Soft
warm
fluffy
fresh-baked cinnamon rolls for a quarter
Must get in line early
brunch is only twenty minutes long
History
almost over
and then that
soft
warm
fluffy
fresh-baked cinnamon roll
Southern California winter morning
cool sunshine
the shaded quad
tall pine trees sit silent
a brief respite for chat
and a fresh-baked cinnamon roll for a quarter
Sticky fingers
sticky notebook
not enough napkins to do the job
Southern California winter morning
cool and bright sunshine in the shaded quad
Should have worn just a sweater
no need for gloves
though some thought so
A half pint of chilled milk
in a tiny carton nicely washes down
the fresh-baked cinnamon roll
Five minutes to go
until that blasted bell
and Algebra
The bench is cold
and wet
People walking by
books and things slung under
their teenage arms
Must get to class
Cool air
cool sunshine
now warming my coat
and my insides
The bells rings
time to go
must get to class
the old and cold classroom
and algebra
It’s cold again
inside
Tomorrow
brunch in the shaded quad
with the silent pine trees
and the cool sunshine
and the people walking by
and the chat
and the soft
warm
fluffy
fresh-baked cinnamon roll
for a quarter
Must get in line earlier next time
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Reunion anxiety
With just over a week to go until my high school reunion (40 years), I have begun to feel a bit anxious. Not as in “Gee, I can’t wait to go”. But as in “Gee, what’s up with this paranoid anxiety? What if no one remembers me? What if they *still* think I’m a dork? What if it’s not as fun as I anticipate?”
For weeks leading up to my 20th reunion fifteen years ago, I had the same feelings. I even had weird dreams about the reunion itself. One dream in particular was quite bizarre. During a fire at the hotel in which we were staying, I actually “saved” a couple of classmates by carrying them down the stairs and out of the hotel. The bizarre part was, I found myself standing in the middle of the crowd...in my underwear! The other weirdness was that no one knew who I was...despite the heroics. Don't worry, I only had this dream once!
With that in mind, I have pledged to myself that this will be a fun trip, despite the paranoia. After all, I am going to this wing ding with my best friend of 40+ years. And I will be meeting up with another best friend of equal tenure. Safety in numbers? We’ve even offered to host an afternoon Meet & Greet before the reunion itself. Gee, what if no one shows up for that?
My George McFly Feelings of Future Failures are not rampant. In fact, they’re pretty much in check compared with the last two reunions. I just don’t give a shit as much any longer! So what? Who cares? What does it matter? No big deal. It’s just a reunion; a few hours hanging around some regular folk with whom I share a common denominator: high school. All of them there for the same reason.
Sure I have some anxiety, a little paranoia. But at least I’m going! Out of a class of 940, about 50 people are going, somewhat of a modest turnout to say the least. I can only imagine, of the other 890 who aren’t going, of the ones who live near and are able to attend and DON’T go...what are their feelings about it? I can only assume their thoughts, misgivings, anxiety, paranoia, and simple apathy must be worse than mine. They truly don’t give a shit. Not going is their choice to make.
Walking into a room full of people you haven’t seen for over forty years will be an adventure in the Land of Nostalgia. And nostalgia seems to be a hobby of mine. I love it. Reliving memories, good and bad, are a real hoot sometimes...especially when you write about it.
And considering I have also appointed myself as the event photographer, I should come back with a wealth of images to savor and new memories to write about.
And now...I am anxious to go to my reunion again. Anxious as in “Gee, I can’t wait to go!”
For weeks leading up to my 20th reunion fifteen years ago, I had the same feelings. I even had weird dreams about the reunion itself. One dream in particular was quite bizarre. During a fire at the hotel in which we were staying, I actually “saved” a couple of classmates by carrying them down the stairs and out of the hotel. The bizarre part was, I found myself standing in the middle of the crowd...in my underwear! The other weirdness was that no one knew who I was...despite the heroics. Don't worry, I only had this dream once!
With that in mind, I have pledged to myself that this will be a fun trip, despite the paranoia. After all, I am going to this wing ding with my best friend of 40+ years. And I will be meeting up with another best friend of equal tenure. Safety in numbers? We’ve even offered to host an afternoon Meet & Greet before the reunion itself. Gee, what if no one shows up for that?
My George McFly Feelings of Future Failures are not rampant. In fact, they’re pretty much in check compared with the last two reunions. I just don’t give a shit as much any longer! So what? Who cares? What does it matter? No big deal. It’s just a reunion; a few hours hanging around some regular folk with whom I share a common denominator: high school. All of them there for the same reason.
Sure I have some anxiety, a little paranoia. But at least I’m going! Out of a class of 940, about 50 people are going, somewhat of a modest turnout to say the least. I can only imagine, of the other 890 who aren’t going, of the ones who live near and are able to attend and DON’T go...what are their feelings about it? I can only assume their thoughts, misgivings, anxiety, paranoia, and simple apathy must be worse than mine. They truly don’t give a shit. Not going is their choice to make.
Walking into a room full of people you haven’t seen for over forty years will be an adventure in the Land of Nostalgia. And nostalgia seems to be a hobby of mine. I love it. Reliving memories, good and bad, are a real hoot sometimes...especially when you write about it.
And considering I have also appointed myself as the event photographer, I should come back with a wealth of images to savor and new memories to write about.
And now...I am anxious to go to my reunion again. Anxious as in “Gee, I can’t wait to go!”
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Cheryl Miller's Ninth Birthday Party
I was excited everyday for the whole week leading up to the birthday party. Cheryl Miller had invited me to her ninth birthday party! She handed me an invitation one day outside of Mrs. Brown’s 5th grade class at Hamlin Elementary School. It was one of those tiny folded cards in a tiny envelope. The card had printed colored balloons on the outside and a birthday cake with candles on it. On the inside there were more balloons and spaces to fill in the birthday person’s name and address, the date, and the time. On the outside of the envelop someone had written my name, Jim.
“Jim, can you come to my birthday party?”, Cheryl asked as she handed the invitation to me.
“I think so. I’ll have to ask my mom.”
I just stood there looking at the invitation in my hand. Cheryl Miller just stood there for a moment also, her chubby freckled face framed by curly red hair beamed a cheshire-like smile at me. In her chubby, freckled hand, she held a stack of other birthday invitations for other people.
“Is Susan Smith going?, I asked with great anticipation.
Cheryl’s beaming smile disappeared. She spun around on her pink Keds and ran off across the school yard. I didn’t know it then, but I had just stuck my foot in my mouth for the very first time.
I ran all the way home from school that day. Birthday invitation in hand. I was very happy.
My mom bought me a new pair of slacks, a short-sleeved white dress shirt, and a nifty blue clip-on bow tie from J.C. Penney’s. My near-new school shoes would have to do for this occasion. She helped me get dressed the day of the party, combing my hair after smearing in a dab of or two of Brylcream.
Straightening my clip-on tie and pulling up the waist of my new pants and re-tucking my new shirt, she sent me on my way, “Have fun. Don’t forget her present!” I headed off on foot to Cheryl Miller’s ninth birthday party.
It wasn’t a long walk to Cheryl Miller’s house, maybe a mile or so. In fact, it was right across the street from our school. It seemed like 10 miles when you’re eight years old.
On the way, I passed by the huge empty field that would eventually become a mall with a Sears store and a new J.C. Penney’s, a toy store, dress shops, and a pet shop with puppies and baby rabbits in the front window. That pet shop even sold snakes, baby alligators, and monkeys. I loved going to that mall. But that wouldn’t happen for a couple of years. I walked on toward the big birthday party, trying not to get dirt on my newly-polished shoes. Victory Boulevard was still just a two lane road with dirt and gravel shoulders. I stepped gingerly around the dead cat I had seen everyday on the way to school for a week. It had gotten smelly! The late afternoon sun was making me sweat. I walked on.
As I entered Cheryl Miller’s neighborhood, my anticipation turned to anxiety. What if no one likes me? What if I don’t know anyone besides Cheryl? What if she thinks the present I got her is stupid?
I rechecked the address on the little invitation...1983 Hamlin Street. There it was, the number 1983 fastened to the front of the house in wrought iron letters. I made sure my shirt was still tucked in, my clip-on tie was still clipped on, and my zipper was zipped. My dad wasn’t there to remind me of that last little detail, but it had become a habit.
Walking up the stone sidewalk, I approached the front door. There were three steps up the front porch. The door was open, but there was a screen door. I could barely see inside the house. There was a woman in the dimly lit living room pushing a vacuum back and forth. She was wearing a flower print dress and a white apron. I remember how she reminded me of June Cleaver. I couldn’t see anyone else inside the house, just the woman vacuuming the carpet.
