Mark Of The Brother
My niece from Austin, Texas called a couple of weeks ago and said to me--reading I suspect from a script written by her father--Uncle Jim, I am very disappointed in you. I thought, well good start kid, but get in line. She continued, you are the only one of the uncles or aunts who didn't buy girl scout cookies from me this year. Oh yeah, I had gotten that email, but who mail orders girl scout cookies? The answer is, at the very least, my four brothers and one sister, profligate, kid-loving propagators and thin mint junkies each and every one. Oh, I did not realize I could get girl scout cookies in the mail, I lied to my niece. Well you can, she said. My dad will mail them to you. But honey, your daddy cannot read and write, how will he address the box? He said you cannot read and write, my niece said to my brother, after which there was some mumbling in the background. My dad says you have the numbers 666 tattooed on top of your head. That's exactly what I mean sweetie, the numbers on top of my head are 999, your daddy cannot read, but maybe your mom could address the box and so I guess I could order some. I will email you my order. You will? Thank you Uncle Jim, I did not mean what I said earlier, my dad made me say it. That's ok, but you know what that reminds me of? No, what? When I was a kid there was a man on TV named Flip Wilson and he used to dress in women's clothing and say about anything bad that he did--the devil made me do it. Do you think maybe your daddy is the devil? No, I don't thinks so. Do you think he dresses in women's clothing? Well, sometimes he..., Oh no I'm sure it's better if you don't tell me whatever he sometimes does, that can be your little secret. Ok, Uncle Jim. Did you make your goal of selling 400 boxes this year? No, she said excitedly, I sold 547 boxes. Ho-ly cow, I said. Are you the best cookie seller in all of Austin, Texas? I am the best in my troop, she said. No doubt. She then gave me over to her dad and we expressed our deep felt love for each other, after which I hung up and found the original email, which listed the varieties of cookies this year, and ordered eight boxes.
...more recent posts
My Burnt Food Bistro
If I opened a restaurant it would be known for my specialty, the blackened cheese pizza. Four different cheeses blackened to the point of being indistinguishable from each other, with a soft under-cooked doughy bottom.
I told the waitress ladies at the diner that I was there for an emergency lunch because I had set my pizza on fire. I don't generally burden the waitress ladies with too much personal detail but I thought today was a good day to share with them a little bit of what it is to be me. To them it sounds humorous being me. But not to be inattentive to my needs or emotions regarding cooking and failure the one waitress suggested that maybe I had the oven on broil. I considered this while I looked through my mail and stared out the window at the other eatery in town, a genuine Mobil 5 star restaurant. I don't think I would want my restaurant rated by an oil company. I would have to come up with a more diverse menu to get any rating at all but I think I would pass on the Mobil rating. This is a very small town and I think I could do pretty well by word of mouth. My critics would try to demean me by saying, he only cooks frozen foods, but my supporters would come right back with, that's true, but he burns them expertly. My goal, in life really, is to be considered quite a little cook. That food I had for lunch is making me sleepy. I would not put barbiturates in my food. Or, I don't know, maybe I would. Drug laced foods might be popular with some people. Or maybe not drug-laced. Maybe straight food with drug sides. My burnt food bistro would only bring them in for so long. I would have to keep the public interested. I bet if I started serving drug sides it would create a buzz. It's only a pun if you allow it to be. What's he burning today some future customer might ask an imaginary friend, perhaps one dressed like a rabbit. Oh you know, the same old stuff but with some serious junk sides. Junk sides, what do you mean junk sides? I mean junk junk and some not true junk but nearly lethal just the same. I'm confused. I probably can't help you with that but I can try to spell it out. There is burnt spaghetti and meatballs with heroin on the side. There is his landmark burnt pizza with wilted garden salad and a side of codeine cough syrup. He's doing the almost redundant burnt toasted cheese sandwich with a 5 or 10 milligram valium side. For the go getters there is the burnt black steak and potatoes with a cup of cocaine side and my personal favorite the Chicken Cacciatore Conflagration with the sacred mushroom side. But...? Oh yes, he'll burn a pork butt on special order, however that doesn't come with any schedule ones.
