A Cat's Tale - about stairs and other stuff

Ø  It’s a long way up – The Tenth Step – a Cat tale

Our cat has a favorite step on the large staircase in our home. It is the Tenth step. He resides there quite often and if you are on your way up, or down, and he has position on the Tenth step, he has just that, position. He fully expects, near demands by his very presence there, that you step over, or just beside him on the remainder of the tread. You dare not disturb him, for if you do, you will get a glare, a scowl, a piercing hex of a narrowed-eye sure to have some lurking future malice linked to it for a time unbeknownst to you. But when your time comes in a slip, a stub, or trip, or stumble over nothing but air, he’ll be there too watching with a little smirk, like the Cheshire Cat with his grin “ha, gotcha” written on his face.

He’s not really a big cat by weight, but he has lot of hair. A Persian. A “long-haired” cat, it is not fur. So he takes up space and it’s hard to tell where body is, and what is just hair. Persians have that wide face and head, “smushed” in, like a cartoon cat after running headlong and smashing into a wall (smushed, being the past tense of smashed – not “smush” in the Jersey Shore context). We noticed after only a couple days in this house that he preferred that Tenth step.

There are eighteen total steps from the living room entry floor all the way to the second floor hallway. As a matter of fact if you start in our basement and just count the stair steps (not walking steps in between) from there to the floor in our full attic, there are forty-five stairs, and I know because I have taken things stored either in the attic or in the basement from one remote location to the other several times. Now why we have stuff, and why I’m taking stuff, and why we store stuff in those places . . . well, another time maybe. There are 14 steps from basement den to the kitchen, 18 steps from the living room to second floor hallway, 13 steps (oooohh spookey) from the second floor up into the attic (and those top three are angled steps so kinda tricky, and it’s narrow too). For that matter the stairway to the basement is actually more narrow than those to the attic. And the top “step” at the doorway from the kitchen is not really so much a step per se, but a 1” rise from the top staircase step onto the hardwood kitchen flooring. You have to count it as a step though, because you do have to take that step up or down. If you step between the two onto that 1” variance of surface you will fall on your ass going down (bad cause you’ll keep sliding and banging on the walls like you’re in a trash shoot) or you’ll fall on your face into the kitchen going up. I know, I’ve done both. I actually fall “up” stairs way more than down, what the hell? Falling up stairs makes you just look like a dumbass, an uncoordinated stooge. Falling down is, um, more natural or something. People might laugh at you either way, but more often they’ll laugh when you fall up, than down. People help you “up” when you fall down. People don’t help you “down” when you fall up, but if they’re not laughing at you too hard they might help you “up” when you fall down going up!  (Made myself laugh at that – LOL).

The Cat. The Tenth Step. Now I believe cats do have a certain psychic sense and connective ability with a dimension we humanoids can’t quite grasp. We can at times kinda sense it, or for a very brief moment connect, but it’s so fast we blow it off as our imagination or some other hokey bullshit. And you have every right to call me crazy and think I’m full of shit, that’s cool by me, think and believe what you want, but it is part of this story, so read on believer or non-believer the story is about to get better.

When we first were moving into this cool old house, being smart family cat owners, we knew to bring the cat over when it was quiet, when there wasn’t anything in it yet, just the house so if the cat got a bit freaked out for any reason you weren’t looking for days under and around furniture or boxes or whatever. So we get to the house and let the cat out of his cozy carrier and he slowly, curiously, but with more confidence than caution, begins his discovery. We watch him awhile as he pokes around sniffing, peaking around corners, crossing in and out of rooms, jumping up onto shelves and counters. He seems pretty cool with it, unusually cool with it. Like he’s at “home” cool with it. Now if you know cats that is kinda weird, unexpected really from our human perspective. He went about like he owned the place and lived here all his life (or for one, or many of his nine lives). So him seeming content and happy and in cool discovery mode we all go on about what we were doing; measuring, figuring places to put furniture, taking pictures, girls debating and negotiating over the bedrooms, inside, outside, upstairs and down. All the while the cat is doing his thing one minute in a room then not, in the hallway, then on top of a windowsill, all about. After an couple hours we’re getting ready to go.

“Where’s the kitty?” and the calling for him and looking for him begins. And it continues. There is no furniture or boxes to hide in or under. We look in closets. We look in cabinets. We look in every room. We look all around outside. We look everywhere on every floor, in every room, in drawers of built in cabinets. We look in the clothes dryer, we look in the washer, even in the fridge! We begin walking around the neighborhood calling for him. Some neighbors even begin the search, he’s an indoor cat, so the thought of him outside is not good and now its dark. The girls were still in the house still looking. When we get back, none of us have seen or can find him and its now been over an hour. We look all over the house for like the fifth time, everywhere and nothing. We’re sure he slipped outside. Two of us get into a car and start a slow drive beyond a few block search radius, one sits in the back yard and calmly calls for him, one walks around the outside of the house and around the block calling. Thirty minutes later, we all gather, and no luck. Devastated, we go inside to gather purses, jackets, tape measure and to turn off lights, and there calm as can be on the tenth step is our cat, Bijan.

To this day we have no idea where he could have been in that empty house, or whether there is some other Outer Limits tenth dimension on that tenth step, some wormhole, or Narnia doorway, or whether he was simply hiding somewhere really well and he just likes hanging out on that step. But I can tell you this, it may just be that it's a good place to rest since it’s a little more than halfway up the eighteen total steps and I have found myself slowing, even stopping there at number Ten to take a brief break before the rest of the climb, especially if I started in the basement!

One of those days - A Christmas Story?