I knocked three times on the screen door. She didn’t notice. I knocked again, this time a little harder. Still nothing. I knocked a third time, rattling the screen door enough that the woman vacuuming the carpet finally looked up and saw me standing at the front door. She tapped the foot switch on the vacuum and approached the front door.
“Hello, young man,” she said with a polite smile, placing her hands on her hips, ”What can I do for you?”
I just stood there for what seemed like an eternity, my mouth agape, staring up at the woman behind the screen door. A wave of fear rushed through my head and down my body to my feet. Had I gone to the wrong address? I quickly pulled out the little invitation and checked the address.
“Is this 1983 Hamlin Street?”, I managed to squeak out of my trembling lips.
“Why yes it is.”
“Is this Cheryl Miller’s house?”
“Yes it is.”
That wave of fear rushing through my body had turned to stark raving fear and nausea. I felt like throwing up.
In one last desperate attempt to make some sense of the situation I asked her, “I’m here for the birthday party!” It would be the last thing I said. My mouth was so dry I wouldn’t have been able to speak again.
“Well, young man...(she paused for a moment, her face a bit sullen)...”that was yesterday.”
I don’t remember saying anything else to her or she to me. A second later, I found myself bolting down the street, away from the house. All I wanted to do was get back home. And that’s what I did. I ran all the way home, trying to catch my breath as I ran. It was hard to breathe. I was hyperventilating, trying not to cry.
When I got home, I ran to the bathroom and vomited into the sink. My mom was outside the bathroom door. “How was the party? It didn’t last very long. Are you all right?”
Cheryl Miller’s ninth birthday party was on Saturday, not Sunday. I suppose it was my fault. Since then, I always check, then double check times and dates for appointments and other events I have to attend. I’m never late. In fact, I’m always early.
At school on Monday, nobody said anything to me about not going to the party on Saturday. I did make eye contact with Cheryl Miller one time that day. I’ll never forget that smirky, little smile on her chubby, freckled face. She turned toward her friends and they all giggled in my direction.
Maybe it wasn’t my fault.
“Jim, can you come to my birthday party?”, Cheryl asked as she handed the invitation to me.
“I think so. I’ll have to ask my mom.”
I just stood there looking at the invitation in my hand. Cheryl Miller just stood there for a moment also, her chubby freckled face framed by curly red hair beamed a cheshire-like smile at me. In her chubby, freckled hand, she held a stack of other birthday invitations for other people.
“Is Susan Smith going?, I asked with great anticipation.
Cheryl’s beaming smile disappeared. She spun around on her pink Keds and ran off across the school yard. I didn’t know it then, but I had just stuck my foot in my mouth for the very first time.
I ran all the way home from school that day. Birthday invitation in hand. I was very happy.
My mom bought me a new pair of slacks, a short-sleeved white dress shirt, and a nifty blue clip-on bow tie from J.C. Penney’s. My near-new school shoes would have to do for this occasion. She helped me get dressed the day of the party, combing my hair after smearing in a dab of or two of Brylcream.
Straightening my clip-on tie and pulling up the waist of my new pants and re-tucking my new shirt, she sent me on my way, “Have fun. Don’t forget her present!” I headed off on foot to Cheryl Miller’s ninth birthday party.
It wasn’t a long walk to Cheryl Miller’s house, maybe a mile or so. In fact, it was right across the street from our school. It seemed like 10 miles when you’re eight years old.
On the way, I passed by the huge empty field that would eventually become a mall with a Sears store and a new J.C. Penney’s, a toy store, dress shops, and a pet shop with puppies and baby rabbits in the front window. That pet shop even sold snakes, baby alligators, and monkeys. I loved going to that mall. But that wouldn’t happen for a couple of years. I walked on toward the big birthday party, trying not to get dirt on my newly-polished shoes. Victory Boulevard was still just a two lane road with dirt and gravel shoulders. I stepped gingerly around the dead cat I had seen everyday on the way to school for a week. It had gotten smelly! The late afternoon sun was making me sweat. I walked on.
As I entered Cheryl Miller’s neighborhood, my anticipation turned to anxiety. What if no one likes me? What if I don’t know anyone besides Cheryl? What if she thinks the present I got her is stupid?
I rechecked the address on the little invitation...1983 Hamlin Street. There it was, the number 1983 fastened to the front of the house in wrought iron letters. I made sure my shirt was still tucked in, my clip-on tie was still clipped on, and my zipper was zipped. My dad wasn’t there to remind me of that last little detail, but it had become a habit.
Walking up the stone sidewalk, I approached the front door. There were three steps up the front porch. The door was open, but there was a screen door. I could barely see inside the house. There was a woman in the dimly lit living room pushing a vacuum back and forth. She was wearing a flower print dress and a white apron. I remember how she reminded me of June Cleaver. I couldn’t see anyone else inside the house, just the woman vacuuming the carpet.
I knocked three times on the screen door. She didn’t notice. I knocked again, this time a little harder. Still nothing. I knocked a third time, rattling the screen door enough that the woman vacuuming the carpet finally looked up and saw me standing at the front door. She tapped the foot switch on the vacuum and approached the front door.
“Hello, young man,” she said with a polite smile, placing her hands on her hips, ”What can I do for you?”
I just stood there for what seemed like an eternity, my mouth agape, staring up at the woman behind the screen door. A wave of fear rushed through my head and down my body to my feet. Had I gone to the wrong address? I quickly pulled out the little invitation and checked the address.
“Is this 1983 Hamlin Street?”, I managed to squeak out of my trembling lips.
“Why yes it is.”
“Is this Cheryl Miller’s house?”
“Yes it is.”
That wave of fear rushing through my body had turned to stark raving fear and nausea. I felt like throwing up.
In one last desperate attempt to make some sense of the situation I asked her, “I’m here for the birthday party!” It would be the last thing I said. My mouth was so dry I wouldn’t have been able to speak again.
“Well, young man...(she paused for a moment, her face a bit sullen)...”that was yesterday.”
I don’t remember saying anything else to her or she to me. A second later, I found myself bolting down the street, away from the house. All I wanted to do was get back home. And that’s what I did. I ran all the way home, trying to catch my breath as I ran. It was hard to breathe. I was hyperventilating, trying not to cry.
When I got home, I ran to the bathroom and vomited into the sink. My mom was outside the bathroom door. “How was the party? It didn’t last very long. Are you all right?”
Cheryl Miller’s ninth birthday party was on Saturday, not Sunday. I suppose it was my fault. Since then, I always check, then double check times and dates for appointments and other events I have to attend. I’m never late. In fact, I’m always early.
At school on Monday, nobody said anything to me about not going to the party on Saturday. I did make eye contact with Cheryl Miller one time that day. I’ll never forget that smirky, little smile on her chubby, freckled face. She turned toward her friends and they all giggled in my direction.
Maybe it wasn’t my fault.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Who needs a DeLorean with a flux capacitor?
I bought a new book today. That in itself is not a revelation. The fact that I am reading a book is not, in itself, a revelation. In fact, the actual book is not now and never was a revelation. Whew...now that I got that out of the way! But it is a step forward for me. More accurately, a step back in time for me.
The book is titled, Run with the Hunted, by Charles Bukowski. It's kind of a collection of the best of Bukowski's autobiographical stories, novels, and poems presented somewhat chronologically. At any rate, that is what I am reading now...having found it for $7.99 in the bargain rack outside of our local Borders stores, I couldn't resist since Borders does not have Ham on Rye in stock and I will have to find that used on Amazon.com. It's new, but it appears to have been thumbed through many times and has a lot of dust on it from sitting outside in the bargain rack. Moving on...
So why is it a step back in time for me? Well, Bukowski was a prototypical starving artist/Beat Generation/alcoholic/writer/mailman in the 50's and 60's. His hundreds of poems, then thirty plus books weren't published *for money* until the 70's. The 60's saw his work published in underground newspapers and other less-than-mainstream venues. To this day, you may not find too many people our age (50+) who even know the name Charles Bukowski. Or, maybe they just don't want to admit it. Me personally? I didn't know who he was until, 1) There's a line from the movie Sideways that mentions his name and a quote from, him, and, 2) I watched a documentary on him recently at 3:30 in the morning when I couldn't sleep. End of that story...for now.
My high school reunion is one week from this Saturday. Not only am I hooking up with my two best friends from that era, I may come face-to-face with folks who have, up to this point, only been images in a 40 year old high school year book.
