When I passed Reese Farm yesterday afternoon on my way to the grocery store, I noticed their big sign near the road had an additional notice affixed in one corner. It was hand-lettered on a square of cardboard. All it said was SAT. That was all it had to say. Everybody knew what it meant. It meant that Saturday was the day we've been waiting for, the day Reese's first planting of sweet corn would be ripe and ready to harvest.
I got there at eleven o'clock this morning, and they were doing a business -- cars streaming in and out, people carrying away plastic grocery bags bulging with corn. It was all white corn today, the woman told me. I bought a dozen. I actually expected a baker's dozen, but when I got home I found there were fourteen ears in the bag. A Reese's dozen.
We had corn for supper tonight. Sweet corn, that is, and was it ever.
Summer is finally here.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
25% was plenty
I have a large collection of recipes I've copied from various places but haven't tried yet. I keep them in Word documents on my hard drive. This morning I was looking through them, hoping for ideas for this weekend's meals, plus what I might need to pick up at the grocery store when I go this afternoon.
A recipe for Bread Fritters caught my eye. Don't know where I got it. It's simple enough: 4 eggs, 6 tablespoons of bread crumbs, and 4 tablespoons each of grated Parmesan and grated Cheddar. Might make a nice little side, maybe with something rolled up inside it. I decided to test it out for my breakfast, but on a smaller scale. I made it using only one egg and cutting the other ingredients proportionately.
I whipped it up in a measuring cup (using my new old-fashioned hand-crank egg beater), poured the batter it made into hot olive oil in a small skillet, and fried it up. It made a nice looking pancake that was soft inside and never did get very crispy outside, which is what I was hoping. What it tasted like was -- well, if you put some scrambled eggs and a piece of toast in the blender, that's the taste you would get.
Delete.
A recipe for Bread Fritters caught my eye. Don't know where I got it. It's simple enough: 4 eggs, 6 tablespoons of bread crumbs, and 4 tablespoons each of grated Parmesan and grated Cheddar. Might make a nice little side, maybe with something rolled up inside it. I decided to test it out for my breakfast, but on a smaller scale. I made it using only one egg and cutting the other ingredients proportionately.
I whipped it up in a measuring cup (using my new old-fashioned hand-crank egg beater), poured the batter it made into hot olive oil in a small skillet, and fried it up. It made a nice looking pancake that was soft inside and never did get very crispy outside, which is what I was hoping. What it tasted like was -- well, if you put some scrambled eggs and a piece of toast in the blender, that's the taste you would get.
Delete.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Plain Southern Speak
I believe I mentioned that I have developed a tendency to talk to myself, which I attribute to being home alone all day with nobody to talk to (except my tiny dog). Well, it's getting worse.
This morning a website I visited asked me to take a survey, which I was happy to do. I love surveys. However, not only did I read every question and every possible response out loud, I did it with an outrageous southern accent that made me sound like a cross between Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Paula Deen.
I cannot explain it.
So, I'll move on. What I really meant to write about today is an offering I saw on a restaurant menu last week. In the breakfast section they listed all the omelets they are willing to make, telling what items each one contains, but there was also something called a "Plain Omelet" for which no description is given. I've seen that a number of times on various restaurants' menus, but I never gave it any serious thought until now.
And the thought I'm giving it is: What the hell is a plain omelet? Wouldn't that just be scrambled eggs folded over on itself?
I wish you could hear me say "plain omelet" in my Earnhardt/Deen voice. My tiny dog can hear me, and she's laughing her ass off.
This morning a website I visited asked me to take a survey, which I was happy to do. I love surveys. However, not only did I read every question and every possible response out loud, I did it with an outrageous southern accent that made me sound like a cross between Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Paula Deen.
I cannot explain it.
So, I'll move on. What I really meant to write about today is an offering I saw on a restaurant menu last week. In the breakfast section they listed all the omelets they are willing to make, telling what items each one contains, but there was also something called a "Plain Omelet" for which no description is given. I've seen that a number of times on various restaurants' menus, but I never gave it any serious thought until now.