Ø  I knew I was in for one of those days – A Christmas Story

It started with a stubbed pinkie-toe on the bedpost, in the dark, of a very early and cold morning. I held back the welling profanity at my lips because everyone else was still asleep. A few crippled steps later and I step in some wet slimy stuff (that turns out be dog puke I find out once I turn a light on and go back to check) and now I do swear and storm into the bathroom. I clean up after the pet, get myself ready for the rest of the day totally aware of these signs and expecting more to come. Today is my Karma payback day no fucking doubt about it. So on it goes: take the dogs out for their morning break and the screen door slams me in the elbow “funny bone”, it wasn’t in the least bit funny, and I swear again startling the dogs now a tangle in their leashes around my feet. It’s freezing outside (and still dark) and they seem to take forever to pee. Back inside and during breakfast, I drop the sugar spoon into my Cream-o-wheat and it splashes onto my work shirt. The smoke alarm begins to scream at an ear piercing level damn near rendering me immobile wincing in some weird mind-melding torture, and its going off because I’m burning my toast! Seems I must have bumped the setting knob from my perfect toast setting of 3-dash all the way to 7-dash-dash (as high as the thing goes – why? Why a 7 dash dash setting at all, hell it burns at 5-dash-dash, what the world is the reason for those other extreme settings – arson maybe?) By the time I get around to eating, every things cold – and its cold outside, and dark, because it’s still early. Now I’m wondering, actually thinking carefully and seriously, if this is some omen and I should just take my ass back to bed. Really, what next, was it even safe to try to go to work? But was it safe to stay home? Shit can happen anywhere, anytime. I decide to head to work. Everything is hunky-dory until I’m almost there. When, CRUNCH ! I get rear ended sitting at the last stoplight before getting to our work parking lot (that parking lot is a freaking hazard too, but that’s another story for a different day). I pull over and the car behind me follows along and I can see there’s some damage to the headlight and hood of this little black car. Then I notice the big white decal or painting on the hood – the Batman logo! The windows of the little car are darkened and I can’t see in, but I’m fuming and pissed, but kind of amused at the little “Batmobile” sitting there crunched. I’m already late and now this, what a screwed up day, how much more can I take, I’m sure to be dead before the end of it at this rate! I get out and still no sign of movement inside the other car, and now I’m getting even more steamed because I have to go back to this guy? He’s not getting out? WTF? I take a glance at my rear bumper and it is fine, a big somewhat rusty, heavy steel solid bumper. A bumper that is a real bumper. A bumper that stops shit. A hit me at your own risk bumper. Just as I’m getting to his hood, checking out his poor busted headlight, smashed plastic grill, dented hood crumpled just to the edge of the Batman logo, the door begins to open slowly and the loud Christmas music is pouring out and a large hand grabs the top of the door jam, and out comes a very rotund, apologizing but smiling, happy round faced black dude wearing a Santa suit ! Now I am smiling and assuring him there is nothing at all wrong with my car, apologizing to him for what has happened, refusing to let him call in the accident since there is no damage to my car and he’s worried about a ticket and his insurance. He tells me he’s on his way to Walmart, he explains to tend the Salvation Army kettle and ring his bell for the day. As I help him back into his car and he’s telling me “bless you” and “Merry Christmas”, I realize this is one of the coolest moments and experiences I’ve had and how my day had just become “one of those days”, one I’ll never forget and one I’ll tell about the rest of my life! 

Holy Holly Berries Batman, Santa is a jolly black dude that drives a Hyundai Batmobile!

Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays !

Would you like some Toast?

Toast, not so simple –

You don’t generally give it much thought I expect, Toast. But really there can be a lot to think about with simple Toast. What type of bread? The extent of “toasting” you want – light to dark? What do you put on it or what don’t you put on it? Are you having your Toast to dip it into something? If so, what do you want to dip it into? Do you eat the crust or not eat the crust? How many pieces do you want to have? Do you cut it? If you cut it, how do you cut it? You see what I mean – it’s just not that simple, Toast. I like the word “toast”. It has a nice sound to it for me . . . “toast”. It invokes comfort and warmth, good feelings (but mind you cold, hard or soggy Toast can change my feeling really damned quickly about the Toast as a substance, but not the sound of the word, that always makes me a little happy, “toast”). Try it , just say the word a few times. See, a little happy thought, a wee break of a smile on your mug, eh?

And a little digression here – a “toast” (verb, not noun) given in memory, celebration or cheer of someone or something has a good will emphasis – happiness or adoration. And let’s not get side-tracked by “toast” in the verbal form of the destructive – “my laptop is so toasted”, or that of impairment – “that was a great party, we we’re so toasted” – this one may bring an aching frown or a big smile!

Back to the “Toast” you eat. Comforting, warm, happy-place Toast, and back to the topic of how the Toast thing isn’t a simple choice.

First, the bread choice, Wheat, White, Whole Wheat, Multi-grain, Raisin, Sourdough, Rye –Light or Dark or swirl, Pumpernickel (with Caraway seeds), Sunflower Seed, Flax Seed, and I could go on and on because there a hundreds of “breads”, but those listed above are for the most part the kind of daily consumption breads we get for home use or have choices of when you get Toast at a restaurant. And how many slices are you going to have? Two because your toaster has two slots, four because your toaster has four slots (or two anyway because even though you have a four slot toaster it’s still your choice, or one piece for that matter. If you get four slices at a restaurant do you eat all of them because they came with it, or leave some, or just order the number of slices you want? Lots to think about, no?

Second, the toastie-ness desired. Very light, all the way to very dark, burnt really. And the consistency of the bread at a done-ness level. See, very light and the bread is still soft and pliable, but at a certain point, depending on the bread of course and the toastie-ness level you like, bread gets hard, and that point is in the middle somewhere depending on the bread, because you can have hard toast that is dark, but not crispy black burnt dark. Consider this, have you looked and actually noted the number of “darkness” choices you have on your toaster? Mine has numbers 1-7, but there are hash marks in between, so I have twenty-five selection points! For toastie-ness level ! Two - Five, 25! Really? You can’t choose, it takes trial and error to find that selection point just right for you, and it probably won’t be the same for other users, so you have to remember your spot, or mark the mark with your own personal mark – follow me?

