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Upon consideration; please don’t allow the hater to steal your joy. I know everything you do is intended with a light heart, it is one of the myriad reasons I love you.
Of the seemingly unending reasons I cannot rid my heart of hate, the one stoking the burn currently is the chain letter/email.
I just received one from a well meaning relation who is helping to connect me with an organization where I would like to work, so I am in the habit of opening all of her messages.
Especially one marked “DO NOT DELETE” because I’m a sucker. When I realized the message was for idiots and suckers only, and I had opened it, the hate in my heart made a joyful noise and grew.
If you don’t have a female relation with email, you may be unaware of this phenomenon. If you are a female relation with email, this is why everyone deletes your messages unread.
For the uninitiated: chain mail is spam cheesily disguised as a special blessing, good fortune or nice day greeting, but not really. It is sent to you because you have an unimaginative, bored, superstitious (and/or all of the previous) girlfriend, aunt, sister, mother, cousin, daughter, great-aunt, grandmother or any of the prior in a “step” version.
The following is just one example of the hundreds of chain mail ‘blessings’ that I have deleted over the years, I hope you find it a useful example in that it is illustrative of all chain mail and can therefore be used as a warning. Ladies, DO NOT Fwd. email that follows this pattern:
First a selfish endorsement:
“This is without a doubt one of the nicest good luck forwards I have received. Hope it works for you — and me!”
Then why you received it: “has been sent to you for good luck”, or fame, or riches, or 72 virgins, or whatever the halfwit desires.
Then just like every other faith based superstition, following the promise of riches, obedience is required: “must leave your hands in 6 MINUTES. Otherwise you will get a very unpleasant surprise. This is true, even if you are not superstitious, agnostic, or otherwise faith impaired.” (Specious logic aside, ladies do you ever wonder why you are required to spam others – identity theft, computer viruses. why do you think these things happen to you more than others?)
Now this kind of spam (probably uploading my tax returns right now, you bastards) is irony proof. Directly after threatening me with bad luck after ostensibly sending me a good luck wish, I am faced with a list of 21 things to do to make life more thoughtful. Are you kidding me? How about just one thoughtful thing; don’t fucking send SPAM.
Finally all of the chain letters have the FUN part at the end:
Send this to at least 5 people and your life will improve.
1-4 people: Your life will improve slightly.
5-9 people: Your life will improve to your liking..
9-14 people: You will have at least 5 surprises in the next 3 weeks
20-15 and above: Your life will improve drastically and everything you ever dreamed of will begin to take shape.
Well ladies, let me share something with you. What I am doing right now, this very moment, I am reviewing the forwarding history on this gift to see which dingbats participated in furthering the hated spam.
Now I am praying to the God of Abraham to smite you (even at the risk of not making a good connection with some dumb job). Dear YAWEH; for fucks sake. Smite some spam happy bitches! Smite them, SMITE! SMITE! SMITE! Hmmmmm…If my prayer is answered every one of you wakes up tomorrow with a bubbling yeast infection.
Glen Caroline
Chairman
Loudoun County Republican Committee
P.O. Box 547
Leesburg, Virginia 20178
Dear Mr. Caroline;
As a member of the Republican Party I beg party leaders to please use proper grammar when referring to members of the Democratic Party.
Every time I read or hear “democrat controlled” or “democrat party” I wonder if this abuse of grammar stems from malevolence or ignorance. In either instance the dissonance created is uncomfortable.
If you were correctly quoted by the Leesburg Today May 8, 2009 edition “…thanks to our Democrat-controlled Board” you may not know the proper grammar. I hope you find the following examples helpful; Democrats have controlled, Democratic controlled.
If you were incorrectly quoted, (as the newspaper did not indicate the statement as intentionally so written with the ubiquitous Latin sic, I understand that may be the case) I would be happy to contact the Leesburg Today to demand a correction. However if your intent is malicious, that is inappropriate in a party leader and I find that usage offensive.
Sincerely,
XXXXX
Mr. Caroline’s response:
Thank you for sending this, XXXXX. I appreciate constructive feedback and hope you will consider joining the LCRC in the near future if you have not done so yet.