And the thought I'm giving it is: What the hell is a plain omelet? Wouldn't that just be scrambled eggs folded over on itself?
I wish you could hear me say "plain omelet" in my Earnhardt/Deen voice. My tiny dog can hear me, and she's laughing her ass off.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Glory Breathe, It Exists Deceased
A category on "Jeopardy" one night last week was all about words that contain words that are synonyms. For example, the word dead can be found inside deceased (DecEAseD). Two others they had on the show were exists / is and male / masculine. I don't remember the other two, nor do I recall exactly what they called the category.
According to what I can find on the Internet, these are known as "kangaroo words," because, like the marsupial, they carry baby versions of themselves. (Isn't that sweet?) There are plenty of such words listed on various websites. Some of them are a stretch as regards their supposed synonymous-ness, as breathe and be, and some are just plain cheesy like artistry and art.
It took me three days, but I finally came up with one of my own -- rain can be found inside precipitation.
I'm so proud.
According to what I can find on the Internet, these are known as "kangaroo words," because, like the marsupial, they carry baby versions of themselves. (Isn't that sweet?) There are plenty of such words listed on various websites. Some of them are a stretch as regards their supposed synonymous-ness, as breathe and be, and some are just plain cheesy like artistry and art.
It took me three days, but I finally came up with one of my own -- rain can be found inside precipitation.
I'm so proud.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
A heavy price to pay for the environment
Plastic grocery bags have myriad uses, and I have put them to several -- lining small trash cans, wrapping up food scraps, carrying things back and forth, and so on. Our household always seemed to acquire more plastic grocery bags than we put to good use, however, and while I am not willing to say what I did with the excess, I will say now that I have finally begun to think that the least I can do is not collect so many.
I have, therefore, splurged 99 cents each to acquire the reusable totes sold in grocery stores. I have about half a dozen now from Kroger, Meijer, Wal-Mart and even one from Trader Joe's, so as not to show favor to any particular store.
So far, so good, but there are some significant disadvantages to the use of such bags. In addition to the challenge of remembering to take the damn things into the store, when filled by eager baggers, the reusable bags can only be carried by Olympic-champion weight lifters.
I see more reusable bags and plaintive cries of "Please, not so full!" in my future.
I have, therefore, splurged 99 cents each to acquire the reusable totes sold in grocery stores. I have about half a dozen now from Kroger, Meijer, Wal-Mart and even one from Trader Joe's, so as not to show favor to any particular store.
So far, so good, but there are some significant disadvantages to the use of such bags. In addition to the challenge of remembering to take the damn things into the store, when filled by eager baggers, the reusable bags can only be carried by Olympic-champion weight lifters.
I see more reusable bags and plaintive cries of "Please, not so full!" in my future.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Say What?
I caught myself saying "Let us have lettuce" yesterday. My mother used to say that. I have no idea why. I don't recall her ever saying it with regard to a meal or food of any sort.
Why she said it is not so perplexing a question as why I said it yesterday, out loud, when there was no one to hear me, except for my tiny dog who, I am sure, did not give a damn.
As I recall, I was on the verge of doing something that required going out into the garage, and I was saying to myself something like, "Let us go to the garage," but I changed my mind suddenly and decided to do something else first, and so I said instead, "Let us ... have lettuce."
The only reasonable explanation I can think of is that being a retired senior citizen on social security, I am home alone all day, unlike the days when I went to my place of employment which was peopled with co-workers with whom I could converse. Now I have no one to talk to for hours on end, save my tiny dog, but, as already established, she doesn't give a damn.
So, I talk to myself. And obviously I say really stupid things.
Why she said it is not so perplexing a question as why I said it yesterday, out loud, when there was no one to hear me, except for my tiny dog who, I am sure, did not give a damn.
As I recall, I was on the verge of doing something that required going out into the garage, and I was saying to myself something like, "Let us go to the garage," but I changed my mind suddenly and decided to do something else first, and so I said instead, "Let us ... have lettuce."