Before we get to step three, I have to ask, is it just me or does everyone “jump”, even just a little bit, when the toast pops up (given of course you use a pop-up kind of toaster and not the toaster oven, just sit there and look pretty toaster. And is a PopTart toasted in a lay there flat not gonna move till you grab it toaster oven really a “pop” tart?). I always get a little startled, a little flinch, even though I’m anticipating the “pop” . Whether I’m looking at it or even looking away, the “pop” makes me twitch, more so if I’m looking at it though,  because then it also has the popping up appearance and not just the popping up sound, like a toast Jack-in-the –box! (may have to do a blog about Jack-in-the –boxes’ someday too – those with clowns finda freak me out).

Third, what do I put on it. Butter (Salted or Unsalted. Whipped or Stick. Low fat – again, REALLY, low fat butter, getthefuckouttahere). Margarine (historical note: 1998 was the 125^th year anniversary for the margarine U.S. Patent), or maybe cream cheese, or yogurt, or peanut butter, or Nutella (I LOVE this stuff – but not on toast, on a crescent roll or tortilla). Some people of course want their toast “dry”, so nothing on it.

Next, what else do you put on it, or not. Jelly, jam, if so what flavor? Marmalade, apple butter, some other fruit spread? Cheese? When does it become a sandwich if you have bread, butter, a fruit spread and something else, like cheese, or ham, or bacon, etc – then it’s a toasted sandwich, right? If you’re going to dip it, say into an eggyolk, or a soup for lunch or dinner, or into a hummus for an appetizer, do you also need to decide to cut it? Cut it corner to corner, in half top to bottom, in quarters, in strips, into cubes to put gravy over it?

So you see, any way you slice it, or not, Toast is not a simple no brainer decision. I’m hungry for Toast, now what to do, hmmmm?

The Bird (not quite Hitchcock, but still)

Ø   Nearly assaulted by a frick'n sparrow –

That’s right, I was nearly assaulted by a damn little bird !  He was haul’n ass, I mean really frick'n moving, in that “no wing flapping just aerodynamic beak extended darting on a bead line” kinda way, right under my chin! Christ if he’d hit me I have no doubt his pointy little beak would have stabbed right into my jugular vein and I’d have died twitching on the ground in my backyard flapping in spasms just like the little bird stuck in my neck. And if it didn’t quite kill me dead, it most certainly would have caused some type of nerve damage to my neck that would likely have triggered paralysis from my neck down rendering me immobile for life (except for the aid of a cool little hover-round scooter device). Or, if not paralyzed, then certainly knocked unconscious for some time due to the severe impact and blunt force. Like getting hit with a high-inside-fastball to the noggin, or chin, or neck.

This little bastard literally buzzed right under my chin as I’m walking down the sidewalk, at a quick clip mind you (it was a chilly morning just at sunrise, low light and brisk out) so I had some momentum and a little speed in my step too. So if he hits me, multiply his speed by my speed and we’re talking an epic collision. BAAAAAAM ! 

I shit you not, I felt the air as he blew past me. I did one of those whatthefuck headjerks where your peripheral vision and a sort of sonic hearing thing warns you to duck and cover. A spontaneous head and neck snap, with a slight backward and up neck twist, supper fast, like in the Matrix (cause after that you recall it in some surreal supper slow-mo.  Whhhhhiiiiiiizzzzzzzzz, sssshhhhhhhhhssssss, wwhhhhooooouuuuuuu, sssssssssss – that’s the slow motion sound effect as the bird rockets past.)

After the close call I start thinking  - “was that an intentional warning fly-by” (again, like a pitcher throwing the high and tight fast ball to give warning and intimidate). “Was the stupid thing just flying so fast, simply fat and happy in the new day, with his eyes closed enjoying the moment, that it never even saw me at all”? “What would that dumb bird think if he’d hit me and he finds himself stuck like a dart in a human”? “Maybe he’d drop dead from the impact and I’d be laying there dead or unconscious too, and when we were discovered they’d look at the morbid scene with confusion and horror”? “What if he went right through me like a gunshot”? “How fast does a bird fly”? “The irony, J-Bird killed by a bird”. Your mind wanders and thinks all kinds of strange things when you almost die!

Now, I stop and look both ways before I step out into my backyard and walk down the sidewalk gauntlet of sparrows, chickadees and wrens, beastly creatures all.

Harvest time (a long over due but timely blog post)

Harvest time in small town rural America –

I find it comforting to live in an area that has small towns, farms (real family owned farms, mixed of course with some larger or “CO-OP” farms, and Amish), and yet in less than an hours’ drive to major metropolitan areas, and within a couple hours of major cities; Philadelphia, Baltimore, New York, WDC, I’ll even include Harrisburg, Newark and Wilmington, not “major” cities but WTF you get my point.

The thing with the small town amongst nearby metropolis cities provides a unique respite from the madness, motion, hustle and bustle, yet carries a certain amount of urban feel; Art Galleries, Theater, live music and trust me not just good food, but good upscale cuisine, many very much ground breaking in “local and organic” ingredients  and menus.  Lots of things “fresh” , like down the road farm to market same day, hell under 24hrs fresh. And not just a few things, but lots and lots; beef, poultry, dairy, chocolate, eggs, tomatoes, asparagus, squash, zucchini, celery, potatoes (all kinds and colors), yams, all sorts of lettuce, broccoli, apples, pears, peaches, grapes (and Wine!), mushrooms, even tobacco is grown around here. We also have a great variety of local made Jams, Jellies, Pickles (and pickled everything – even Beet Eggs, a very local thing), Apple Cider, Birch and Root Beer – and yes, BEER, (did I mention Wine and Chocolate, oh yeah I did).