I think the waitress was probably right. I bet I had the oven on broil.
If I opened a restaurant it would be known for my specialty, the blackened cheese pizza. Four different cheeses blackened to the point of being indistinguishable from each other, with a soft under-cooked doughy bottom.
I told the waitress ladies at the diner that I was there for an emergency lunch because I had set my pizza on fire. I don't generally burden the waitress ladies with too much personal detail but I thought today was a good day to share with them a little bit of what it is to be me. To them it sounds humorous being me. But not to be inattentive to my needs or emotions regarding cooking and failure the one waitress suggested that maybe I had the oven on broil. I considered this while I looked through my mail and stared out the window at the other eatery in town, a genuine Mobil 5 star restaurant. I don't think I would want my restaurant rated by an oil company. I would have to come up with a more diverse menu to get any rating at all but I think I would pass on the Mobil rating. This is a very small town and I think I could do pretty well by word of mouth. My critics would try to demean me by saying, he only cooks frozen foods, but my supporters would come right back with, that's true, but he burns them expertly. My goal, in life really, is to be considered quite a little cook. That food I had for lunch is making me sleepy. I would not put barbiturates in my food. Or, I don't know, maybe I would. Drug laced foods might be popular with some people. Or maybe not drug-laced. Maybe straight food with drug sides. My burnt food bistro would only bring them in for so long. I would have to keep the public interested. I bet if I started serving drug sides it would create a buzz. It's only a pun if you allow it to be. What's he burning today some future customer might ask an imaginary friend, perhaps one dressed like a rabbit. Oh you know, the same old stuff but with some serious junk sides. Junk sides, what do you mean junk sides? I mean junk junk and some not true junk but nearly lethal just the same. I'm confused. I probably can't help you with that but I can try to spell it out. There is burnt spaghetti and meatballs with heroin on the side. There is his landmark burnt pizza with wilted garden salad and a side of codeine cough syrup. He's doing the almost redundant burnt toasted cheese sandwich with a 5 or 10 milligram valium side. For the go getters there is the burnt black steak and potatoes with a cup of cocaine side and my personal favorite the Chicken Cacciatore Conflagration with the sacred mushroom side. But...? Oh yes, he'll burn a pork butt on special order, however that doesn't come with any schedule ones.
I think the waitress was probably right. I bet I had the oven on broil.
The Cream Colored Paisley Retort
A three-year-old girl wearing a pink-striped top was having dinner with her dad at the table just outside the periphery allowed by my stiff neck. She doesn't want to go back over to Mee-maw's anytime soon because some body or some thing over there scratched her eye today. And it hurt, she told her dad. I could feel it myself so clear and crisp and concise was her wording. And it was melodic too, how she sounded from where I sat. It was the only thing I could feel or imagine for 30 seconds, before my mind wandered to that place where I should just buy me a little bungalow, as much time as I spend there. The woman at the next table said to her friend that she could be upset about something that fit into no context an eavesdropper could appreciate but that there were more important things to be upset about and I had to for another 30 seconds consider what those things might be. The little girl was thinking about ice cream and ask her dad if she could have some. He said she could have some later and when later arrived he was true to his word and took her over to the counter and with his assistance she floated above the ice cream cooler and picked a flavor that I frankly never did see but it must have been pink because someone said to her while I masticated in a state of oblivion that her ice cream was the same color as her shirt. Oh and she did not want to hear that. She denied it vehemently. Perhaps this was the type of thing the other woman could have been talking about when she said she could be upset about it but there were more important things. Had someone earlier suggested the woman's blouse was the color of ice cream? Had I missed this? Have I been too wrapped up in the details of my own rather unremarkable life? The little girl is leaving now, following her dad. I'm shoveling as many soggy canned green beans as will fit into my silent, solitary trap, and she sees it on the fly, her chance to unload the burden of wearing an ice cream colored shirt. She's pausing in front of me, across the table, she's tall enough to pull this off, she's smiling at me, oh I hate this, she's going to make fun of me and then book out the door, she's got that look and I'm wondering how much interest is left on my karmic debt and will it ever be paid off?. Hey, she says, those beans are the color of your shirt. It is true what she said, the beans are exactly the color of this shirt, the green part anyhow, not the cream colored paisley swirly part. If I'd had more time I would have hit her with that, shown her a thing or two, kids need to learn life's lessons from grownups like myself, but you only ever come up with the really good retorts after the fact, in your mind. Oh yeah, you ice cream colored shirt wearing little girl, not the cream colored paisley swirly part, isn't, the color of green beans. Is not.