The only reasonable explanation I can think of is that being a retired senior citizen on social security, I am home alone all day, unlike the days when I went to my place of employment which was peopled with co-workers with whom I could converse. Now I have no one to talk to for hours on end, save my tiny dog, but, as already established, she doesn't give a damn.
So, I talk to myself. And obviously I say really stupid things.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Infinitely big and small
I've been thinking, again, about big and little things. A TV commercial triggered it by asking me what wondrous thing I saw today, and was it big or little?
Concepts relating to large and small infinity have fascinated me for decades. I can almost grab on to big infinity. Like, for instance, even if our universe is finite, there has to be an infinite amount of nothingness for it to exist in. I can sort of dig that huge, never-ending macro-ness. It's small infinity that gets me boggled.
For example, when you pluck a violin string, you can actually see it moving if you pluck real hard and look real close. The amplitude of the vibration (the maximum displacement from equilibrium or, basically, how far the string moves back and forth) will diminish over time, but theoretically, it never really does (discounting the effects of friction and if you don't stop it yourself). It's just that the movement gets smaller and smaller and smaller until we can't perceive it any more, but it will continue to move forever in smaller and tinier and microscopic-er increments. That's what I can't wrap by brain around.
I can about get into the notion that our entire universe is a speck to some thing that exists on the other side of it or in a different dimension inside of it. That's not what bothers me. I am bothered by the notion that there could be a world so minuscule that, although it seems as big to its inhabitants as our universe does to us, it is living in my scalp.
That's freaky.
And no, I have not been drinking, smoking, shooting, or snorting anything. But I am hungry.
Concepts relating to large and small infinity have fascinated me for decades. I can almost grab on to big infinity. Like, for instance, even if our universe is finite, there has to be an infinite amount of nothingness for it to exist in. I can sort of dig that huge, never-ending macro-ness. It's small infinity that gets me boggled.
For example, when you pluck a violin string, you can actually see it moving if you pluck real hard and look real close. The amplitude of the vibration (the maximum displacement from equilibrium or, basically, how far the string moves back and forth) will diminish over time, but theoretically, it never really does (discounting the effects of friction and if you don't stop it yourself). It's just that the movement gets smaller and smaller and smaller until we can't perceive it any more, but it will continue to move forever in smaller and tinier and microscopic-er increments. That's what I can't wrap by brain around.
I can about get into the notion that our entire universe is a speck to some thing that exists on the other side of it or in a different dimension inside of it. That's not what bothers me. I am bothered by the notion that there could be a world so minuscule that, although it seems as big to its inhabitants as our universe does to us, it is living in my scalp.
That's freaky.
And no, I have not been drinking, smoking, shooting, or snorting anything. But I am hungry.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Consumer Alert
We had a killer Mexican supper last night with home-made guacamole and pico de gallo and seasoned ground beef, plus basic accompaniments like shredded cheese and sour cream, along with those great tortilla chips by On the Border. We even had Virgin Margaritas made with fresh-squeezed lime juice.
Everything was superb, though I say it myself -- except for the Old El Paso taco shells, which tasted stale. We ate a couple, but I tossed the rest in the trash and we stuck with the tortilla chips.
The taco shells only cost $1.41, but still there is a principle involved here. So this morning I dialed the toll-free number shown on the box in case I have questions or comments about this or any other General Mills product, and I spoke with Jo in Minneapolis. I told her how disappointed I was with the taco shells. She said she was sorry and would send a replacement voucher plus some coupons to make it up to me.
Then she gathered all the pertinent information -- date of purchase (Tuesday), place of purchase (Kroger), best-by date (February 27, 2012), code numbers on box, condition of box (not cut or broken or smashed), the exact nature of their stale condition ("not crunchy"), and whether I had heated them in the oven or the microwave.
What? I said I didn't heat them at all, was I supposed to? And she said, very diplomatically, "It is recommended."
And sure enough, right there on the back of the box are the instructions for heating them in a 325-degree oven for 6 or 7 minutes or in the nuker for 45 seconds on HIGH in order to achieve "crisp and more flavorful taco shells."