Unfortunately, in a graduating class of over 940 kids, we only have about 50 or so coming. So what? That's O.K. I'm still looking forward to the whole thing. We will participate in a tour of the school earlier in the day, presided over by the school historian. And, we (my best friend and I) will host a "Meet and Greet" thing in the afternoon at our motel, across the street from the reunion site. Sounds like a blast from the past to me!
Details and photos forthcoming. Unless, of course, I had too much fun and ended up in the Calabasas Sheriff's jail.
The book is titled, Run with the Hunted, by Charles Bukowski. It's kind of a collection of the best of Bukowski's autobiographical stories, novels, and poems presented somewhat chronologically. At any rate, that is what I am reading now...having found it for $7.99 in the bargain rack outside of our local Borders stores, I couldn't resist since Borders does not have Ham on Rye in stock and I will have to find that used on Amazon.com. It's new, but it appears to have been thumbed through many times and has a lot of dust on it from sitting outside in the bargain rack. Moving on...
So why is it a step back in time for me? Well, Bukowski was a prototypical starving artist/Beat Generation/alcoholic/writer/mailman in the 50's and 60's. His hundreds of poems, then thirty plus books weren't published *for money* until the 70's. The 60's saw his work published in underground newspapers and other less-than-mainstream venues. To this day, you may not find too many people our age (50+) who even know the name Charles Bukowski. Or, maybe they just don't want to admit it. Me personally? I didn't know who he was until, 1) There's a line from the movie Sideways that mentions his name and a quote from, him, and, 2) I watched a documentary on him recently at 3:30 in the morning when I couldn't sleep. End of that story...for now.
My high school reunion is one week from this Saturday. Not only am I hooking up with my two best friends from that era, I may come face-to-face with folks who have, up to this point, only been images in a 40 year old high school year book.
Unfortunately, in a graduating class of over 940 kids, we only have about 50 or so coming. So what? That's O.K. I'm still looking forward to the whole thing. We will participate in a tour of the school earlier in the day, presided over by the school historian. And, we (my best friend and I) will host a "Meet and Greet" thing in the afternoon at our motel, across the street from the reunion site. Sounds like a blast from the past to me!
Details and photos forthcoming. Unless, of course, I had too much fun and ended up in the Calabasas Sheriff's jail.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Stick a fork in me - I'm done!
You know, it doesn't see like that long ago I had this strong desire to work in the food service industry. I wanted to work in, or own, a restaurant. As children, most of us talked our parents into letting us run a lemonade stand at one time or the other. Maybe it was that ubiquitous lemonade stand in The Little Rascals that motivated us. Maybe it was that early yearning to be an entrepreneur, make a lot of money at our own business. Maybe it was that innate desire to serve people, provide them an excellent product, and make them happy. In its most basic form, isn't that what the business is all about?
So I asked myself today: At what point did this *business* all turn sour for me? Check that...not just sour...but rancid! And my answer to myself was quick and clear: Nothing has turned anything...except boring. I have simply lost interest in trying to make my way in the service industry. And the reason is simple: It hasn't changed one bit over the 40 years since I first worked in a restaurant. The people are the same, the customers are the same, the owners and managers are the same. Even the food, for the most part, has remained the same. The same rules apply now as they did in 1966 when I worked for McDonald's...I was 16. Serve people, provide them an excellent product, and make them happy. Me, myself, and I are the ones who have changed. Stick a fork in me...I'm done!
Back in '66, I doled out .15 cent burgers, .12 cent French fries, and dime Cokes while working for a guy named Ken (the manager at McDonald's). Customers complained when there wasn't enough ketchup on their burgers, too much ice in the Cokes, or it was taking too long to get their order. On more than one occasion, an irate customer would come back to my window with an empty hamburger bun, "There's no patty. What the hell?" The running joke response at McD's was this never used though often fantasized answer, "Did you look under the pickle?"
I thought that manager Ken, my boss, was a jerk. His only fault being that he was a very dedicated employee. I was a 16 year old punk kid who didn't like being told what to do. In my recent foray (back) into the restaurant business, I didn't think my boss was a jerk, I thought he was simply clueless...for a plethora of different reasons than Ken's "shortcomings". And, yes, my opinion of most of my bosses over the past 40 years has been similar. And, no, I don't think I know everything! I may not always be right, but I'm hardly ever wrong! Therein lies the biggest reason for my malevolent feelings for job-related authority: I detest the ones who think they are right 100% of the time. That's an accurate explanation for "clueless".
The overwhelming positive side to me spending so many years in an industry for which I've come to have such acrimony toward, is that I have learned much about life, people, and myself.
I really do love the service industry, but only in it's purest, most basic form. All the downside, neg-head trappings that go with it don't hold any attraction for me whatsoever any longer. The behind-the-scenes shenanigans, politics, and superfluous stress that come with it are always going to be a part of the package. The restaurant industry in particular (as with most of anything else considered the service sector) has lost touch with the reality of what people are truly looking for. And that is "service".
Home Depot customers want help finding stuff from a friendly "associate". Costco customers would like to not wait in a checkout line so long. Motel customers would love a bath towel bigger than a hand towel. Outback customers would like their steak cooked correctly without a lecture from the server about the difference between Rare and Medium Rare. Best Buy customers would appreciate a truly buyer-friendly warranty on the expensive stuff they purchase there. Safeway customers would enjoy a friendly check out clerk. A.T.T. customers would truly love to understand their bill without having to make 13 different selections from an automated "customer service" line. I would have liked a friendly phone call last year when the local utility company came out and turned off our electricity one day after the bill was due.
A quick side note for future Hospitality majors or culinary school students. If you are not already well aware of what this business is truly about at the store level, ie, "in the trenches"...change your major to Liberal Arts. Be a teacher. You'll make as much money as the restaurant business, there's actually a benefit plan, and it will be much harder to get canned (unless you're already a pedophile).
If I remember correctly, I even had a problem with a couple of my first lemonade stands. One didn't make any sales. Another one...I was robbed at fist-point by a neighborhood bully. Shoulda' known better even back then!
So I asked myself today: At what point did this *business* all turn sour for me? Check that...not just sour...but rancid! And my answer to myself was quick and clear: Nothing has turned anything...except boring. I have simply lost interest in trying to make my way in the service industry. And the reason is simple: It hasn't changed one bit over the 40 years since I first worked in a restaurant. The people are the same, the customers are the same, the owners and managers are the same. Even the food, for the most part, has remained the same. The same rules apply now as they did in 1966 when I worked for McDonald's...I was 16. Serve people, provide them an excellent product, and make them happy. Me, myself, and I are the ones who have changed. Stick a fork in me...I'm done!
Back in '66, I doled out .15 cent burgers, .12 cent French fries, and dime Cokes while working for a guy named Ken (the manager at McDonald's). Customers complained when there wasn't enough ketchup on their burgers, too much ice in the Cokes, or it was taking too long to get their order. On more than one occasion, an irate customer would come back to my window with an empty hamburger bun, "There's no patty. What the hell?" The running joke response at McD's was this never used though often fantasized answer, "Did you look under the pickle?"
I thought that manager Ken, my boss, was a jerk. His only fault being that he was a very dedicated employee. I was a 16 year old punk kid who didn't like being told what to do. In my recent foray (back) into the restaurant business, I didn't think my boss was a jerk, I thought he was simply clueless...for a plethora of different reasons than Ken's "shortcomings". And, yes, my opinion of most of my bosses over the past 40 years has been similar. And, no, I don't think I know everything! I may not always be right, but I'm hardly ever wrong! Therein lies the biggest reason for my malevolent feelings for job-related authority: I detest the ones who think they are right 100% of the time. That's an accurate explanation for "clueless".
The overwhelming positive side to me spending so many years in an industry for which I've come to have such acrimony toward, is that I have learned much about life, people, and myself.
I really do love the service industry, but only in it's purest, most basic form. All the downside, neg-head trappings that go with it don't hold any attraction for me whatsoever any longer. The behind-the-scenes shenanigans, politics, and superfluous stress that come with it are always going to be a part of the package. The restaurant industry in particular (as with most of anything else considered the service sector) has lost touch with the reality of what people are truly looking for. And that is "service".
Home Depot customers want help finding stuff from a friendly "associate". Costco customers would like to not wait in a checkout line so long. Motel customers would love a bath towel bigger than a hand towel. Outback customers would like their steak cooked correctly without a lecture from the server about the difference between Rare and Medium Rare. Best Buy customers would appreciate a truly buyer-friendly warranty on the expensive stuff they purchase there. Safeway customers would enjoy a friendly check out clerk. A.T.T. customers would truly love to understand their bill without having to make 13 different selections from an automated "customer service" line. I would have liked a friendly phone call last year when the local utility company came out and turned off our electricity one day after the bill was due.