A three-year-old girl wearing a pink-striped top was having dinner with her dad at the table just outside the periphery allowed by my stiff neck. She doesn't want to go back over to Mee-maw's anytime soon because some body or some thing over there scratched her eye today. And it hurt, she told her dad. I could feel it myself so clear and crisp and concise was her wording. And it was melodic too, how she sounded from where I sat. It was the only thing I could feel or imagine for 30 seconds, before my mind wandered to that place where I should just buy me a little bungalow, as much time as I spend there. The woman at the next table said to her friend that she could be upset about something that fit into no context an eavesdropper could appreciate but that there were more important things to be upset about and I had to for another 30 seconds consider what those things might be. The little girl was thinking about ice cream and ask her dad if she could have some. He said she could have some later and when later arrived he was true to his word and took her over to the counter and with his assistance she floated above the ice cream cooler and picked a flavor that I frankly never did see but it must have been pink because someone said to her while I masticated in a state of oblivion that her ice cream was the same color as her shirt. Oh and she did not want to hear that. She denied it vehemently. Perhaps this was the type of thing the other woman could have been talking about when she said she could be upset about it but there were more important things. Had someone earlier suggested the woman's blouse was the color of ice cream? Had I missed this? Have I been too wrapped up in the details of my own rather unremarkable life? The little girl is leaving now, following her dad. I'm shoveling as many soggy canned green beans as will fit into my silent, solitary trap, and she sees it on the fly, her chance to unload the burden of wearing an ice cream colored shirt. She's pausing in front of me, across the table, she's tall enough to pull this off, she's smiling at me, oh I hate this, she's going to make fun of me and then book out the door, she's got that look and I'm wondering how much interest is left on my karmic debt and will it ever be paid off?. Hey, she says, those beans are the color of your shirt. It is true what she said, the beans are exactly the color of this shirt, the green part anyhow, not the cream colored paisley swirly part. If I'd had more time I would have hit her with that, shown her a thing or two, kids need to learn life's lessons from grownups like myself, but you only ever come up with the really good retorts after the fact, in your mind. Oh yeah, you ice cream colored shirt wearing little girl, not the cream colored paisley swirly part, isn't, the color of green beans. Is not.
NYC Yesterday
NYC yesterday--before the onset of this tornadic ice age, when you could leave your dwelling without fear of being picked up like a scrap of paper and blown in three directions in as many seconds and furthermore become frozen like a leaf of lettuce dipped in liquid nitrogen and then propelled sideways into a striped, painted brick wall by 60 mph northeasterly gusts of wind, to shatter into shards of yourself as thin and fragmented as a broken, light, dimming bulb, coming home, coming home to ask yourself why, why do I exist?--I had breakfast with Bernadette.
Did you bring your glasses?
No, I forgot. You?
No.
Could just get eggs and bacon and grits or something. I know they have those three things here.
Yeah, Bernadette said, squinting at her menu, while moving it to and fro like the slide on a trombone.
The Hispanic waiter said, there is no grits.
I ordered them anyway.
No grits. Potato, hash.
I became perplexed.
He and Bernadette tried to help me understand about potato, hash. I wondered if they meant hashbrowns, and if so, why would they not just say so? There was a sense of mild panic as we all waited to see what I would do; if I would be able to pull out of this breakfast ordering tailspin. When prodded verbally by Bernadette, and the waiter's furrowed brow, both of them communicating the same thing, did I want that, I said I guess so?
Bernadette thinks I am the funniest person since Slim Pickens, even when I'm not trying to be.