Oh. Duh.
Everything was superb, though I say it myself -- except for the Old El Paso taco shells, which tasted stale. We ate a couple, but I tossed the rest in the trash and we stuck with the tortilla chips.
The taco shells only cost $1.41, but still there is a principle involved here. So this morning I dialed the toll-free number shown on the box in case I have questions or comments about this or any other General Mills product, and I spoke with Jo in Minneapolis. I told her how disappointed I was with the taco shells. She said she was sorry and would send a replacement voucher plus some coupons to make it up to me.
Then she gathered all the pertinent information -- date of purchase (Tuesday), place of purchase (Kroger), best-by date (February 27, 2012), code numbers on box, condition of box (not cut or broken or smashed), the exact nature of their stale condition ("not crunchy"), and whether I had heated them in the oven or the microwave.
What? I said I didn't heat them at all, was I supposed to? And she said, very diplomatically, "It is recommended."
And sure enough, right there on the back of the box are the instructions for heating them in a 325-degree oven for 6 or 7 minutes or in the nuker for 45 seconds on HIGH in order to achieve "crisp and more flavorful taco shells."
Oh. Duh.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Cursed in Cursive
Education officials in Indiana announced last week that schools there are no longer required to teach cursive handwriting. Instead, school children will be taught keyboard skills. Indiana is on the cutting edge here, but they won't be the last. Cursive is doomed.
It's kind of a shame, really. Learning to write cursive has always been a rite of passage. I remember looking forward to it very much. The summer before third grade, which is when cursive was taught, I spent an entire afternoon sitting at the kitchen table with paper and pencil making up what I thought cursive capital letters would look like. I came close on some of the more obvious ones like B and U and M, but my mother said that the one that I made up for I was actually quite close to the cursive L. That tickled me.
I had a cousin quite a bit younger than I who, at about age six or seven, loved to watch people write cursive. He would say, "Write writing for me," and he'd sit close and watch fascinated as the words flowed across the page. It didn't matter what the words were, since he couldn't read it anyway.
Future generations who are unable to write writing will not be able to read it either, of course, but that will create jobs -- there will be a need for experts who can interpret hand-written documents.
Some people worry that it will be too easy to forge signatures if people simply print their names, but really, it won't be long before we are determining identification from thumbprints or eyeball scans or maybe even instant DNA analysis of saliva.
Eeewww. I hope asking a celebrity for an autograph won't be replaced by being spat upon.
It's kind of a shame, really. Learning to write cursive has always been a rite of passage. I remember looking forward to it very much. The summer before third grade, which is when cursive was taught, I spent an entire afternoon sitting at the kitchen table with paper and pencil making up what I thought cursive capital letters would look like. I came close on some of the more obvious ones like B and U and M, but my mother said that the one that I made up for I was actually quite close to the cursive L. That tickled me.
I had a cousin quite a bit younger than I who, at about age six or seven, loved to watch people write cursive. He would say, "Write writing for me," and he'd sit close and watch fascinated as the words flowed across the page. It didn't matter what the words were, since he couldn't read it anyway.
Future generations who are unable to write writing will not be able to read it either, of course, but that will create jobs -- there will be a need for experts who can interpret hand-written documents.
Some people worry that it will be too easy to forge signatures if people simply print their names, but really, it won't be long before we are determining identification from thumbprints or eyeball scans or maybe even instant DNA analysis of saliva.
Eeewww. I hope asking a celebrity for an autograph won't be replaced by being spat upon.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
I didn't like Ike either
I got an e-mail today from my Congressman. Well, wait. I got e-mail today from Mike Rogers. He represents the 8th Congressional District of Michigan in the United States House of Representatives. I live in the 8th Congressional District of Michigan. Okay. That clarifies our relationship.
Mike Rogers wants me to "like" him on Facebook. Then I would see messages from him there, I guess. Well, I will not like him on Facebook. I will not like him anywhere. I don't like him. He's a Republican.