There are many Independent Grocers that set the stage for the “Whole Foods” concept, look and feel, true Local Farmers and Central Markets, a couple wholesale and retail auctions as well. You can pretty much shop fresh daily and eat fresh meals either prepared at home or at restaurants. Now prices may be competitive to a certain extent, but we’re still close enough to those big cities East Coast and Mid-Atlantic cost of living, so that comes with the territory, but options, selection and choice is the point.

So, Autumn, Fall, “harvest time” and the Holiday season is just the best. Landscapes begin to look like Saturday Evening Post or Hallmark views, homes, businesses, towns begin to decorate to celebrate the harvest and for Halloween, Thanksgiving , Christmas and New Year holidays. Fields are being worked; crops gathered, hay and straw bailed, winter wheat planted, other fields plowed under. With the large Amish community we see these activities both with horse teams and tractor, hand and tool, families together in their efforts among the crops, animals, pastures, and barn lots. The connection and “life” of earth and our place in the cycle is evident. It’s comforting, it’s fulfilling. And the smells at this time of year – fresh cut and bailed hay, plowed damp, rich soil, wood fires from chimney tops, leaf and brush smoldering under a watchful farmers eye, chocolate from the small local factories, the sweetness of earth reclaiming fallen growth, coffee shops, bakeries, soups and other roasting meals from restaurants, tobacco curing in specially barns, smokehouses curing meats and sausage, grain mills grinding meal and flour, oats, wheat, barley, corn all filling the crisp cool light air, and carried on gentle breezes, and occasional gust of wind pulling leaves from carefully raked piles.

Harvest time, a very special time of year. A good time truly to reflect on our own place on this vast earth, our true and real connection to her, our own Harvest and the bounty of life its self, a time of thanksgiving and the giving of gifts; food, friendship and community. Give this time of year to food banks and other organizations you favor, participate when you can in lending a hand toward service to those less fortunate.

An Old Irish Blessing –

Count your blessings instead of your crosses;
Count your gains instead of your losses.

Count your joys instead of your woes;
Count your friends instead of your foes.

Count your smiles instead of your tears;
Count your courage instead of your fears.

Count your full years instead of your lean;
Count your kind deeds instead of your mean.

Count your health instead of your wealth;
Love your neighbor as much as yourself.

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Chicken Shit

Ø  Chicken Shit –

You might have thought this would be about someone frightened of little things, jumpy, flinching at shadows, a “scaredy-cat”, skittish, fearful of small and large animals and creatures of all sorts real and imagined, but that isn’t what this is about. It’s really about chicken shit, poop, droppings, whatever. See, we live in a rural area outside a cute little country town of about 8,000 people. The area is very fertile and there is plenty of farming, dairy operations, vineyards, an Alpaca farm, one guy even raises peacocks and miniature horses, but there are also chicken and egg producers.

Now I expect if you’ve been anywhere near farm country you’ve gotten a whiff of fertilizer, some chemical, some organic. Organic = manure. Cattle, other, and Chicken. I’m going to be careful here not to gross anyone out, ok, so stick with me. The good old days of spreading manure by using it in relative solid form and “flinging” it from an open wagon spreader has given way to “slurry” sprayers. To be sprayed, it has to be in a liquid form, need I say more. The old way was smelly, but it was “flung” and it landed, and it sat and decomposed, providing nutrients to the soil. The liquid sprayed slurry, is even more smelly, and that is due to the much smaller liquid particulates being pushed by wind much more so than the solid flung crap. If you get my drift (haaa), it floats in the wind and carries, and if it floats and carries on the wind, you can therefore drive past a field and through that same wind and now you got a coating of the crap literally on your car. I’ve had a car smell like shit for a week, serious!

OK, so slurries are not equal in stench. In order from bad to worse: Bovine (that’s Cow shit), Swine (that’s Pig shit), and Poultry (that’s CHICKEN SHIT or it could also be turkey, but I’m talking Chicken here). I don’t know how or really want to try and describe it, if you are familiar with it (I’m sorry) but you know what I mean, suffice to say it is just plain fricking nasty!

You catch a whiff of that and it’s immediately, hold your breath till you think you’ll pass out - close all windows - turn off the AC - drive as fast as you safely can - and get past it. Even then it’s so nasty your eyes will probably be burning (making it even harder to drive fast safe) and you’re light headed from holding your breath, and already getting hot flashes because the car is closed up with no air flow (and that’s the point but its hot outside) so you’re just about to fricking die, all because of Chicken Shit. Peeyeewie !  N A S T Y nasty. It is scary bad. I will even drive the long way to avoid an area if I know they are spraying. It kinda freaks me out to think about it floating in the air.

The thing is, if you happened to read my last post, all this organic (albeit from animals) matter is the nutrient rich substance that helps grow and produce the grains and various vegetables that are so delicious and nutritious – they even smell GOOD. Of course you always need to wash you organic food, same as if it’s chemically fertilized, but I guess I prefer the stinky organic stuff, than the chemical stuff used to help grow my food.

I just need to quit being such a Chicken Shit about it I suppose!

SHIT historical trivia – Manure is and always has been used as fertilizer and as such it was a commodity to be sold, traded and used to support farming all around the world. To transport it globally it was shipped on sailing vessels across waterways, seas and oceans. It was dried and packed in various containers. When loaded into the vessels hold, it was marked to placed toward the top of the hold rather than at the bottom, since all ships had some seepage and water accumulation in the belly of the storage areas. The British shippers marked in English the letters S.H.I.T. = Ship High In Transit.

Now of course that bit of historical trivia very well may be total B.S. Bull !

Gotta run - till next time, and then maybe another "smell" blog, but it will be about sweet things in the air like cereal, and candy and CHOCOLATE ! (because we live by places making all that stuff too).

