of water in a saucepan. Place over medium heat and heat until the sugar in completely dissolved; swirl the pan occasionally. Let cool.

Once the simple syrup has cooled, puree strawberries in a blender with ½ cup water.

In a large pitcher, combine strawberry puree, simple syrup and lemon juice.

Add 5 cups of cold water. The amount of water you use will depend on your taste, so add as little or as much as you want to achieve your perfect sweet/tart balance.

Serve over ice. 

Men still have to be governed by deception