A quick side note for future Hospitality majors or culinary school students. If you are not already well aware of what this business is truly about at the store level, ie, "in the trenches"...change your major to Liberal Arts. Be a teacher. You'll make as much money as the restaurant business, there's actually a benefit plan, and it will be much harder to get canned (unless you're already a pedophile).
If I remember correctly, I even had a problem with a couple of my first lemonade stands. One didn't make any sales. Another one...I was robbed at fist-point by a neighborhood bully. Shoulda' known better even back then!
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The secrets to a longer life...?
Rice, miso soup, and seaweed...elixirs from The Fountain of Youth?
Does a diet consisting of steamed rice, miso soup, and seaweed offer the possibility of an extended lifespan? Does abstaining from alcohol help one live longer? Will Tomoji Tanabe live to be 113 because of these lifestyle guidelines? He says he wants to live forever. And at 112, Tanabe has lived longer than any other human on record. Great diet...or great luck in the gene pool lottery of life?
Tomoji Tanabe lives in Japan and recently celebrated his 112th birthday.
Once I asked my cardiologist this question: If I ate bean sprouts and tofu exclusively, can I expect to live longer? By the way, at this particular point in time, I was speaking to my doc from a hospital bed in the cardiac care unit of French Medical Hospital in San Luis Obispo, California. It was the day after I had my quintuple cardiac bipass “procedure”...almost eleven years ago. Here was his answer to my question: Well...maybe...maybe not. At best, your condition is a 50/50 result of genetics and lifestyle. More likely, 80% genetics, 20% lifestyle in your case (my father and his father had severe heart disease).
Then, I asked him this question: At what point in my life did those arterial blockages you just bipassed begin to accumulate? His answer: Quite possibly on the day you were born...15 or 16 at the latest. No one really knows...yet.
I am a firm believer that arterial blockages (the actual cause of death in patients with heart disease) are caused by a combination of diet, lifestyle, genetics, ie, fatty foods, stress, and a predisposed family history of heart disease. That’s a no-brainer. But one doesn’t need to have all three to end up on the operating table or in a fancy box six feet under. The medical community is finding out more and more, that genetics plays the primary role in this condition. Next comes lifestyle, then diet.
So what’s the correct solution? If someone has bad genes, a shitty diet, and a stressful, inactive lifestyle...can we assume, “You’re screwed asshole!”? Not entirely I say.
Assuming there is absolutely nothing anyone can do about the gene thing, how about this theory? Eating great tasting, fatty foods like chocolate, sausage gravy, rib eye steaks, buttered popcorn, and Coldstone ice cream releases those immensly powerful pleasure endorfins that make you feel so good. Some scientists feel that this endorfin release is very beneficial to one's well being, even negating the effects of the bad food. I know...this is a stretch. Bear with me. Having sex releases endorfins. But in some people, the stress of sex can have a negative affect...but, the physical exercise one gets from a good romp in the hay is a good thing, right? One bad point, two good points for sex. I say, “Fuck away!” It may help you live longer.
With all of this in mind, here are a few suggestions. If you have a family history of heart disease, go on the Tomoji Tanabe diet immediately. And, train your children from day one that eating this diet or, better yet, the so-called Gorilla Diet and Lifestyle (all greens, eat your own poop, have no natural enemies other than man), is the “bomb”. Do not let your kids watch television or go to public school where they will be exposed to bad habits of every kind. Teach them that eating fast food is the work of the devil and they will go to hell immediately if they eat one Chicken McNugget. Encourage them to pursue a career that makes them happy, even if it is working at a car wash or for a non-profit organization...good self esteem is essential to an extended lifespan. And finally, allow them to live at home all of their adult life wearing diapers...potty training is extremely stressful, not to mention that anal retentive thing later in life.
Your children may be considered weirdo, wimp-ass, diaper-smelling geeks and have no friends outside of their mother...but they stand a much better chance of living past 100! But at least they can care for you when you are in need of potty training again.
Does a diet consisting of steamed rice, miso soup, and seaweed offer the possibility of an extended lifespan? Does abstaining from alcohol help one live longer? Will Tomoji Tanabe live to be 113 because of these lifestyle guidelines? He says he wants to live forever. And at 112, Tanabe has lived longer than any other human on record. Great diet...or great luck in the gene pool lottery of life?
Tomoji Tanabe lives in Japan and recently celebrated his 112th birthday.
Once I asked my cardiologist this question: If I ate bean sprouts and tofu exclusively, can I expect to live longer? By the way, at this particular point in time, I was speaking to my doc from a hospital bed in the cardiac care unit of French Medical Hospital in San Luis Obispo, California. It was the day after I had my quintuple cardiac bipass “procedure”...almost eleven years ago. Here was his answer to my question: Well...maybe...maybe not. At best, your condition is a 50/50 result of genetics and lifestyle. More likely, 80% genetics, 20% lifestyle in your case (my father and his father had severe heart disease).
Then, I asked him this question: At what point in my life did those arterial blockages you just bipassed begin to accumulate? His answer: Quite possibly on the day you were born...15 or 16 at the latest. No one really knows...yet.
I am a firm believer that arterial blockages (the actual cause of death in patients with heart disease) are caused by a combination of diet, lifestyle, genetics, ie, fatty foods, stress, and a predisposed family history of heart disease. That’s a no-brainer. But one doesn’t need to have all three to end up on the operating table or in a fancy box six feet under. The medical community is finding out more and more, that genetics plays the primary role in this condition. Next comes lifestyle, then diet.
So what’s the correct solution? If someone has bad genes, a shitty diet, and a stressful, inactive lifestyle...can we assume, “You’re screwed asshole!”? Not entirely I say.
Assuming there is absolutely nothing anyone can do about the gene thing, how about this theory? Eating great tasting, fatty foods like chocolate, sausage gravy, rib eye steaks, buttered popcorn, and Coldstone ice cream releases those immensly powerful pleasure endorfins that make you feel so good. Some scientists feel that this endorfin release is very beneficial to one's well being, even negating the effects of the bad food. I know...this is a stretch. Bear with me. Having sex releases endorfins. But in some people, the stress of sex can have a negative affect...but, the physical exercise one gets from a good romp in the hay is a good thing, right? One bad point, two good points for sex. I say, “Fuck away!” It may help you live longer.
With all of this in mind, here are a few suggestions. If you have a family history of heart disease, go on the Tomoji Tanabe diet immediately. And, train your children from day one that eating this diet or, better yet, the so-called Gorilla Diet and Lifestyle (all greens, eat your own poop, have no natural enemies other than man), is the “bomb”. Do not let your kids watch television or go to public school where they will be exposed to bad habits of every kind. Teach them that eating fast food is the work of the devil and they will go to hell immediately if they eat one Chicken McNugget. Encourage them to pursue a career that makes them happy, even if it is working at a car wash or for a non-profit organization...good self esteem is essential to an extended lifespan. And finally, allow them to live at home all of their adult life wearing diapers...potty training is extremely stressful, not to mention that anal retentive thing later in life.
Your children may be considered weirdo, wimp-ass, diaper-smelling geeks and have no friends outside of their mother...but they stand a much better chance of living past 100! But at least they can care for you when you are in need of potty training again.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
A Day At The Pool, 1955.
The five year old boy was excited about the day. He woke up early with anticipation, gleeful thoughts of what was to come later on. This afternoon, his mother was to take him swimming at the local public pool.
It was a warm, Fall day in Southern California. The Summer had been abnormally hot. The little boy was happy that Summer was finally over and he had gone back to school once again. He was in the first grade, and he enjoyed school. He relished the newly purchased school clothes, the new metal lunch box with Hopalong Cassidy riding his big white horse Topper emblazened on it and the thermos inside. He enjoyed seeing his old kindergarten friends, and meeting some new first grade friends. But today, Saturday, the new lunch box and school clothes would be put aside for a while, it was time to go swimming! Just one problem he thought, "I don't know how to swim yet".
At the age of five, the little boy experienced his first official "worry" in life. It would be the very first time that he felt this thing called anxiety about something in the future, about some thing or event that hadn't yet happened. It was a strange, foreign feeling for a little kid to have. After all, he had no need to worry about anything in his short life to that point. Mom and Dad took care of everything. They watched over him, feeding him and tucking him in at night. They held his hand when crossing the street. They comforted him when he was sad. They made him feel secure. But now, today, he had a worry.
"Mom?", he said while tugging gently at her apron, "You know I don't know how to swim".