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T
Months ago, my interest in art forgery began with a tale of high-end forgery and black market expertise stumbled into by my artist while he was on another mission entirely. So I was primed when I read a favorable review of a new book by art historian Jonathan Lopez. “The Man Who Made Vermeers” is the story of a forger selling “Vermeer’s” to high ranking Nazi’s and fooling experts and generally having a fine time. I made a mental note to contact my library and have a copy “held”.
Some time later, days or weeks I cannot say, I read a notice that Mr. Lopez is to give a lecture at the National Gallery of Art and be available to sign his book afterward. For free.
That was today and you can bet I went. The lecture held the interest of a standing room only audience in the National Gallery’s large auditorium, and Mr. Lopez received a warm and lengthy applause for his fine presentation.
Of the many ideas Mr. Lopez planted during his talk, I was particularly held by the proposal that this forger, van Meergeren, was a partner in crime with Hitler. In queue to meet the author this suggestion became food for deep thought.
During the wait, musing my deep thought, epiphany! And just that suddenly I knew What Would Be Hilarious to have the author sign.
Mr. Lopez thoughtfully received everyone and was happy to make any personalization or dedication and listen and be as easy and likeable as anyone. To the kindhearted query “would you like an inscription?” I responded, “not an inscription really, but if you would sign your porn name” “you know, your childhood pet’s name and the street you lived on” “your porn name” “that would be great”.
I know, brilliant. A scholarly work of art history, first edition hardback, signed by the author using his porn name…I mean I wasn’t asking him to forge a signature, although I confess that temptation, but to have his nom de guerre (French for Porn Name) by his hand, really who wouldn’t want this book? I bet you want it right now.
For a moment, a long moment, I thought he would go for it. In retrospect I believe he was shocked and only appeared thoughtful. Declining to sign his porn name, he noted it seemed like fraud…I countered, “it’s your porn name”, he offered to make a personal inscription, I was still trying to convince him as he signed and dated my copy and didn’t have me escorted from the premises or anything a smaller person would have done.
The Man Who Made Vermeers, buy it. And if you can, go see Mr. Lopez’s lecture, tell him Yo-yo Monaghan sent you. http://www.themanwhomadevermeers.com/appearances.html
ADDRESS AT THE FIRST ANNUAL DINNER, N. E. SOCIETY,
PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER 22, 1881
On calling upon Mr. Clemens to make response, President Rollins said:
“This sentiment has been assigned to one who was never exactly
born in New England, nor, perhaps, were any of his ancestors.
He is not technically, therefore, of New England descent.
Under the painful circumstances in which he has found himself,
however, he has done the best he could–he has had all his
children born there, and has made of himself a New England
ancestor. He is a self-made man. More than this, and better
even, in cheerful, hopeful, helpful literature he is of New
England ascent. To ascend there in any thing that’s reasonable
is difficult; for–confidentially, with the door shut–we all
know that they are the brightest, ablest sons of that goodly
land who never leave it, and it is among and above them that
Mr. Twain has made his brilliant and permanent ascent–become
a man of mark.”
I rise to protest. I have kept still for years; but really I think there
is no sufficient justification for this sort of thing
. What do you want
to celebrate those people for?–those ancestors of yours of 1620–the
Mayflower tribe, I mean. What do you want to celebrate them for? Your
pardon: the gentleman at my left assures me that you are not celebrating
the Pilgrims themselves, but the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth rock
on the 22d of December. So you are celebrating their landing. Why, the
other pretext was thin enough, but this is thinner than ever; the other
was tissue, tinfoil, fish-bladder, but this is gold-leaf. Celebrating
their lauding! What was there remarkable about it, I would like to know?