Spring into Summer

               

Ø  Spring into Summer in PA –

Spring and the beginning of summer in the lovely Susquahanna Valley of Pennsylvania brings rain and lots of it, then warmer temperatures and of course, humidity. I HATE humidity. An 80 degree day with 90% humidity makes it feel like 100 degrees. Even worse, it blankets you like a thick, heavy (handcrafted and colorful, tightly hand stitched, made by little Amish and Mennonite women) cotton batted, wool-lined quilt !

Hot, muggy, sticky, stifling, heavy, oppressive, draining, sweltering, clammy, sweat-inducing, pulling the life out of you, FRICKING humidity. It sucks. Really. But, there is believe it or not, an upside to the heat, rain and humidity  . . . .

Fresh STRAWBERRIES ! Roadside stand fresh. Out of the bushel basket into the green pint container, placed with care by a cute little Amish kid with bare feet and red juice stained fingers from those beautiful, plump, fresh berries. Juicy and sweet. Flavor that can't be compared. Burst in your mouth, sunshine in a berry, taste-bud stimulating, mouthful of happiness, strawberry goodness ! It takes me back to times at my Grandmothers farm garden in Iowa, wandering into soft rich black dirt of her garden to search for the perfect ripe Strawberry to pick, blow off the dust and eat! Nothing better. Well, maybe fresh off the vine sun warmed tomatoes from the garden, or sweet peas, or carrots, or radishes, or well, anything that fresh.

We are blessed to have an abundance of roadside stands of fresh produce, fruit and other handmade goods. Many still work on the honor system, with a tin can to drop your pocket money and dollar bills and make your own change. You can even find farm fresh brown eggs in coolers on the bed of a hay wagon for a buck-fifty. All season long. And Sweet Corn (in approximately 27 days per the “Ear of Corn" countdown sign on Route 23 outside Silver Spring, PA – a whole other blog waiting on this!  Besides the little neighbor garden stands, we also have the pleasure of Farmers Markets, Co-ops, community gardens and Farm Shares, all of which have local, and organic, offerings and the opportunity for participating in the soil prep, planting, caring, harvesting. I may have to drive a bit to get to some of these places, but it is well worth it.

So even though the heat and humidity totally suck, I gotta get out, brave the weather and support my local growers and farmers. It’s healthy and good for me (and I suppose the daily “sweat lodge” humidity ritual has some cleansing value – positive mental attitude mind game I play with myself for motivation).

So even if you don’t have this luxury within your immediate proximity do what you can to support local growers and sustainable farming.

Buy Local ! 

Teaser: next blog post - "Chicken shit" (bet ya can't wait? )

Weather, God and Will

Ø  Nature and random acts – weather the storm  

(note: a bit more on the serious side for this post, no humor in this one)

Have you seen the random patterns of flattened wheat or oats in a farmer’s field after a strong thunder storm, or just high winds or the occurrence of micro-bursts? Across the expanse of acres and acres there are these sections of sporadic spaces where pockets are flattened, laid to waste as they are too low to be extracted when the regular harvest time comes. Those areas are lost to nature’s power and nuance. Nuance because it doesn’t take the whole field, but just pockets leaving a standing boarder of other grain stalks still standing less than a half inch away, side by side, even touching one another in lighter breezes and often even together side by side weathering the severe storms, but in this case, in this instance, for whatever reason(s) separated, some live others lie flat, damaged, wilted to perish. Living things thriving one moment and lost in an instant a moment later.

Natural disasters in common language, even business contracts, that have adverse effects to property and person are called “acts of God”. And when human life is lost its “Gods will” as well as when people survive, that’s “Gods will” too. You often hear survivors speak about their prayers being answered and how God saved them. Sadly, you also hear those who lost family and friends say their departed loved ones “are in Gods care”. The loss of life and property, the devastation and ruin, the upheaval of lives of so many – “Gods will”?

I believe in God. I believe in the power of prayer. I believe this planet of many living things; animal, plant and people are all intertwined in a natural, physical and spiritual world. I can see the hand of God everywhere, everyday, in everything. But I don’t hold the belief that it is God’s predestined plan for one stalk of wheat standing next to the other to be selected to survive and the stalk next to it to be laid to waste, nor do I believe God’s will or plan is directly at hand when a mother survives and her child dies as they are side by side in a catastrophic event like a tornado. I don’t believe neighboring families are selected by God, one to live and the other die. And I don’t believe one families prayers were answered and the others, not. Or that one prayed more, lived better lives, prayed harder, practiced the right religion, and the other was not or did not. I believe some will find comfort in prayers after such tragic loss, and I know others, will not find solace or comfort from their loss.

The true “acts of God” and true instances “of Gods will” are in those companionate acts of others who extend themselves to assist and help all touched by such devastating events; giving, caring, consoling, understanding, participating in ones joy and the others grief – that is Gods plan, that is the true spirit of human nature, the pain and the pleasure of heart and soul in loving ones neighbor, whether next door, in your town or the next, your state, your country, this world, to all living things regardless of Religion, race or color, to coexist and weather the storms as best we can.

"You talking to me?"

Ø  A personal conversation – with yourself

I’m not a regular “self-talker” but I do it at certain times, like checking myself when packing especially when in a hurry, or sometimes when I’m driving, like “slower down there buddy” or like “whoa, shit, that was the right turn you just missed” usually followed by “circle-back-around-dummy”.  Also, I find myself talking to myself but kinda at my PC, “where the hell did I put that”, “why did you do that, that was dumb”, “really”, “better clear that desktop buddy”, stuff like that. I don’t really do self-talk motivation though, like “you can do this”, “looks good”, “that was easy”.