His mother reached down and picked up the little boy, cradling him on her hip like all mothers do with their small children. She patiently explained that he needn't worry about that. She told him there was a shallow end to the pool where kids could stand waist deep in the water, and splash around, playing with their friends. "Besides", she said, "I'll be right there on the edge of the pool, watching over you. You'll be fine".
For the time being, the little boy's worry had been put aside. He felt safe and secure once again. His mother packed up all the towels, a beach ball, and a few snacks and sodas in a small cooler. And with a neighbor, the neighbor's two small children, and her own little boy and baby daughter in tow, she drove to the public swimming pool. They were ready for a day of fun in the sun.
The very large public pool was packed with people running and jumping, splashing about, screaming, and swimming. People of all shapes and sizes...kids, adults...fat kids, skinny kids, fat adults...all having a great old time. For the little five year old boy, it was quite an intimidating scene. The noise was almost deafening. But, once again, his mother comforted him, then led their entourage to a spot next to the shallow end of the bustling pool. His mother and neighbor friend lit cigarettes and began to chat. "Get in the pool right over there, at the steps. And stay close to the edge and away from the deep end", his mother ordered with a loving strictness to her voice.
The little boy obeyed his mother's commands and made his way down the three steps and into the water. It was deeper than waist deep like his mom and told him, the water came all the way to his armpits. It was a little disconcerting for the boy at first, but then he started enjoy the pool with the rest of the children in the shallow end. Jumping, and splashing, and squealing...he was having a great time. He started to feel very comfortable and safe in the tepid, chlorine-smelling water of the pool. The little boy was alone in his own special, little world. Everything felt wonderful to him. He let out a little scream in the direction of his mother. "Hi, mom", he yelled, "look at me!" She returned the greeting and waved at him, "Just be careful now". Her smiling face turned back to the neighbor lady sitting next to her, and they continued their conversation and cigarettes.
A moment later, the little boy couldn't feel the bottom of the pool with his feet. The water was up to his chin, and then to his mouth. He had let himself venture toward the deeper end of the pool, down the inclined bottom from the shallow end. The water was at his nose as he struggled to breath in the last gasp of air. The salty tasting pool water rushed into his open mouth just as he managed to let out a gurgling scream. His arms were flailing around for something to grasp onto, but there nothing. He didn't know how to swim! His five year old body just sank lower into the depths of the pool, just a few feet from the edge.
He could hear splashing and deep bubbling sounds underwater. He could hear himself trying to scream again, but his voice didn't seem to come out. More water rushed into his mouth, and, this time, into his lungs. He tried to breath in some air, but there was only water. Just then, he felt his feet touch the bottom of the pool, the surface of the water was now over his hands and arms. No one can see me now, he thought. What is this happening to me? But then he a saw splash in the water just in front of him. And then another splash. And then hands grasping him under his armpits and lifting him to the surface. As soon as his head came out of the water, he belched the liquid out of his lungs, coughing, choking...and breathing in air. It felt good. But all the little boy could do was cry as his mother held him in her arms in that pool. It seemed to him like he was under the water for minutes, or hours. But, it was only seconds before his mother noticed the little blond head bob under the water. She had jumped into the pool right away. She never really took her eyes off her five year old son. She knew he couldn't swim yet. But she was right there, just inches away, to protect him. The little boy sat on the edge of the pool for a while. Within a few minutes, he had stopped crying...and got back in the water.
I'll never forget the taste of that pool water. Not as it went in, but as it came out! Gallons of it.
I did eventually learn how to swim, pretty well I might add. Our family moved a couple years later into a new house, and built a swimming pool. I was seven by that time. And I loved to swim. I still do.
They say that your whole life flashes before you when you are drowning. I suppose there is not much to "flash" yet when you're only five. I don't remember that happening in the pool, on that warm San Fernando Valley day 52 years ago, when mom took me swimming.
You see, there wasn't a thing to worry about after all!
It was a warm, Fall day in Southern California. The Summer had been abnormally hot. The little boy was happy that Summer was finally over and he had gone back to school once again. He was in the first grade, and he enjoyed school. He relished the newly purchased school clothes, the new metal lunch box with Hopalong Cassidy riding his big white horse Topper emblazened on it and the thermos inside. He enjoyed seeing his old kindergarten friends, and meeting some new first grade friends. But today, Saturday, the new lunch box and school clothes would be put aside for a while, it was time to go swimming! Just one problem he thought, "I don't know how to swim yet".
At the age of five, the little boy experienced his first official "worry" in life. It would be the very first time that he felt this thing called anxiety about something in the future, about some thing or event that hadn't yet happened. It was a strange, foreign feeling for a little kid to have. After all, he had no need to worry about anything in his short life to that point. Mom and Dad took care of everything. They watched over him, feeding him and tucking him in at night. They held his hand when crossing the street. They comforted him when he was sad. They made him feel secure. But now, today, he had a worry.
"Mom?", he said while tugging gently at her apron, "You know I don't know how to swim".
His mother reached down and picked up the little boy, cradling him on her hip like all mothers do with their small children. She patiently explained that he needn't worry about that. She told him there was a shallow end to the pool where kids could stand waist deep in the water, and splash around, playing with their friends. "Besides", she said, "I'll be right there on the edge of the pool, watching over you. You'll be fine".
For the time being, the little boy's worry had been put aside. He felt safe and secure once again. His mother packed up all the towels, a beach ball, and a few snacks and sodas in a small cooler. And with a neighbor, the neighbor's two small children, and her own little boy and baby daughter in tow, she drove to the public swimming pool. They were ready for a day of fun in the sun.
The very large public pool was packed with people running and jumping, splashing about, screaming, and swimming. People of all shapes and sizes...kids, adults...fat kids, skinny kids, fat adults...all having a great old time. For the little five year old boy, it was quite an intimidating scene. The noise was almost deafening. But, once again, his mother comforted him, then led their entourage to a spot next to the shallow end of the bustling pool. His mother and neighbor friend lit cigarettes and began to chat. "Get in the pool right over there, at the steps. And stay close to the edge and away from the deep end", his mother ordered with a loving strictness to her voice.
The little boy obeyed his mother's commands and made his way down the three steps and into the water. It was deeper than waist deep like his mom and told him, the water came all the way to his armpits. It was a little disconcerting for the boy at first, but then he started enjoy the pool with the rest of the children in the shallow end. Jumping, and splashing, and squealing...he was having a great time. He started to feel very comfortable and safe in the tepid, chlorine-smelling water of the pool. The little boy was alone in his own special, little world. Everything felt wonderful to him. He let out a little scream in the direction of his mother. "Hi, mom", he yelled, "look at me!" She returned the greeting and waved at him, "Just be careful now". Her smiling face turned back to the neighbor lady sitting next to her, and they continued their conversation and cigarettes.
A moment later, the little boy couldn't feel the bottom of the pool with his feet. The water was up to his chin, and then to his mouth. He had let himself venture toward the deeper end of the pool, down the inclined bottom from the shallow end. The water was at his nose as he struggled to breath in the last gasp of air. The salty tasting pool water rushed into his open mouth just as he managed to let out a gurgling scream. His arms were flailing around for something to grasp onto, but there nothing. He didn't know how to swim! His five year old body just sank lower into the depths of the pool, just a few feet from the edge.
He could hear splashing and deep bubbling sounds underwater. He could hear himself trying to scream again, but his voice didn't seem to come out. More water rushed into his mouth, and, this time, into his lungs. He tried to breath in some air, but there was only water. Just then, he felt his feet touch the bottom of the pool, the surface of the water was now over his hands and arms. No one can see me now, he thought. What is this happening to me? But then he a saw splash in the water just in front of him. And then another splash. And then hands grasping him under his armpits and lifting him to the surface. As soon as his head came out of the water, he belched the liquid out of his lungs, coughing, choking...and breathing in air. It felt good. But all the little boy could do was cry as his mother held him in her arms in that pool. It seemed to him like he was under the water for minutes, or hours. But, it was only seconds before his mother noticed the little blond head bob under the water. She had jumped into the pool right away. She never really took her eyes off her five year old son. She knew he couldn't swim yet. But she was right there, just inches away, to protect him. The little boy sat on the edge of the pool for a while. Within a few minutes, he had stopped crying...and got back in the water.
I'll never forget the taste of that pool water. Not as it went in, but as it came out! Gallons of it.
I did eventually learn how to swim, pretty well I might add. Our family moved a couple years later into a new house, and built a swimming pool. I was seven by that time. And I loved to swim. I still do.
They say that your whole life flashes before you when you are drowning. I suppose there is not much to "flash" yet when you're only five. I don't remember that happening in the pool, on that warm San Fernando Valley day 52 years ago, when mom took me swimming.