What can you be thinking of? Why, those Pilgrims had been at sea three
or four months. It was the very middle of winter: it was as cold as
death off Cape Cod there. Why shouldn’t they come ashore? If they
hadn’t landed there would be some reason for celebrating the fact: It
would have been a case of monumental leatherheadedness which the world
would not willingly let die. If it had been you, gentlemen, you probably
wouldn’t have landed, but you have no shadow of right to be celebrating,
in your ancestors, gifts which they did not exercise, but only
transmitted. Why, to be celebrating the mere landing of the Pilgrims
–to be trying to make out that this most natural and simple and
customary procedure was an extraordinary circumstance–a circumstance to
be amazed at, and admired, aggrandized and glorified, at orgies like this
for two hundred and sixty years–hang it, a horse would have known enough
to land; a horse–Pardon again; the gentleman on my right assures me that
it was not merely the landing of the Pilgrims that we are celebrating,
but the Pilgrims themselves. So we have struck an inconsistency here
–one says it was the landing, the other says it was the Pilgrims. It
is an inconsistency characteristic of your intractable and disputatious
tribe, for you never agree about anything but Boston. Well, then, what
do you want to celebrate those Pilgrims for? They were a mighty hard
lot–you know it. I grant you, without the slightest unwillingness, that
they were a deal more gentle and merciful and just than were the people
of Europe of that day; I grant you that they are better than their
predecessors. But what of that?–that is nothing. People always
progress. You are better than your fathers and grandfathers were
(this is the first time I have ever aimed a measureless slander at the
departed, for I consider such things improper). Yes, those among you who
have not been in the penitentiary, if such there be, are better than your
fathers and grandfathers were; but is that any sufficient reason, for
getting up annual dinners and celebrating you? No, by no means–by no
means. Well, I repeat, those Pilgrims were a hard lot. They took good
care of themselves, but they abolished everybody else’s ancestors. I am
a border-ruffian from the State of Missouri. I am a Connecticut Yankee
by adoption. In me, you have Missouri morals, Connecticut culture; this,
gentlemen, is the combination which makes the perfect man. But where are
my ancestors? Whom shall I celebrate? Where shall I find the raw
material?
My first American ancestor, gentlemen, was an Indian–an early Indian.
Your ancestors skinned him alive, and I am an orphan. Not one drop of my
blood flows in that Indian’s veins today. I stand here, lone and
forlorn, without an ancestor. They skinned him! I do not object to
that, if they needed his fur; but alive, gentlemen-alive! They skinned
him alive–and before company! That is what rankles. Think how he must
have felt; for he was a sensitive person and easily embarrassed. If he
had been a bird, it would have been all right, and no violence done to
his feelings, because he would have been considered “dressed.” But he
was not a bird, gentlemen, he was a man, and probably one of the most
undressed men that ever was. I ask you to put yourselves in his place.
I ask it as a favor; I ask it as a tardy act of justice; I ask it in the
interest of fidelity to the traditions of your ancestors; I ask it that
the world may contemplate, with vision unobstructed by disguising
swallow-tails and white cravats, the spectacle which the true New England
Society ought to present. Cease to come to these annual orgies in this
hollow modern mockery–the surplusage of raiment. Come in character;
come in the summer grace, come in the unadorned simplicity, come in the
free and joyous costume which your sainted ancestors provided for mine.
Later ancestors of mine were the Quakers William Robinson, Marmaduke
Stevenson, et al. Your tribe chased them put of the country for their
religion’s sake; promised them death if they came back; for your
ancestors had forsaken the homes they loved, and braved the perils of the
sea, the implacable climate, and the savage wilderness, to acquire that
highest and most precious of boons, freedom for every man on this broad
continent to worship according to the dictates of his own conscience–and
they were not going to allow a lot of pestiferous Quakers to interfere
with it. Your ancestors broke forever the chains of political slavery,
and gave the vote to every man in this wide land, excluding none!–none
except those who did not belong to the orthodox church. Your ancestors
–yes, they were a hard lot; but, nevertheless, they gave us religious
liberty to worship as they required us to worship, and political liberty
to vote as the church required; and so I the bereft one, I the forlorn
one, am here to do my best to help you celebrate them right.
The Quaker woman Elizabeth Hooton was an ancestress of mine. Your people
were pretty severe with her you will confess that. But, poor thing!
I believe they changed her opinions before she died, and took her into
their fold; and so we have every reason to presume that when she died she
went to the same place which your ancestors went to. It is a great pity,
for she was a good woman. Roger Williams was an ancestor of mine.
I don’t really remember what your people did with him. But they banished
him to Rhode Island, anyway. And then, I believe, recognizing that this
was really carrying harshness to an unjustifiable extreme, they took pity
on him and burned him. They were a hard lot! All those Salem witches
were ancestors of mine! Your people made it tropical for them. Yes,
they did; by pressure and the gallows they made such a clean deal with
them that there hasn’t been a witch and hardly a halter in our family
from that day to this, and that is one hundred and eighty-nine years.