Out of curiosity I looked up a map of the Michigan 8th, and it appears to have suffered a slight bit of gerrymandering after the last census, a push eastward to include part of Oakland County. The page I was looking at also listed all the representatives from this district, which was created in 1873, and I was reminded that Rogers' predecessor was Debbie Stabenow, who has represented me one way or another ever since I came to Michigan.
For fun I Googled Debbie Stabenow, and I learned that she started out as a social worker. In 1975, while still in graduate school earning her MSW from Michigan State, she ran for and won a seat on the Ingham County Board of Commissioners, serving for three years.
After that she just kept climbing up: Michigan House of Representatives for 12 years, Michigan Senate for four, followed by two terms in the U. S. House, and now in her second term in the U. S. Senate. It looks like the only thing left for her to do now is run for President.
I'm gonna like Debbie on Facebook, and everywhere else.
Mike Rogers wants me to "like" him on Facebook. Then I would see messages from him there, I guess. Well, I will not like him on Facebook. I will not like him anywhere. I don't like him. He's a Republican.
Out of curiosity I looked up a map of the Michigan 8th, and it appears to have suffered a slight bit of gerrymandering after the last census, a push eastward to include part of Oakland County. The page I was looking at also listed all the representatives from this district, which was created in 1873, and I was reminded that Rogers' predecessor was Debbie Stabenow, who has represented me one way or another ever since I came to Michigan.
For fun I Googled Debbie Stabenow, and I learned that she started out as a social worker. In 1975, while still in graduate school earning her MSW from Michigan State, she ran for and won a seat on the Ingham County Board of Commissioners, serving for three years.
After that she just kept climbing up: Michigan House of Representatives for 12 years, Michigan Senate for four, followed by two terms in the U. S. House, and now in her second term in the U. S. Senate. It looks like the only thing left for her to do now is run for President.
I'm gonna like Debbie on Facebook, and everywhere else.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Almost Symbiotic
I have had the most scathingly brilliant idea that turns two seemingly unrelated needs into a synergistic mutuality, or what you might call killing two birds with one stone. First, I think it is about time some serious recognition is given to my favorite dog. Second, there is a high school in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan that needs a new mascot. Voila!
I cannot even guess why Watersmeet, Michigan, is content to call itself the Home of the Nimrods. Seriously? No. That has to go. It's time for them to become the Watersmeet Chihuahuas. What better mascot could a school ask for? Although the smallest dog breed, Chihuahuas are smart, brave, loyal, lovable, and so damned cute. At least my dog is all those things.
Football players could take a lesson on being fierce from her. You should see her taking on the dogs next door (through the fence, of course). I admit she can be a little haughty -- generally after she tires of barking back at those yappy dogs next door, she just turns her back on them and takes a dump. Message clear.
My dog also speaks. Not having the same mechanisms as a human, she creates words by grunting, but you can always tell what she means. Her most memorable utterance came one day when she wanted a sample of what was being prepared in the kitchen, and when she didn't get any, she said, "What the hell?" She did -- my partner heard it too.
And did I say smart? The other day I tossed her a treat that went under a chair. She couldn't get her snout under it to get the treat, so she reached in with her paw and pulled it out to herself. How brilliant is that? She'll be devising tools next.
I'm going to draft a letter to the faculty and students of Watersmeet High School this morning. If I enclose a photograph of my sweet Soji, I know they will be all for the change. And as for my tiny dog, when I asked her if she'd like to be Watersmeet's new mascot, she just shrugged and said, "Why not?"
I cannot even guess why Watersmeet, Michigan, is content to call itself the Home of the Nimrods. Seriously? No. That has to go. It's time for them to become the Watersmeet Chihuahuas. What better mascot could a school ask for? Although the smallest dog breed, Chihuahuas are smart, brave, loyal, lovable, and so damned cute. At least my dog is all those things.
Football players could take a lesson on being fierce from her. You should see her taking on the dogs next door (through the fence, of course). I admit she can be a little haughty -- generally after she tires of barking back at those yappy dogs next door, she just turns her back on them and takes a dump. Message clear.