You see, there wasn't a thing to worry about after all!
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
A few thoughts for my reader...
“Work as if you have no money. Love as if you have never been hurt. Dance like no one is watching. Sing like no one is listening. And live everyday as if it were your last" - Anonymous
Do I have the right to call myself a writer? Need one who writes be published to consider oneself a writer? Is writing in an internet blog constitute published writing? Should I approach my writing like one of the lines in that anonymous saying above? How about: Write like thousands are reading it. Or should it be: Write like one person is reading it?
I’m asking myself these questions, and many others, recently. Questions like, “Just how much time do I have left?” The answer to that is, “No one really knows”. All we do know is that we have today, maybe only half of today. So be it. “...live everyday as if it were your last”.
How do I take all of my memories, all the fifty seven years of fodder that clutters my brain daily, and put cognitive thoughts on paper that I would enjoy reading? That’s right, that I would enjoy reading. Don’t I have the write to enjoy my writing? Should that not be true if I expect others to enjoy it? I don’t know the answer to that question yet either.
When I was working as a radio D.J., early on in my career, someone told me that I should present myself on the air as if I were speaking to one single person...not thousands. Why? Because chances are my individual listeners were listening in that singular context. They were alone at the breakfast table, sitting in their car, or at their desk at work. I was told never to say things like, “How are all of you doing out there?”, or, “Good morning ladies and gentlemen”. I wasn’t on a stage. I was sitting alone (for the most part) in a dark, little studio with the company of a musty smelling microphone, a couple of old turntables, a control panel held together with duct tape, a few over-played records, and my thoughts. There weren’t miles and miles of airwaves between me and my listener...there was only a few inches between me, my microphone, and the radio speaker from which my voice eminated. It was very intimate.
Later on, I had the opportunity to work on the air with other people in the studio, the advent of the so-called Morning Zoo format. Evidently, that is what people wanted to hear on the radio...and still do to this day. They want to hear conversations, interaction, laughing, responding, chatting, mindless prattle and blathering between “players” in the studio. Listeners have now truly become a fly on the wall in the D.J.’s world, listening to them do their thing. The one-on-one that radio of yesteryear offered has pretty much gone the way of the Do-Do bird, full-service gas stations, and 12 year old virgins. From a strictly business, commercial standpoint...it’s a done deal.
So now, for me, it’s back to one of the last vestiges of what could still be considered intimate journalism. Putting down my thoughts, not on paper, but on an internet blog site. A small, but somewhat satisfying, venue to exhibit a few thoughts extracted from those fifty seven years of, at times confusing, fodder that resides in my brain. An opportunity for yours truly to sort out some things, to compare notes, to reshuffle and reorganize the files, to, hopefully, entertain and not bore a reader. That’s right, I said a reader. I have come to the conclusion that if one single person reads these words, than I am, indeed, a writer of sorts. How good a writer remains to be seen...a rationalization that only I can speculate on.
There’s a line from the movie Sideways (allegedly from Charles Bukowski) that goes something like this, “Sometimes I feel like a smudge of excrement on a tissue floating out to sea with a billion tons of other sewage”. That’s not how I feel everyday, just once in a while. But, until I write a novel like Ham On Rye, I suppose I’ll just keeping plugging away right here...for that one person who may be reading this.
Do I have the right to call myself a writer? Need one who writes be published to consider oneself a writer? Is writing in an internet blog constitute published writing? Should I approach my writing like one of the lines in that anonymous saying above? How about: Write like thousands are reading it. Or should it be: Write like one person is reading it?
I’m asking myself these questions, and many others, recently. Questions like, “Just how much time do I have left?” The answer to that is, “No one really knows”. All we do know is that we have today, maybe only half of today. So be it. “...live everyday as if it were your last”.
How do I take all of my memories, all the fifty seven years of fodder that clutters my brain daily, and put cognitive thoughts on paper that I would enjoy reading? That’s right, that I would enjoy reading. Don’t I have the write to enjoy my writing? Should that not be true if I expect others to enjoy it? I don’t know the answer to that question yet either.
When I was working as a radio D.J., early on in my career, someone told me that I should present myself on the air as if I were speaking to one single person...not thousands. Why? Because chances are my individual listeners were listening in that singular context. They were alone at the breakfast table, sitting in their car, or at their desk at work. I was told never to say things like, “How are all of you doing out there?”, or, “Good morning ladies and gentlemen”. I wasn’t on a stage. I was sitting alone (for the most part) in a dark, little studio with the company of a musty smelling microphone, a couple of old turntables, a control panel held together with duct tape, a few over-played records, and my thoughts. There weren’t miles and miles of airwaves between me and my listener...there was only a few inches between me, my microphone, and the radio speaker from which my voice eminated. It was very intimate.
Later on, I had the opportunity to work on the air with other people in the studio, the advent of the so-called Morning Zoo format. Evidently, that is what people wanted to hear on the radio...and still do to this day. They want to hear conversations, interaction, laughing, responding, chatting, mindless prattle and blathering between “players” in the studio. Listeners have now truly become a fly on the wall in the D.J.’s world, listening to them do their thing. The one-on-one that radio of yesteryear offered has pretty much gone the way of the Do-Do bird, full-service gas stations, and 12 year old virgins. From a strictly business, commercial standpoint...it’s a done deal.
So now, for me, it’s back to one of the last vestiges of what could still be considered intimate journalism. Putting down my thoughts, not on paper, but on an internet blog site. A small, but somewhat satisfying, venue to exhibit a few thoughts extracted from those fifty seven years of, at times confusing, fodder that resides in my brain. An opportunity for yours truly to sort out some things, to compare notes, to reshuffle and reorganize the files, to, hopefully, entertain and not bore a reader. That’s right, I said a reader. I have come to the conclusion that if one single person reads these words, than I am, indeed, a writer of sorts. How good a writer remains to be seen...a rationalization that only I can speculate on.
There’s a line from the movie Sideways (allegedly from Charles Bukowski) that goes something like this, “Sometimes I feel like a smudge of excrement on a tissue floating out to sea with a billion tons of other sewage”. That’s not how I feel everyday, just once in a while. But, until I write a novel like Ham On Rye, I suppose I’ll just keeping plugging away right here...for that one person who may be reading this.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The Best Artery-Cloggin' Sausage Gravy
Time for a recipe!
Getting blood drawn recently for annual blood test...
Me: Are you getting some blood...or is sausage gravy coming out of my vein?
Lab Tech: (LOL) That's funny! I love biscuits and gravy.
Here is a recent recipe success story. I made this gravy for Chicken Fried Steak (just to up the cholesterol levels even more).
2 tbsps canola oil
8 oz ground pork breakfast sausage (such as Jimmy Dean or Farmer John)
1/4 cup finely diced white onion
1/3 cup flour
1/4 cup Sherry
1 - 14 1/2 oz can chicken broth
1 1/2 cups milk
salt & pepper
Heat canola oil over medium heat in a sauce pan. Crumble breakfast sausage into pan, brown and break it up into small bits. Add minced onion and cook for 2 minutes, season with salt and pepper. Remove sausage and onion from pan with slotted spoon and save. Add flour and cook for two minutes (making a loose roux). If you don't cook the flour for at least 2 minutes, your gravy will taste like flour. Add the Sherry, chicken broth, then milk, and heat until sauce is thickened to a consistency you desire. Add sausage and onion back into pan and continue to cook on low heat for 5 minutes or so. Taste and re-season. Keep in mind all the liquid ingredient amounts depend on how thick you want the gravy. If you want a smokier flavor, diced up some bacon and brown with the sausage. This makes about 1 quart of gravy, enough for 8 sane people, or 4 insane people, or just for me over a 3 day period. I won't make it again for several months.
Honestly, I don't eat this kind of stuff every day. In fact, it's a rare treat for me as it should be for you. It's loaded with fat, saturated fat. But, this stuff is loaded with flavor and goes great on biscuits, or Chicken Fried Steak, or Mashed Potatoes.
This recipe has come about from years of experimenting at home and sampling at breakfast places. Most of the sausage gravy in restaurants comes out of a bag, sometimes with sausage added. Most of it tastes like elementary school paste! Yes, we've all tasted school paste at one time or another. Well, maybe not all of us.
Disclaimer: Posting of this recipe does not indicate a recommendation by me for you to actually eat it. It is not a heart-healthy concoction by any standard. It just tastes great, especially when partaken on rare occasions.
Caution: Can cause feelings of impending doom and guilt from clogging arteries!
Getting blood drawn recently for annual blood test...
Me: Are you getting some blood...or is sausage gravy coming out of my vein?
Lab Tech: (LOL) That's funny! I love biscuits and gravy.