Later I took pictures of a small black and white dog with Marty Feldman eyes as Bernadette and her niece gently coerced him to be like Gumby or Pokey and spell out the letters L-O-V-E, for a Valentine's card. This was not the first time this dog had performed this favor but the previous pictures were unavailable, so the dog, thinking maybe somebody would play catch with him if he complied, complied. I kicked the ball across the cement floor before leaving but by the time the dog retrieved it so we could do it again and again and again, I was out the door with Bernadette to see on 2nd Avenue, Children of Men, which is the finest incredibly violent brooding dark tale of a nearly hopeless future I have seen in some time.
NYC yesterday--before the onset of this tornadic ice age, when you could leave your dwelling without fear of being picked up like a scrap of paper and blown in three directions in as many seconds and furthermore become frozen like a leaf of lettuce dipped in liquid nitrogen and then propelled sideways into a striped, painted brick wall by 60 mph northeasterly gusts of wind, to shatter into shards of yourself as thin and fragmented as a broken, light, dimming bulb, coming home, coming home to ask yourself why, why do I exist?--I had breakfast with Bernadette.
Did you bring your glasses?
No, I forgot. You?
No.
Could just get eggs and bacon and grits or something. I know they have those three things here.
Yeah, Bernadette said, squinting at her menu, while moving it to and fro like the slide on a trombone.
The Hispanic waiter said, there is no grits.
I ordered them anyway.
No grits. Potato, hash.
I became perplexed.
He and Bernadette tried to help me understand about potato, hash. I wondered if they meant hashbrowns, and if so, why would they not just say so? There was a sense of mild panic as we all waited to see what I would do; if I would be able to pull out of this breakfast ordering tailspin. When prodded verbally by Bernadette, and the waiter's furrowed brow, both of them communicating the same thing, did I want that, I said I guess so?
Bernadette thinks I am the funniest person since Slim Pickens, even when I'm not trying to be.
Later I took pictures of a small black and white dog with Marty Feldman eyes as Bernadette and her niece gently coerced him to be like Gumby or Pokey and spell out the letters L-O-V-E, for a Valentine's card. This was not the first time this dog had performed this favor but the previous pictures were unavailable, so the dog, thinking maybe somebody would play catch with him if he complied, complied. I kicked the ball across the cement floor before leaving but by the time the dog retrieved it so we could do it again and again and again, I was out the door with Bernadette to see on 2nd Avenue, Children of Men, which is the finest incredibly violent brooding dark tale of a nearly hopeless future I have seen in some time.
Nutrias Don't Wear Flippers
Oregon snorkeler mistaken for rodent, shot in face. That is an actual news headline and there is no way I'm coming up with anything better than that. News people must live for days like this. Going out on a fairly routine call, snorkeler shot in the water, blah blah, but then as a bonus you get a 60 year-old, dope smoking, pill popping shooter who states in his defense that he thought the snorkeler was a giant rodent, or in fact just an average sized nutria, which is an introduced South American specie of rodent, brought to Louisiana in the 40s for some ill-conceived reason, and now has pretty much taken over that state. Nutria-glamorizing ad campaigns which have tried to convince the Louisiana populous that nutrias are tasty (try some nutria chili), or fashionable (dawling, I love your full length nutria), have mostly fallen flat.
At some point, the Louisiana nutria, hunted to near extinction (not even close) and convinced that they would never defeat Sheriff Harry Lee, began a campaign of their own entitled Run for your Life. The general consensus among the Louisiana nutria was that their homeland, Argentina, was just too far away and also fearing ridicule for the curious version of French they now spoke, they headed to the closest destination where people also spoke a curious dialect, East Texas. Of course that went badly, as Texans are a very gun-friendly people, and also none of the younger nutria wanted to give up their sexier hybrid French language for that curious language being spoken in Texas. Oklahoma proved not much better. Kansas, forget about it, so in time they made their way to Oregon,which was believed to be more progressive.