I just so happened to spend the last few weeks in an office cubicle setting where there was a whole lotta self-talk going on, mixed with inter-team talk, partner/peer talk, “stand-up” meeting talk, policy talk, business talk, team meeting talk, personal talk, sport talk, weather talk, politic talk, entertainment talk, expert talk, help-me talk, music talk (mostly U2 talk cause they put on a concert that had been postponed), relationship talk, youtube talk, facebook talk, cell phone talk, even I M talk (IM or txting someone else and talking about it to someone else close by), and food talk.

The irony of all this is, I am here to help ensure clear and complete communication between Representatives of my Company and the Vendor partner participants I am sitting among, because we have been having “communication issues” – go figure.  So I have email up, receiving and replying. IM sessions open and active with minimum one person but in the thick of it anywhere between seven and twelve, the occasional text to my cell phone, and a few conference calls and a few miscellaneous phone calls, and team conference room meetings. Most of these various communications are also followed by a “confirming” email. In addition we have systems and tools in use that provide information/direction/communication on specific tasks. – Is it any wonder there are miscommunications?

Back to self-talk though. There’s a fine line between self-talk when you listen to yourself and there’s some form of acknowledgement, and when you’re yakking away and oblivious to it – haven’t got a clue what you’re saying or that you are even doing it. (And I’m not talking about the crazy-walking-around the streets-tripping-talking out loud-looney people (I truly believe, that they believe, there is a second participant in that verbal exchange)). Add to that, the phone headset, and you just can’t tell who the hell is talking to you, to someone on the phone, to themselves, the cubicle neighbor – it’s maddening. So madding, I now find myself saying loud “she’s not talking to me”, “is she talking to me”, “are you talking to me” and when they speak I can’t tell if it’s a reply to me or someone else. It’s a true communication cluster.

So my advice – keep your self-talk conversation a silent one inside your head, and if you do speak to yourself out loud, be sure to listen -- if you don't you're pushing on that "looney" door to the psyche ward.

FYI - I was really focused on this and didn’t speak a single word or utterance of this post to anyone, not even myself.

Public Transportation and Weirdos

Ø  Public Transportation and the weirdo population that make me feel part of the human race -

“Weirdo” , Who or what vision comes to your mind? Is it the kinda dumpy, rag-a-muffin, crazy-eyed, talking to no-one in particular, twitchy, disheveled person at the subway, bus stop, train station, bus station or airport (ok, you don’t usually see these folks at the airport, too expensive to travel that way and besides they limit the number of bags you can lug around and make you show them all your “stuff”, damn near strip search you these days). My air travel attire makes me look a bit disheveled and far from any GQ cover. A couple weeks ago I flew and wore “flip-flops”, loose baggy cargo pants, no belt (cause they make you take it and your shoes off at the x-ray scanner, so my pants are sagging, Hanes showing like the cool kids in the “hood” (ie: mean streets, or suburban mall)  wear them, a loose long sleeve t-shirt (cause you don’t want something too binding when you fly, long sleeve cause it can be a wee bit nippy on the plane, and to cover the tat’s so that you are less likely to get that second “profiler” glance from TSA – first glance already came because of the loose saggy cargo pants), no watch, nothing in my pockets, a Patagonia vest with zip pockets (a “man purse” of sorts – I keep my wallet, cell phone, IPod, Chapstick in those pockets), and a shoulder backpack with laptop, paperback, notebook, other minor crap I might need, “stuff” I need at the ready. I suppose I could (and have) make a better attempt at some fashion sense, but in a way as I look around this IS a fashion more and more the norm.

What is your “Weirdo” vision – dumpy homeless looking crazy eye, or, weirdo grandma type with odd red/orange hair color (minor gray root peak-age), Tammy Faye make-up, “bling” jewelry and Channel or Gucci bags (real? or knock-off purchased from the street corner off a spread out blanket, or from a Hefty black trash bag in a Manhattan alley – because they are more “real” there ) , in a cleavage revealing, two sizes to small, white Aeropostle tank top (maybe one she purchased when shopping with her granddaughter), a BIG wide red polka-dot belt across her middle (to help hold back her paunch, but not working cause it slid below like Santa’s Belt and just “lifts and plumps”, Jeggings (lord help me -LMFAO), and of course four inch red open toe pumps (toe nail color – neon magenta maybe --- I shudder with delight).

You get the picture, right, and I could go on and on, everywhere you look you can find them. Point here is, I find comfort, humility, humor, and humanity it every Weirdo I see. Beneath all our external trappings (and even putting aside our internal bias, prejudice, character, “morals” – whatever those may or may not be, religion, etc) we are The Human Race, Weirdos all.

So keep it real people and embrace your weirdness, and others weirdness with humility – save your judgment, cause at the very end of your race, you won’t be the judge, just another dead weirdo!

Peace – out ! And remember, don't hate -- appreciate !

Beer, Pubs and the Perfect Pour

Beer, Pubs and the perfect pour –

Guinness Stout at approximately 60 degrees Fahrenheit (16 c) – ok, ok, figure a major debate could break out on this point alone as to what temperature it is meant to be served. You’ll hear dozens of arguments, “facts”, about this single point even that some places have two taps; one very cold, the second one more “room temp”, so actually the debate you can see could rage on from there. What is “very cold”, what is “room temp” (I can tell you a Guinness or any beer room temp, if the room is perhaps really a screened porch on a summer day in Phoenix at 104 degrees Fahrenheit, would quite simply, suck!)  Some of course refer to room temp being around 70 degrees Fahrenheit give or take, others make reference to room temp meaning that at the origins of Guinness brewing and serving in 1759 from the casks, were stored in cellars and served without any chilling of any sort, so the temperature it was in that particular room or from the cellars was what you got, and of course a cellar in damp, cool Ireland is arguably colder than my example of Arizona, but exactly what temperature on what day, who could really know. I think you get my point, and besides, this blog isn’t even about Guinness or what temp it is best severed at --- ok, back to the story.