Here is a recent recipe success story. I made this gravy for Chicken Fried Steak (just to up the cholesterol levels even more).
2 tbsps canola oil
8 oz ground pork breakfast sausage (such as Jimmy Dean or Farmer John)
1/4 cup finely diced white onion
1/3 cup flour
1/4 cup Sherry
1 - 14 1/2 oz can chicken broth
1 1/2 cups milk
salt & pepper
Heat canola oil over medium heat in a sauce pan. Crumble breakfast sausage into pan, brown and break it up into small bits. Add minced onion and cook for 2 minutes, season with salt and pepper. Remove sausage and onion from pan with slotted spoon and save. Add flour and cook for two minutes (making a loose roux). If you don't cook the flour for at least 2 minutes, your gravy will taste like flour. Add the Sherry, chicken broth, then milk, and heat until sauce is thickened to a consistency you desire. Add sausage and onion back into pan and continue to cook on low heat for 5 minutes or so. Taste and re-season. Keep in mind all the liquid ingredient amounts depend on how thick you want the gravy. If you want a smokier flavor, diced up some bacon and brown with the sausage. This makes about 1 quart of gravy, enough for 8 sane people, or 4 insane people, or just for me over a 3 day period. I won't make it again for several months.
Honestly, I don't eat this kind of stuff every day. In fact, it's a rare treat for me as it should be for you. It's loaded with fat, saturated fat. But, this stuff is loaded with flavor and goes great on biscuits, or Chicken Fried Steak, or Mashed Potatoes.
This recipe has come about from years of experimenting at home and sampling at breakfast places. Most of the sausage gravy in restaurants comes out of a bag, sometimes with sausage added. Most of it tastes like elementary school paste! Yes, we've all tasted school paste at one time or another. Well, maybe not all of us.
Disclaimer: Posting of this recipe does not indicate a recommendation by me for you to actually eat it. It is not a heart-healthy concoction by any standard. It just tastes great, especially when partaken on rare occasions.
Caution: Can cause feelings of impending doom and guilt from clogging arteries!
Thursday, September 6, 2007
What would you rather be doing?
About twenty five years ago, I had the opportunity to interview Jack LaLanne. You know, America’s first T.V. exercise and healthy living guru. I was working at a little A.M. Top 40 radio station in San Luis Obispo. Jack and his wife were living in nearby Morro Bay and were promoting some charity event.
First of all, he’s a little guy. Second, he still wears that jump suit where ever he goes, and, he was still very trim for a 70 year old guy. Third, he never stops talking about himself in that signature Jack LaLanne staccato, confident, in-your-face style of conversation. You just sit there and listen to him, no need to ask any questions...he answers them all before you get a chance to ask them. He is a consummate self-promoter.
One of the things I remember most from all the information he threw at me was the philosophy concerning his career success and happiness in life. It was, and still is, a very simple plan. Jack told me that he never set out to make a fortune (although history will confirm that he did do well financially). He said your goal should be to provide a product or service that will help others improve and enjoy their lives. And, this must be something that you enjoy doing and that you are good at. Success and happiness will follow. However, determining what success means to you is the biggest variable in this parable. In Jack LaLanne’s case, he wanted to become successful at influencing people how to take care of themselves correctly. In its simplest form, this means eating properly, avoiding white sugars, flours, and other “poisons”, while exercising on a regular basis.
Recently, I’ve been assessing my life and career(s) with The LaLanne Method in mind. In doing this, I had to ask myself four questions: What am I good at? What do I enjoy doing? Can I make a living at it? What talent or skill that I possess is the answer to all three of those questions?
With that in mind, let’s explore a few options. How about eating? I’m good at it, I enjoy it, but can’t make a living at it. How about being a gigalo? I wouldn’t be good at it, I may enjoy it, I could probably make a living at it, (Loretta would most certainly not approve or even appreciate the comic relief meant here!) How about a restaurant manager (my most recent long-term career)? I’m not good at it, I hate doing it, I can make a living at it. Note to self regarding the restaurant management business: Stop hitting self in head with a hammer! How about photography and writing? I’m good at it, I really enjoy doing it, I can make a living at it. Note to self regarding photography and writing: Duh!
Realistically, life may not be as simple as that. Notice I said may not, considering I still don’t have all the answers to most of the questions I have been asking myself all my life. For some reason, I thought I would have some of the answers by now. At 25, I knew I had all the answers...isn’t that one of the definitions of psychosis? You know, a neurotic thinks he is a dog...a psychotic knows he is a dog?
Yeah, I suppose Jack LaLanne is one of my mentors. But so are Jack Nicholson, Jack Nicklaus, Jack Kennedy, Jackson Browne, and Jack Diddley...among many others, some not named Jack. Can I assume that each every one of them found their niche in life, found something they were good at, that they enjoyed doing, and they could make a living at. They come from Fitness, Entertainment, Politics, Music, and Fiction. The one thing they have in common is that they could answer those four questions I recently asked myself...and one more important question. What would you rather be doing? They would all say “Nothing...this is exactly what I should be doing. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else”.
So today, my goal is to move toward becoming really good at just one thing. And that takes practice. I will pick up the Fender Stratocaster in my den, and practice playing a D chord. Then, I will move on to A, and G, and E...then Am, Fm, C# and all the rest. How else can I become a rock guitarist if I don't become really good at it? Hey, rock guitarist was one of the answers to all of those questions!
What would you rather be doing?
First of all, he’s a little guy. Second, he still wears that jump suit where ever he goes, and, he was still very trim for a 70 year old guy. Third, he never stops talking about himself in that signature Jack LaLanne staccato, confident, in-your-face style of conversation. You just sit there and listen to him, no need to ask any questions...he answers them all before you get a chance to ask them. He is a consummate self-promoter.
One of the things I remember most from all the information he threw at me was the philosophy concerning his career success and happiness in life. It was, and still is, a very simple plan. Jack told me that he never set out to make a fortune (although history will confirm that he did do well financially). He said your goal should be to provide a product or service that will help others improve and enjoy their lives. And, this must be something that you enjoy doing and that you are good at. Success and happiness will follow. However, determining what success means to you is the biggest variable in this parable. In Jack LaLanne’s case, he wanted to become successful at influencing people how to take care of themselves correctly. In its simplest form, this means eating properly, avoiding white sugars, flours, and other “poisons”, while exercising on a regular basis.
Recently, I’ve been assessing my life and career(s) with The LaLanne Method in mind. In doing this, I had to ask myself four questions: What am I good at? What do I enjoy doing? Can I make a living at it? What talent or skill that I possess is the answer to all three of those questions?
With that in mind, let’s explore a few options. How about eating? I’m good at it, I enjoy it, but can’t make a living at it. How about being a gigalo? I wouldn’t be good at it, I may enjoy it, I could probably make a living at it, (Loretta would most certainly not approve or even appreciate the comic relief meant here!) How about a restaurant manager (my most recent long-term career)? I’m not good at it, I hate doing it, I can make a living at it. Note to self regarding the restaurant management business: Stop hitting self in head with a hammer! How about photography and writing? I’m good at it, I really enjoy doing it, I can make a living at it. Note to self regarding photography and writing: Duh!
Realistically, life may not be as simple as that. Notice I said may not, considering I still don’t have all the answers to most of the questions I have been asking myself all my life. For some reason, I thought I would have some of the answers by now. At 25, I knew I had all the answers...isn’t that one of the definitions of psychosis? You know, a neurotic thinks he is a dog...a psychotic knows he is a dog?
Yeah, I suppose Jack LaLanne is one of my mentors. But so are Jack Nicholson, Jack Nicklaus, Jack Kennedy, Jackson Browne, and Jack Diddley...among many others, some not named Jack. Can I assume that each every one of them found their niche in life, found something they were good at, that they enjoyed doing, and they could make a living at. They come from Fitness, Entertainment, Politics, Music, and Fiction. The one thing they have in common is that they could answer those four questions I recently asked myself...and one more important question. What would you rather be doing? They would all say “Nothing...this is exactly what I should be doing. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else”.
So today, my goal is to move toward becoming really good at just one thing. And that takes practice. I will pick up the Fender Stratocaster in my den, and practice playing a D chord. Then, I will move on to A, and G, and E...then Am, Fm, C# and all the rest. How else can I become a rock guitarist if I don't become really good at it? Hey, rock guitarist was one of the answers to all of those questions!
What would you rather be doing?
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Even Pismo was hot!