The first slave brought into New England out of Africa by your
progenitors was an ancestor of mine–for I am of a mixed breed, an
infinitely shaded and exquisite Mongrel. I’m not one of your sham
meerschaums that you can color in a week. No, my complexion is the
patient art of eight generations. Well, in my own time, I had acquired a
lot of my kin–by purchase, and swapping around, and one way and another
–and was getting along very well. Then, with the inborn perversity of
your lineage, you got up a war, and took them all away from me. And so,
again am I bereft, again am I forlorn; no drop of my blood flows in the
veins of any living being who is marketable.
O my friends, hear me and reform! I seek your good, not mine. You have
heard the speeches. Disband these New England societies–nurseries of a
system of steadily augmenting laudation and hosannaing, which; if
persisted in uncurbed, may some day in the remote future beguile you into
prevaricating and bragging. Oh, stop, stop, while you are still
temperate in your appreciation of your ancestors! Hear me, I beseech
you; get up an auction and sell Plymouth Rock! The Pilgrims were a
simple and ignorant race. They never had seen any good rocks before, or
at least any that were not watched, and so they were excusable for
hopping ashore in frantic delight and clapping an iron fence around this
one. But you, gentlemen, are educated; you are enlightened; you know
that in the rich land of your nativity, opulent New England, overflowing
with rocks, this one isn’t worth, at the outside, more than thirty-five
cents. Therefore, sell it, before it is injured by exposure, or at least
throw it open to the patent-medicine advertisements, and let it earn its
taxes:
Yes, hear your true friend-your only true friend–list to his voice.
Disband these societies, hotbeds of vice, of moral decay–perpetuators of
ancestral superstition. Here on this board I see water, I see milk, I
see the wild and deadly lemonade. These are but steps upon the downward
path. Next we shall see tea, then chocolate, then coffee–hotel coffee.
A few more years–all too few, I fear–mark my words, we shall have
cider! Gentlemen, pause ere it be too late. You are on the broad road
which leads to dissipation, physical ruin, moral decay, gory crime and
the gallows! I beseech you, I implore you, in the name of your anxious
friends, in the name of your suffering families, in the name of your
impending widows and orphans, stop ere it be too late. Disband these New
England societies, renounce these soul-blistering saturnalia, cease from
varnishing the rusty reputations of your long-vanished ancestors–the
super-high-moral old iron-clads of Cape Cod, the pious buccaneers of
Plymouth Rock–go home, and try to learn to behave!
However, chaff and nonsense aside, I think I honor and appreciate your
Pilgrim stock as much as you do yourselves, perhaps; and I endorse and
adopt a sentiment uttered by a grandfather of mine once–a man of sturdy
opinions, of sincere make of mind, and not given to flattery. He said:
“People may talk as they like about that Pilgrim stock, but, after all’s
said and done, it would be pretty hard to improve on those people; and,
as for me, I don’t mind coming out flatfooted and saying there ain’t any
way to improve on them–except having them born in, Missouri!”
It’s not your 40th yet, I have plans:
Dining, relaxing, shopping, touring, day trip to Capri, cruising the Amalfi coast, food, drinks, shopping. In the meantime, I thought you might like to remember my 40th…
Dear Mae,
Thanks for the overnight in NYC after a fine day of self-indulgence; a most happy birthday indeed.
When that brain singeing sun shot through my eyelids into my soul, I remembered: the Tylenol is on the hotel room dresser, and I was moved, and I thought; the view from standing makes me nauseous, so I had best lie down and find my belly, and then…the coffee arrives. You are a genius! Only you would have been thoughtful enough to order a large pot the night before and have it arrive at the perfect moment.