Guinness Stout from the keg at approximately 60 degrees Fahrenheit (16 c), pulled from a tap in stages, meaning the glass (pint glass mind you) is held at an approximate 50 degree angle and filled to about 3/4s of the way full then allowed to settle a bit, then filling the glass to the top, straight in, to leave a 3/8” initial head and allowed to cascade in those wonderful ripples of brown to settle into a creamy and inviting ½” head just peaking at the glass rim (a crafty cloverleaf design scrolled in from the rubber nib tap by an exceptional bartender if you are in the right place), is only part of the “perfect pour”.

Granted other beers (“beer” as a generic meaning in this case for any Ale, Stout, Porter, Pilsner, etc, etc) could be your favorite and beer of choice and the other factors that will be relayed here would apply to the meaning of the “perfect pour”, but do consider the look and performance of a glass of Guinness as it settles, nothing like that cascading flow in the glass – your IPA doesn’t do that, your Brown Ale doesn’t do that, your sissy Miller Lite doesn’t do that. I’d probably give you the nod if you want to make a case for a well constructed Black and Tan (and I don’t mean from the bottle that way) I mean created in the glass by the barkeep from Guinness (of course) and Bass or Harp Ale. Here too could be another debate or blog, on what the appropriate brews are for a Black and Tan, or any of the other combos – A “Pennsylvania Tan” by the way is Yuengling Lager on the bottom and Guinness on top, and “America’s Oldest Brewery”, Yuengling,  bottles their version of Black & Tan that is their blend of Dark Brewed Porter and Lager and claims on the bottle label “original”.

Moving on : having covered the beer of choice (Guinness) and the action of the pouring (two phase, with care and attention), you come to the other factor of the Pub and within it; the staff, in particular the bartender, and the overall ambiance of the place. Let’s start then with the Pub.

I am sure there is some actual definition for “Pub” , and differentiation of Pub, Bar, Restaurant, Ale House, Tavern, Brew Pub, Micro-Brewery, Public House, Saloon, and so on, the matter really isn’t in any of those names or their definition, or what the proprietor cares to call it (that has more to do with demographics, marketing, sign-making, whatever), the point is I’m going to use the term “Pub” in this because that seems to me a good general term for the kind of place I have found and would expect to get the “Perfect Pour”. Thee Pub, needs to have character, ambiance, a personality. It needs to be a place you feel comfortable, welcome, almost at home with (but even better, because most of us are very unlikely to really and truly establish the “Perfect Pour” in our own home, even with the perfect bar in our home. Now, maybe, at your buddies or neighbors, but not very often in your own house – you’ll see why in a minute or so). It has to be inviting, no, beckoning . . . you have to feel it draw you in. It has to have a comfortable bar stool and It has to have a bar counter you can lean on at just the right height and with enough space not to feel confined – you will know it, feel it, be “that” place.

Exactly what it looks like, how it’s furnished and decorated, how big or little, how bright or dark, what the clientele is and how it can change with days of the week and time of the day -- is each to your own, only you can know and feel what all that is meant to be. Different for all of us. And often shared and mutual for several of us and that’s what provides the communal space that makes it very personal and individual at the same time, a personal oasis and yet societal and bonding (it’s also what keeps it open and making money).

You are in that place, are you there in your head with me, you find your happy place?

Enter the bartender or bartenders if the place is really good (and if it has all those other attributes it will attract, and the owner will know how to sort the gems from the stones, for the great bartender). This is critical, The Great Bartender is crucial to the moment and to the Perfect Pour. They can make it or break it. This doesn’t mean that an OK-good bartender isn’t alright to have in a great Pub, and that you’ll never go back in the place if the bartender isn’t capable of being part of the Perfect Pour, but because you have to have #1) The Beer, #2) The Draft Technique, #3) The Pub and #4) The Great Bartender, for there to be a “Perfect Pour”, that’s the way it is and it’s in the moment, so no place should fire an OK-good barkeep, in fact you really have to have them to help differentiate and help spotlight the exceptional, The Great Bartender – follow me? This is why the “at home” perfect pout is really rare, ‘cause you, or your spouse, partner, buddy, kid, whoever has to be that in-house bartender, and quite frankly, well you get what I mean.

The Great Bartender IS responsible for the draft technique and the perfect pour execution, they’re responsible for much of the feel and making one at home and comfortable (and the best of the best can make you feel that way even if they’ve never seen you before – it does become even better when they do come to recognize you, know what you want without asking, and call you by name – the Cheers “Norm” experience). Great Bartenders know how to, not only manage the back of the bar as a Pro and still have attentiveness to every customer, but they are multi-dexterous, fluid in motion, time management experts, humorists, therapists, politicians, performers, chemists of mixology, storytellers, sportscasters, weather and news providers, poets, philosophers, arbitrators, mediators, matchmakers, friends, service experts, care givers, magicians, confidants, sinners and saints. And their gift, if you are open to receiving it, is The “Perfect Pour”, so much more than beer in a glass. --- Cheers! Look for the moment. Savor it. Respect it. And tip well, always!

P.S.

I am quite lucky as I have found two places nearby that can provide the Perfect Pour –

Pub Dunegal, Thanks Kyle

Quips Pub, Thanks Riley

And a third, in waiting, McCleary’s Public House

Last a shout out to my buddy Joe in Arvada, CO – in Joe’s basement bar I have had many a “Perfect Pour” and wait in euphoric anticipation for the next one!

Food for thought

Food for thought -

When you travel, even within your own region, state, county, town or neighborhood, or where ever, and you eat at a “local” restaurant (local meaning, owned and managed by someone “of” the area, not a chain restaurant – though these may have a telling clue) check out the condiments on the table or that are available per request, as it tells a deeper story of the proprietor, the customers, and the tastes of the area and location you are in, possibly even some history.  Of course the type of place you choose to eat also guides the condiment selection and choices available,  that goes almost without saying and the menu itself will most likely bear local influences as it should, as well as influences of the owner or head chef or cook – taste and technique, “beliefs” about food, flavor and preparations.