My dog also speaks. Not having the same mechanisms as a human, she creates words by grunting, but you can always tell what she means. Her most memorable utterance came one day when she wanted a sample of what was being prepared in the kitchen, and when she didn't get any, she said, "What the hell?" She did -- my partner heard it too.
And did I say smart? The other day I tossed her a treat that went under a chair. She couldn't get her snout under it to get the treat, so she reached in with her paw and pulled it out to herself. How brilliant is that? She'll be devising tools next.
I'm going to draft a letter to the faculty and students of Watersmeet High School this morning. If I enclose a photograph of my sweet Soji, I know they will be all for the change. And as for my tiny dog, when I asked her if she'd like to be Watersmeet's new mascot, she just shrugged and said, "Why not?"
Monday, July 4, 2011
It's my favorite holiday of the year
The Fourth of July is my favorite holiday for several reasons. It is completely secular (unlike Christmas or even Thanksgiving, which has religious overtones), it is commemorative of an event (unlike, say, Labor Day), it is a joyous commemoration (unlike the more solemn Memorial Day on which we honor our war dead), and it occurs in the summer when the possibility of icy roads hampering travel is extremely remote and the chances of getting to eat hot dogs charred on the grill are extremely good. Also, I love sparklers.
I was moved on July 4, 1979, to wax more or less poetic, and since I cannot render this for everyone in person, I will share it here, along with my best wishes for a happy holiday.
Cento for Independence Day
O beautiful for spacious skies,
My country, ‘tis of thee,
Columbia, gem of the ocean –
O say, can you see?
Yankee Doodle went to town,
Glory, glory hallelujah!
God bless America,
And happy birthday to ya!
© 1979 Jan Knez
I was moved on July 4, 1979, to wax more or less poetic, and since I cannot render this for everyone in person, I will share it here, along with my best wishes for a happy holiday.
Cento for Independence Day
O beautiful for spacious skies,
My country, ‘tis of thee,
Columbia, gem of the ocean –
O say, can you see?
Yankee Doodle went to town,
Glory, glory hallelujah!
God bless America,
And happy birthday to ya!
© 1979 Jan Knez
Friday, July 1, 2011
Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit!
A long time ago a guy named Wally Phillips had a wildly popular morning show on WGN radio in Chicago. It was from him that my mother heard about the practice of saying "Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit" to people on the first day of the month. He said you would get along all month long with all the people you say it to.
According to what I can find on the Internet, Wally's take on it is a variation of a common superstition in England. You will have good luck all month, they say, if the first words you utter upon waking on the first day of the month are "rabbit, rabbit" or "rabbit, rabbit, rabbit" or "rabbit, rabbit, white rabbit" or just "white rabbit." Plurals of any of those are also acceptable.
Whatever the reason for saying it, my mother always did. Every first of every month. To everybody. That, I presume, is why I say it too.
Speaking of my mother and superstitions and keeping traditions alive -- I said in a recent post I am not superstitious, but I have to admit that if I spill salt, I still do toss a pinch of it over my left shoulder, for no other reason but that my mother always did.
I once said to her, "Mom, if you're supposed to throw salt over your shoulder when you spill it, what should you do if you spill the pepper?" She said, "Clean it up."
According to what I can find on the Internet, Wally's take on it is a variation of a common superstition in England. You will have good luck all month, they say, if the first words you utter upon waking on the first day of the month are "rabbit, rabbit" or "rabbit, rabbit, rabbit" or "rabbit, rabbit, white rabbit" or just "white rabbit." Plurals of any of those are also acceptable.
Whatever the reason for saying it, my mother always did. Every first of every month. To everybody. That, I presume, is why I say it too.
Speaking of my mother and superstitions and keeping traditions alive -- I said in a recent post I am not superstitious, but I have to admit that if I spill salt, I still do toss a pinch of it over my left shoulder, for no other reason but that my mother always did.
I once said to her, "Mom, if you're supposed to throw salt over your shoulder when you spill it, what should you do if you spill the pepper?" She said, "Clean it up."
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