And killing me too … hhmmm, yes that is a good question: Do I remember the last comedian of the night? Memories, misty colored…That Mexican fella… oh yeah, Puerto Rican, that’s right…oh he wasn’t the last one? That’s not good…
But all of that came later, so I won’t be sidetracked. First, thank you, thank you, and thank you! I cannot thank you enough for sharing Little India with me, it exceeded all expectations. Oops, I forgot to tell you…
I did have a pre-conceived idea about the sights. Lee shared an itinerary created by Significant Art Historians for a two week luxury-study tour of India. It looked okay to me, they didn’t forget the spa day; it’s an impressive schedule. Here’s the necked-down version:
Shore Temples of Mahabalipura, Archeological site, Dance performance, Transition to global economy discussions, Aryuvedic spa, Maand music, Bazaar, Cattle fair, Fountains, Adapted Islamic motifs, Handloom textiles, Contemporary Art, Qwalls (devotional songs in praise of sufi saints).
Anyway, the point is all expectations were exceeded. I even got a massage! Did you take pictures? This link has the pictures I would have taken had I not left my camera in that cab, or wherever.
http://www.getnj.com/jerseycity/jclittleindia.shtml
Thanks too for such a wonderful lunch, chicken shish-kabob and eggplant and rice and chickpeas and ghee with mango. It’s a wonder I didn’t fall into a food coma. And I am doubly grateful you didn’t end up with an irritated bowel… dietary restrictions aside, how good was that ghee and mango slushy?
And who knew a bazaar is a supermarket? But I think Bollywood Video was my favorite storefront, no, upon consideration that would be the sari store we went into. Damn, I just remembered we forgot to get dessert at the Chowpatty’s. Ah well, next time.
That sari shop called me with shiny, sparkly, silky, crazy textiles .. I am so easily led by the shallowest temptations, gilt and nonsense aside; I am going to have to order a few plainer cotton soft bra-tops; sari is the way to go! Hides a multitude of sins, fits even on “fat” days, and I LOVE those sari tops. Keeps the boobs up and doesn’t bind the belly fat. Yo quiero taco bell – I am ready for you now.
Aaargh, I am like a 5 year old waiting for my…….anything! I can’t wait for my sari to arrive. SariSariSariSariSariSari!!! You’ll get a picture as soon as I get it on! (the replacement camera is on the way from Amazon).
As always, you are far too generous and indulgent with me. That excess of yours is a deeply appreciated virtue as far as I’m concerned and adds to the spectrum of my affections for you.
And Poor Bill, give him my love too (don’t quit the day job brother). Anyway, that beautiful day alone would have been the best birthday ever, so to have it followed by cocktails overlooking the UN Gardens, dinner at Sapa and a comedy club before nightcaps at the hotel…whew! That was just too much for my slack middle-aged ass.
I was still drunk yesterday, which reminds me; Thank you (Mrs. Mario Andretti) for the Dramamine, I couldn’t have made it to the airport, on the flight or to my car without it. I didn’t even have a barf-bag; I would have had to throw-up in my purse.
How sad that I needed to make a plan for barf at my age. And a Presbyterian too, Crikey.
With most, best and warmest affections,
Holly
PS – It is years later and here’s the sari -
Recently I received the above. I don’t know what in the hell it’s attempting to promote, but it moved me:
Mr. Levar Stoney
Executive Director
Democratic Party of Virginia
1710 East Franklin Street
Richmond, VA 23223
September 18, 2008
Dear Mr. Stoney;
I received a large promotional flyer covered with eye-catching design and a bold statement from your organization regarding my congressional district. I thought you might be interested in knowing that the flyer is effective.
I have never voted for a politician running for office, I vote against them. It’s a lot of effort to become an informed voter, but I feel a responsibility to my community.
To make an informed decision, I review the campaign materials carefully. Candidates that send negative advertising are voted against; in the event I receive negative advertisements from all candidates running for the same office, I vote against the one using the most outrageous lies.
In a far too common event, the office seekers are using negative ads and outrageous lies in equal amounts, so whoever uses the most specious logic in their platform breaks the gridlock and I vote against that candidate.
The promotion I received from your organization was clear: while we can’t blame the incumbent; “it’s time for a change”. Oddly, the flyer did not name a candidate one could (possibly) count on to make the necessary changes and solve “health care to energy issues” in my district.
Because of that omission, I will enjoy the novel experience of voting for, rather than against, a candidate.
Thanks for your help.
Mr. Stoney’s response:
Glad we could help.