But the snorkeler incident has raised some fears in the Oregon nutria community that there may be a backlash effect and that the heretofore environmentally-evolved Oregonian may take to the Louisiana model of nutria slaughtering so that the question of mistaking a nutria for an even more beloved Oregon specie, the snorkeler, becomes a moot question indeed. There is even rumor that focus groups have begun to address the difficult issue. It is generally agreed that slogans are an effective way to sell a pogrom campaign to a hesitant public and some of the suggested slogans so far considered are--Love a Snorkeler, Kill a Nutria. It's Just a Rodent, So eRATicatem. Nutrias Are Not My Friends, But Snorkelers Are. My Dad Is Not a Nutria. Nutrias Don't Wear Flippers. On a Clear Day You Can See Sea Anemone. Some Fish Fly But How Many Nutrias Snorkel? To Sir With Love. Mission Accomplished.
Oregon snorkeler mistaken for rodent, shot in face. That is an actual news headline and there is no way I'm coming up with anything better than that. News people must live for days like this. Going out on a fairly routine call, snorkeler shot in the water, blah blah, but then as a bonus you get a 60 year-old, dope smoking, pill popping shooter who states in his defense that he thought the snorkeler was a giant rodent, or in fact just an average sized nutria, which is an introduced South American specie of rodent, brought to Louisiana in the 40s for some ill-conceived reason, and now has pretty much taken over that state. Nutria-glamorizing ad campaigns which have tried to convince the Louisiana populous that nutrias are tasty (try some nutria chili), or fashionable (dawling, I love your full length nutria), have mostly fallen flat.
At some point, the Louisiana nutria, hunted to near extinction (not even close) and convinced that they would never defeat Sheriff Harry Lee, began a campaign of their own entitled Run for your Life. The general consensus among the Louisiana nutria was that their homeland, Argentina, was just too far away and also fearing ridicule for the curious version of French they now spoke, they headed to the closest destination where people also spoke a curious dialect, East Texas. Of course that went badly, as Texans are a very gun-friendly people, and also none of the younger nutria wanted to give up their sexier hybrid French language for that curious language being spoken in Texas. Oklahoma proved not much better. Kansas, forget about it, so in time they made their way to Oregon,which was believed to be more progressive.
But the snorkeler incident has raised some fears in the Oregon nutria community that there may be a backlash effect and that the heretofore environmentally-evolved Oregonian may take to the Louisiana model of nutria slaughtering so that the question of mistaking a nutria for an even more beloved Oregon specie, the snorkeler, becomes a moot question indeed. There is even rumor that focus groups have begun to address the difficult issue. It is generally agreed that slogans are an effective way to sell a pogrom campaign to a hesitant public and some of the suggested slogans so far considered are--Love a Snorkeler, Kill a Nutria. It's Just a Rodent, So eRATicatem. Nutrias Are Not My Friends, But Snorkelers Are. My Dad Is Not a Nutria. Nutrias Don't Wear Flippers. On a Clear Day You Can See Sea Anemone. Some Fish Fly But How Many Nutrias Snorkel? To Sir With Love. Mission Accomplished.
The Lonely Metaphor
At the cafe while ripping the last bits of ribeye meat free from a juicy wad of fat I overheard from another table the supposition that the reason a woman I don't know was so crotchety was because, according to her doctor, her heart was like an old hose left outside in the rain and sun, and was all dry rotted.
And as much as I try to make something of this metaphor, I can't really seem to get anywhere with it. So for now it will just stand alone, as is.
At the cafe while ripping the last bits of ribeye meat free from a juicy wad of fat I overheard from another table the supposition that the reason a woman I don't know was so crotchety was because, according to her doctor, her heart was like an old hose left outside in the rain and sun, and was all dry rotted.
And as much as I try to make something of this metaphor, I can't really seem to get anywhere with it. So for now it will just stand alone, as is.
Sassy Basil
I'm having tea for breakfast because I ran out of coffee five days ago. There is some oatmeal on the stove incubating. I didn't use enough water so it almost burnt up but I added extra water and now it seems fine although lightly toasted. On the breakfast table is a basil plant wrapped in a clear plastic cone and if you keep the roots wet (there's no dirt) it will live for a while and be your fresh basil supply, even though when alone you rarely cook anything more ambitious than toast, or oatmeal, two things which generally do not benefit from fresh basil. Although I guess there is something you can do with a toast-like product and fresh basil, if you add some other ingredients. I would rather not at this time delve too deeply into the depths of my culinary in-expertise.