Granted, we are an ever growing and expanding nation and world, with many multi-cultural influences getting melded together all the time and many restaurants are looking to serve a diverse palette even if they are an Italian, Chinese, French, American, Mexican, Sushi, Steak, Taco, whatever place, they very-well may have some cross-over stuff to make “everyone” (mostly little kids and the less adventuress adults who end up there in-tow against their will) happy, or at least able to order something to eat and not stick out like a dweeb (and you all know the type, they’ll still bitch and moan about it the whole time and afterwards trying make you feel bad about forcing them to go and eat at “that” place.  -- OPINION here: screw 'em, enjoy the food – the flavor, the smell, the textures and tastes, the view of the presentation, if the sound of the food or presentation is important, like Fajitas sizzling, hopefully for that brief moment they’ll shut up and you can “hear” the food, then block out their ranting dribble. Then consider NOT eating with them ever again, or at least not there, but DO go back without them and enjoy it. – )

Got a bit off track there, sorry, so you know if you go to a high-end place aside from salt and pepper there will be no condiments on the table, and depending on how well you know the place or how you’d like your service to continue, asking for any condiment is a bad idea. In fact if you’re at one of these places, I’d say the food out of the kitchen had better be spot-on perfect needing no salt or pepper or anything else, or you’re paying too much for it. This is not the kinda place I’m talking about (or trying to get to talking about – hang in there, we’ll move it along).

Condiments – the staples like salt, pepper, and sweeteners aren’t what I am talking about, nor is Soy Sauce at Asian food places, or Steak sauces at a Steak house, or Ketchup at a burger and fry place, although some of those may actually be a superficial peek in the box by Brand that is available. For instance, Kikkoman soy sauce is the leading brand on the West Coast (maybe across the whole country) but East Coast you see a lot of Lee Kum Kee brand soy sauce. Better yet, Heinz Ketchup in PA and the regional vs Hunts “Ketchup “(east of the Mississippi) “Catsup” (west of the Mississippi) and believe it or not Hunts “Tomato Cornchops” (only in Iowa) gets me closer to what I want to say about the story condiments tell. By the way, as the story goes, Hunts finally dropped the name "Tomato Cornchops" from their ketchup line when their mascot and product promoter, “Cornchoppy”, overindulged on cider at the Iowa State Fair and goosed the governor's wife during an apple pie judging, bringing disastrous press. (I have no idea if that is remotely true, but if not it’s a hell of a story).

I’ve digressed pretty seriously I think, to get to my point more directly, all of this came to me this morning as I ate a small breakfast at one of my local restaurants. It sits on a state road, a “pike”, here in Lancaster County PA, in a town that per 2000 census boasts 2,978 inhabitants, but that is for the “township” not the town per se. I had my usual, which is their #2 breakfast special of two eggs (locally raised by PA farmers), homefries (real sliced potatoes, also local, fried in a skillet moist and soft with just a slight crust – not hashbrowns out of a plastic bag) and two pieces of whole wheat toast (I can’t state firmly that the bread is locally baked, but I would expect so, because there are a boatload of local providers) sliced diagonally. Note here; another nuance of certain restaurants, regions and proprietors/cooks is whether they slice the toast, and if they slice it, whether it is a top to bottom slice or diagonal corner to corner (maybe another blog sometime) and what kind of toast you can get; wheat, whole wheat, white, sourdough, rye, other (yet another blog to come because a lot of people here order Rye toast, and many order it “dry”).

OK, so here we go, on the table are Salt (iodized) and Pepper (fine grind) in shakers that “are not stingy” (as my mother-in-law would say), a white ceramic container with sugar, Sweet-n-low and Equal, and a four compartment Jelly Caddy. The waitress wil ask if you need “creamers”, if you need ketchup, or hot sauce, and a yes answer to any of these gets you – small individual half-n-half cream from a local dairy cooled, Heinz Ketchup and Tabasco. The jelly is our real focus here. First not everywhere has an actual Jelly Caddy, they’ll have a small basket, or dish or combination metal holder that also has the salt and pepper. Here, they have a stand-alone four compartment caddy. They are serious about their jelly. Now what kinds of jelly do you provide? I’ve been to some places where it’s a combination of various kinds and lots of times all mixed together (I hate that). Most of the time in most places you will find Grape, I guess it’s the #1 favorite, then it can be one of these three; mixed fruit, cherry or strawberry, and many times those are the four staples. Occasionally in a four compartment caddy you’ll have grape (like almost always), two of the others (cherry usually doesn’t make the cut in this group) and the forth is Orange Marmalade. I’m not quite certain this has more predominance out east where the British roots still have a certain grip, but I don’t think Orange Marmalade is in the Jelly Caddy (if they have one) in Gallup New Mexico (if someone there reads this and knows different, please enlighten me). In this little local place of mine they have Grape, Strawberry, Orange Marmalade and . . . . .

Apple Butter! Yep, Apple Butter, always, taking up one slot of its own in the Caddy, next to the Orange Marmalade in its own slot, stacked neatly all the same in its spot no intermixed jellies, then Strawberry and Grape. I know that there are other places in the world that have Apple Butter, but I do believe that Lancaster Counties “Pennsylvania Dutch” heritage has a knack for producing Apple Butter (and other butters for that matter; Pumpkin Butter is terrific) and that Orange Marmalade hangs on to those English, British, roots from the 1700s. Patriots and Loyalists, taking their stance in those revolutionary years, debating, plotting, planning, providing for their families and both eating biscuits and bread with Apple Butter or Orange Marmalade (with the Kings tax sealed jars), and Strawberry jelly. Their condiment history began and continues here to this day. --- Food for thought !