Best,
Levar
The recipe:
Wash cucumbers, place in ice water overnight.
Sterilize canning jars and lids in boiling water for at least 10 minutes
In a large pot bring water, vinegar and spices to boil
In each jar place cucumbers to fill jar
Fill pickle jars with hot brine
Seal jars
Process sealed jars in boiling water bath. Process quart jars for 15 minutes
Store pickles for a minimum of eight weeks before eating. Refrigerate after opening. Pickles will keep for up to two years if stored in a cool dry place.
The optimist sees opportunity in every danger; the pessimist sees danger in every opportunity.
– Winston Churchill
Confident in my ability to create tangy crisp kosher dills fit for a New York deli, despite never having “pickled” anything myself, nor seen any pickling and being completely unfamiliar with pickling supplies and processes, I embarked on my latest slow food adventure.
Some time ago, I announced my intention to “can”. There is a general theory in the household that announcing intent is often sufficient to bring results.
And so it goes; one day a box of Ball brand jars with coordinating two-piece lids was dropped off, then I was in a 100-year-old hardware store with point-of-sale “pickling spice” packets, a recipe arrives via email, and last week, my local garden share contained three of the cutest cucumbers ever imagined.
Lo! The Gods have spoken, the very earth has produced fruit for my creation, and it is time.
Gathering my mise en place (or things needed to make pickles) I put the jar and coordinating lid pieces into a large pot added water and set it to boil. While that was taking care of it’s self, I brought a pot of water, vinegar and pickling spices to boil. Then let it cool because it was much quicker to boil than the large pot with the jar. So I went to check email to give the jar time to boil and be sterilized.
Eventually a dubious voice asked if I was cooking something… After adding water to re-cover the jar in the pot, I set a timer.
Moving the now sterilized jar pot to the kitchen sink, especially cleaned for this event (the sink that is), I engage my salad tongs.
Now, pulling a jar filled with boiling water out of a large pot also filled with boiling water is not as easy as it sounds, particularly if one is trying to avoid both botulism and burns. The jar is filled with boiling water and is too heavy to conveniently lift with salad tongs, and turning jar upside down in the pot (also filled with boiling water) didn’t release any water from the jar. I eventually triumphed using a sideways kind of hold so enough water drained out so I could lift the jar into… dropping the jar back into the pot, I found a potholder and gently tipped as much hot water as I safely could from the large pot into the sink. Then lifting the jar with the salad tongs, I tipped the rest of the water out of the pot.
Setting the large pot with the “sterilized” jar on an unlit stove eye, I put the potholder down next to the sink and turn my attention to the cucumbers (still in their bowl of ice water for a total “overnight” of 16 hours). The three fit into the jar a mite too handily, filled wasn’t the word. Luckily, though the Gods had spoken, Time, as it were, was a week later and I had two large cucumbers in the most recent garden share. Slicing those for “pickle chips”, their addition filled the jar enough for me.
Bringing the brine to a boil again, I poured it over the cucumbers and retrieved the two-part lid from the large pot using the salad tongs. Uneventfully the flat lid piece dropped onto the top of the jar and the threaded lid piece sealed the whole thing. Now to “process” the pickle jar for fifteen minutes:
Carefully (the jar is now filled with very hot brine and glass is an efficient heat conductor) returning the sealed jar to the large pot, I return to the sink to fill what is now the pickle jar processing pot. Using hot water about ½ way up the side of the pickle jar, I set the processing pot down next to the sink to check the recipe and assess my progress.
Lee drifted into the kitchen and notices I do not actually have “canning” instructions as part of my recipe; and further notices my “sterilized” jar of pickles is sitting in a ½ full large pot of warm water next to the kitchen sink.
Pulling the Fanny Farmer cookbook from its place on the kitchen shelf, she politely asks if I have reviewed the (obviously unreferenced) tome for detailed canning instruction. Much to my edification and appreciation, she commences to read the “canning process”.
Sidebar: Lee can cook. Also garden and “can”. In fact, my slow food journey is only possible because of her significant efforts. If she didn’t till the earth, plant the garden, compost leftovers into nutrient rich soil, weed, water (from the rain barrels she installed), harvest, clean, cook and serve the food, I would only have my intention to make a slow food journey, and maybe some pickling spice.