But the thing about these fresh, plastic cone-wrapped basil plants is I think they are grown in a controlled laboratory or some otherwise stress free environment and they suffer from it. They don't really smell that sweet. They smell like a picture of a basil plant. Or if you had a basil plant next to a mirror and you sniffed the mirror, that is what this plant smelled like.
I say smelled like, past tense, because I, not entirely on purpose, quit watering the basil and it shriveled up to a state that had you seen it you would have surely remarked--looks like you thoroughly killed that basil. I thought so too and felt that pang, that unique, resonating anguish we living feel about death. Though, as it was only a plant, my anguish was relatively short-lived. I felt the anguish and then in probably only a matter of minutes was thinking about other things, like who would win the Superbowl. Is it true you can never remember who lost the Superbowl? If you are ever faced with the question of who lost a Superbowl you could play the odds and guess Minnesota or Buffalo, with their eight cumulative losses.
It was likely a state of denial that had me so summarily moving past the demise of the basil and conjunctively, watering it after it was dead. The miracle here is like that reworded blues standard, my basil come back to me, and in the first day that formerly thriving, dull-smelling basil plant, which was now barely a wad of chloroform, showed some effort to live and in the days following showed not only the will to live but the desire to thrive, wrapped in plastic on my breakfast table.
It is now back to its former state of good health and we--the basil plant and I--joke about the past as if the past has no other purpose but to amuse us.
You know basil, you smell a lot sweeter now than you did before I almost killed you.
Yeah, well, you know what they say--what doesn't kill you makes you sweeter.
I think that's--stronger.
What?
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
If you say so.
Hey basil, don't sass me or I will make pesto out of you. And put you on a piece of fancy toast. With tomato. Some olive oil. A little mozzarello. Salt and pepper.
I'm having tea for breakfast because I ran out of coffee five days ago. There is some oatmeal on the stove incubating. I didn't use enough water so it almost burnt up but I added extra water and now it seems fine although lightly toasted. On the breakfast table is a basil plant wrapped in a clear plastic cone and if you keep the roots wet (there's no dirt) it will live for a while and be your fresh basil supply, even though when alone you rarely cook anything more ambitious than toast, or oatmeal, two things which generally do not benefit from fresh basil. Although I guess there is something you can do with a toast-like product and fresh basil, if you add some other ingredients. I would rather not at this time delve too deeply into the depths of my culinary in-expertise.
But the thing about these fresh, plastic cone-wrapped basil plants is I think they are grown in a controlled laboratory or some otherwise stress free environment and they suffer from it. They don't really smell that sweet. They smell like a picture of a basil plant. Or if you had a basil plant next to a mirror and you sniffed the mirror, that is what this plant smelled like.
I say smelled like, past tense, because I, not entirely on purpose, quit watering the basil and it shriveled up to a state that had you seen it you would have surely remarked--looks like you thoroughly killed that basil. I thought so too and felt that pang, that unique, resonating anguish we living feel about death. Though, as it was only a plant, my anguish was relatively short-lived. I felt the anguish and then in probably only a matter of minutes was thinking about other things, like who would win the Superbowl. Is it true you can never remember who lost the Superbowl? If you are ever faced with the question of who lost a Superbowl you could play the odds and guess Minnesota or Buffalo, with their eight cumulative losses.
It was likely a state of denial that had me so summarily moving past the demise of the basil and conjunctively, watering it after it was dead. The miracle here is like that reworded blues standard, my basil come back to me, and in the first day that formerly thriving, dull-smelling basil plant, which was now barely a wad of chloroform, showed some effort to live and in the days following showed not only the will to live but the desire to thrive, wrapped in plastic on my breakfast table.
It is now back to its former state of good health and we--the basil plant and I--joke about the past as if the past has no other purpose but to amuse us.
You know basil, you smell a lot sweeter now than you did before I almost killed you.
Yeah, well, you know what they say--what doesn't kill you makes you sweeter.
I think that's--stronger.
What?
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
If you say so.
Hey basil, don't sass me or I will make pesto out of you. And put you on a piece of fancy toast. With tomato. Some olive oil. A little mozzarello. Salt and pepper.