We left Modesto at 8:00 am Sunday for Pismo Beach, arriving around 12:30. A few miles prior to that, Highway 101 passes through San Luis Obispo...it was 101 degrees already. A few minutes later, Shell Beach, Pismo Beach, and Arroyo Grande came into view along with the Pacific Ocean. The temperature was now 81 degrees, still warm for this beach area. The afternoon saw temps into the mid-90's, not the high of 74 that was forecast. Yes, it was stinking hot in Pismo Beach Labor Day Weekend. So much for plans to escape the valley heat that edged up to 105 or so.
Loretta and I stayed at my Mom's place. We slept on a large, inflatable Coleman mattress that yours truly did not inflate adequately. Let me put it this way...every time one of us moved, it was like being on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disneyland. Enough bitching for the time being.
I made dinner for the three of us, including a margarita or two; a version of Steak Diane that turned out not half bad. Then we headed to Shell Beach to watch the sun set. Hang on, another bitch session follows. The Santa Ana wind was blowing from the southeast, not the usual seabreeze off the water. It was stinking hot at Shell Beach at sunset as well. I snapped a couple of pictures. Loretta, my Mom, and I kept looking at each other with puzzled looks on our faces because of the heat. My Mom continued to apologize for the weather conditions. We insisted it wasn't her fault, then headed back to her place.
Fact: Hardly anyone has air conditioning there. It's just not needed 99% of the time, even in the Summer. It was now 95 degrees. O.K., end of bitch session (again).
The next morning, we met my son Jimmy for breakfast. All in all, it was a fun quickie to Pismo due to the fact that we had a few laughs with my Mom and I got to see my hard-working son for a couple of hours. Oh...and we adopted my Mom's little Pomeranian, Sassy. We now have four dogs. So far, she is still a little timid, but is adapting famously to her new life in our balanced pack of pooches. We have become The Dog Whisperers of Modesto. Thanks Caesar!.jpg)
Sassy is a nine year old, tiny, furry ball...a teacup-size Pomeranian. She's a very sweet dog and has weathered the drive and changes in environment very well so far. Keep in mind that she now shares a household with an old, blind, male Dauschund, an overly-attentive female Boxer, and a somewhat aloof male Greyhound. We now have four distinct sizes of canine. I think we are one dog over the limit imposed by the county animal regulation department. Oh well...Sassy's quite small! Our original plan was to function as a foster home until we could find a worthy owner for Sassy. But Loretta is so fond of her we may end up with her as new permanent member of this crazy house. At least she won't get bored.
Exercise. Discipline. Affection. Let me add: Tolerance. Patience. Prosac.
Loretta and I stayed at my Mom's place. We slept on a large, inflatable Coleman mattress that yours truly did not inflate adequately. Let me put it this way...every time one of us moved, it was like being on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disneyland. Enough bitching for the time being.
I made dinner for the three of us, including a margarita or two; a version of Steak Diane that turned out not half bad. Then we headed to Shell Beach to watch the sun set. Hang on, another bitch session follows. The Santa Ana wind was blowing from the southeast, not the usual seabreeze off the water. It was stinking hot at Shell Beach at sunset as well. I snapped a couple of pictures. Loretta, my Mom, and I kept looking at each other with puzzled looks on our faces because of the heat. My Mom continued to apologize for the weather conditions. We insisted it wasn't her fault, then headed back to her place.
Fact: Hardly anyone has air conditioning there. It's just not needed 99% of the time, even in the Summer. It was now 95 degrees. O.K., end of bitch session (again).
The next morning, we met my son Jimmy for breakfast. All in all, it was a fun quickie to Pismo due to the fact that we had a few laughs with my Mom and I got to see my hard-working son for a couple of hours. Oh...and we adopted my Mom's little Pomeranian, Sassy. We now have four dogs. So far, she is still a little timid, but is adapting famously to her new life in our balanced pack of pooches. We have become The Dog Whisperers of Modesto. Thanks Caesar!
.jpg)
Sassy is a nine year old, tiny, furry ball...a teacup-size Pomeranian. She's a very sweet dog and has weathered the drive and changes in environment very well so far. Keep in mind that she now shares a household with an old, blind, male Dauschund, an overly-attentive female Boxer, and a somewhat aloof male Greyhound. We now have four distinct sizes of canine. I think we are one dog over the limit imposed by the county animal regulation department. Oh well...Sassy's quite small! Our original plan was to function as a foster home until we could find a worthy owner for Sassy. But Loretta is so fond of her we may end up with her as new permanent member of this crazy house. At least she won't get bored.
Exercise. Discipline. Affection. Let me add: Tolerance. Patience. Prosac.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
We'll always have Pismo.
The bright red family truckster 300ZX is washed, the windows cleaned, two weeks of junk shoveled out, and it's ready to roll. Tomorrow morning (Sunday) we're off to the land of mild temperatures, breaking waves, A. Pismo Clam, and a visit with my Mom, Betty, and my son, Jimmy. Our only regret: we can't leave today...Loretta has to work ya' know!
Traditionally, Pismo Beach on Labor Day Weekend is just another one of those over-crowded, tourist spots along the central coast of California. Besides being a beach resort town full of semi-fancy, expensive, over-rated motel properties perched on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the Pacific, it is also an area possessing one of the only drive-on beaches on the west coast. Every available grain of beach sand and every motel room will be occupied this weekend. The throng of fun-loving vacationeers have already descended on this normally quiet beach burgh. They come from Bakersfield and Boston, Salt Lake City and Singapore, Eureka and Europe. All types, shapes, and sizes of happy hopefuls roll in with their suitcases, tents, R.V's, air mattresses, boogey boards, and, of course, money. Labor Day is one of several big holiday weekends that allow many local businesses to survive financially the rest of the year. It is also the biggest and the last opportunity to suck tourist's wallets dry before the long, relatively quiet Fall and Winter. The Last Hurrah.
We used to live there. Now, Pismo Beach for us is an occasional overnight stay in our favorite motel on a few non-holiday weekends. By design, we never go there when it is busy. It's just too crazy, too congested, and too expensive. Motel room rates skyrocket on holidays. Not to mention getting a reservation being downright impossible. We defer our old stomping grounds to occupation by visitors from the East...and North, South, and West. Loretta and I are spending the night at my Mom's place.
So what will we do while we are there? We'll visit...that's about it. Considering the temporary over-population issue and the short amount of time there, we will say a few quick "Hello's", snap some photos of the sunset at Shell Beach, inhale the seabreeze, make dinner for my Mom, then get ready to drive back home the next morning.
All in all, it will be a nominal opportunity to get out of Dodge for a little while, to escape the 100+ degree temperatures of the valley, and visit with a few people we care about and don't often see. We'll see and feel the ocean for a few short moments; something that always seems to provide a small yet welcome amount of rejuvenation in our lives.
Reminiscent of that line from Casablanca, "We'll always have Pismo!"
Traditionally, Pismo Beach on Labor Day Weekend is just another one of those over-crowded, tourist spots along the central coast of California. Besides being a beach resort town full of semi-fancy, expensive, over-rated motel properties perched on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the Pacific, it is also an area possessing one of the only drive-on beaches on the west coast. Every available grain of beach sand and every motel room will be occupied this weekend. The throng of fun-loving vacationeers have already descended on this normally quiet beach burgh. They come from Bakersfield and Boston, Salt Lake City and Singapore, Eureka and Europe. All types, shapes, and sizes of happy hopefuls roll in with their suitcases, tents, R.V's, air mattresses, boogey boards, and, of course, money. Labor Day is one of several big holiday weekends that allow many local businesses to survive financially the rest of the year. It is also the biggest and the last opportunity to suck tourist's wallets dry before the long, relatively quiet Fall and Winter. The Last Hurrah.
We used to live there. Now, Pismo Beach for us is an occasional overnight stay in our favorite motel on a few non-holiday weekends. By design, we never go there when it is busy. It's just too crazy, too congested, and too expensive. Motel room rates skyrocket on holidays. Not to mention getting a reservation being downright impossible. We defer our old stomping grounds to occupation by visitors from the East...and North, South, and West. Loretta and I are spending the night at my Mom's place.
So what will we do while we are there? We'll visit...that's about it. Considering the temporary over-population issue and the short amount of time there, we will say a few quick "Hello's", snap some photos of the sunset at Shell Beach, inhale the seabreeze, make dinner for my Mom, then get ready to drive back home the next morning.
All in all, it will be a nominal opportunity to get out of Dodge for a little while, to escape the 100+ degree temperatures of the valley, and visit with a few people we care about and don't often see. We'll see and feel the ocean for a few short moments; something that always seems to provide a small yet welcome amount of rejuvenation in our lives.
Reminiscent of that line from Casablanca, "We'll always have Pismo!"
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