By now, I have returned the ½ filled pot of water containing the pickle jar to the stove and set the eye on High to get it “processing”,
While Lee is making some critical point, I notice an enormous flood of chalky grey smoke coming from the stovetop under the processing pot. Flying, I turn off the heating element, throw open the back door (I have set many dishes aflame and know to open the back door ASAP), return to the stove with hot pads, lift the burning pot from the stove, where something thick is stuck and burning a greasy acrid smoke.
Putting the pot down, I set the hot pads on the counter next to the stove, grab the nearest utensil (a large plastic serving spoon) and quickly, carefully, quickly march the offending item to a table outside on the back deck.
I can’t help but notice it was formerly the hot pad I had set down next to the sink when working to extricate the “sterilized” jar from the large pot. Realizing I must have set the processing pot on top of the hot pad on my way to ½ filling it with water, I unknowingly moved the hot pad stuck to the bottom of the processing pot to the stove. Upon my return to the kitchen, the still smoking logo: Certified Humane Raised & Handled is etched into the stovetop.
Luckily, the rest of the household knows the fire drill (this is not my first day) so by the time I return to contemplate the damage, all the windows are open, a fan is placed in the window closest to the stove to draw smoke outside, and the stovetop fan is engaged.
Undaunted, I returned to finish “pickling”. Lee finished reading the canning process to me, and thank goodness she did, because apparently one does not set a glass jar on direct heat, also, the water has to cover the lid one inch, and something about a lid button not popping. Anyway, I fashioned a clever platform for the pickle jar using a disposable cake tin, I also used Lee’s recommendation of the tall pasta pot (with lid) for “processing” (one inch, ¼ inch, tomato, tomahto) found a meat thermometer that went to two hundred degrees and waited for that pot to reach 212 degrees. The pot had been boiling for thirty minutes and finally reached one hundred ninety degrees on the meat thermometer, so I called it “processed”.
A summer garden share from a local farmer, pickling spice packet, water, vinegar, 3 pots, a serving spoon, a potholder, a stove, electricity for: stovetop, hot water, various fans, and re-air-conditioning the house, plus four volunteer-hours price: $1,572.80 - My jar of dill pickles: priceless
honeybees and hummingbirds, thanks leelee!
Seek within the qualities that can surmount
the obstacles inherent in the chosen path.
A: a product of human endeavor.
Seriously, look it up.
Or not, I don’t care.
I’ve been reading what appears to be a textbook that magically appeared on a shelf in my bedroom “the origin and evolution of humans and humanness”. Nobody admits to bringing it into the house. It’s new to me, literally; a sticker on the back cover reads “New Book $36”. A relative statement as the symposium that generated this textbook was held in 1992.
Tangent; I often get online driving directions that end in make a u-turn, and sure enough, I pass the road I need on the left and u-turn. Yet when I revisit the site the u-turn directions do not recur and instead the left turn is indicated.
I sometimes wonder if I’m messing with myself from some future space/time/electro/magnetic unified field application or, if I’m insane. Hard to know.
Anyhoo, one of the topics presented in this mysterious textbook is image making in the Upper Paleolithic by Margaret W. Conkey. She is probably brilliant; hard to know. After a longish introduction about why she isn’t calling cave art “cave art”, her text really starts to bore. Then I get to her first image, and the next and next and she is redeemed.
By the time I get to a negative hand silhouette I am overcome. The clown that left it reaches out from dusty antiquity to touch me like a brother and the weight of humanity crushes me as I contemplate human endeavor.
Positive and negative hand silhouettes of Gravettian period
Apparently, handprints occur all over the world in many different areas and cultures. Check out http://www.uf.uni-erlangen.de/chauvet/chauvet.html if you would like to learn something about the symbols left by our Upper Paleolithic kin.
Surrounded by top-shelf automotive design and first class enthusiasts I bask in the reflected brilliance.
“If you choose a job you like, you will never have to work a day in your life” Confucius
Implementing this wisdom has been challenging, Ferrari has many suitors who wish to nourish and be reciprocally nourished in a never ending cycle of love. Undaunted, I continue my pursuit.
winter forage, dry
sizzles in the late day breeze
i too wait for spring
