Figs For All

This is that special time of year when all that sweet stuff comes together.  Return of football season, NASCAR’s race for the chase, the end of sweltering summer heat, and ripening figs, all have arrived.

 

There’s not much I can do about most of that list except for the figs, with which I can help.

 

Two neighbors who have large mature fig trees invited me and my sainted wife over to harvest them.  This gesture is not as benevolent as one would believe.  Although very tasty, they are very attractive, too.  They attract bees and birds who create messes beyond imagination.

 

Indeed, we wound up as characters in a Mark Twain novel, whitewashing the fence for Tom Sawyer, and thanking him for privilege.

 

For the novice “figger” – yes, I just made that word up – figs come in different varieties and ripen at varying times.  The figs we were after were ready and waiting and birds were preparing for the kill.

 

With - all you environmentalists can take your medication now - plastic shopping bags, we trekked roughly five yards to reach one tree and manage to harvest roughly eight pounds.  Both bags were nearly full.

 

A couple of figgers, we brought them home to magically change them into fig preserves.  Hours of cooking them down, sterilizing the canning jars and lids, and concocting a special mixture of fresh-squeezed lemon juice and a modicum of sugar turned those eight pounds of figs into over a dozen pint jars of awesome.

 

Some were shared with the trees’ owners, and others were used to settle small debts.  A few even made their way into the fridge for use on toast and pork roasts, down the road.

 

But, the call came again.  “Come get more figs!  They’re ready!” summoned tree owner Camille.

 

Much to my sainted wife’s chagrin, we made our way back to gather more figs to create more natural goodness and more stories.

 

This yield was a more controlled three pounds of super ripe righteousness.  It didn’t take long before my sainted wife bucked like a wild bronco complaining about having to cook these additional figs down to a manageable scrumptious slush.

 

Perusing her cookbooks for some sort of recipe for other than preserves, my sainted wife discovered one for fig cake.

 

A mixer whirred while the over pre-heated.  I helped by greasing the pan and giving some stellar, free advice, for which we were all grateful.

 

After a few short hours, we had a tantalizing product that needed taste testing.  It was moist and akin to carrot cake, only sweeter.  The addition of chopped walnuts added to its delight.

 

It was too warm to apply icing so, we waited until the next day.  It became a new cake altogether.

 

I was once told to ‘finish what you start.’  Excuse me while I finish my cake.

Are You Ready For Some Football?

Thank goodness that we have once again arrived at football season.  It’s been a pretty quiet few months since the mayhem of ice hockey ended with the award of the Stanley Cup to, er, nobody really knows.
 

So, football is back to fill that void in true couch potato lives with violence and injuries.  It is funny to see sophisticated football fans laugh at NASCAR fans; footballers believe NASCAR is all about waiting for wrecks, while NASCAR fans believe football is all about injuring the quarterback.  Both are right.

 

For football novices, the quarterback is the guy on the team who gets all the girls.  The rest of the team has become somewhat indiscernible over the past few years with commentators inventing new names for the varying positions.

 

What used to be jobs such as end, guard, tackle, center, half-back, full-back, and quarterback, have evolved into free safety, left corner, middle back, running back, and the guy who gets all the girls.

 

Those commentators who changed the face of the game left the game because they ceased being effective either on the field or with the girls.

 

But, it is also the playing contingency that helped with name changes.  When giving a sweaty interview after the game, they would usually say things such as, “Broomblat I, ya’know, gommerajnsd, ya’know, wit sommjan and a touchdown, ya’know.”

 

Their remarkable communication skills should come as no surprise since 99% of the NFL is comprised of college graduates.  That information should make mom and dad proud.

 

And although these guys play together as a team, some players are better thought of than other teammates.  Just as homes of multiple siblings have a sense of rivalry, so do NFL teams.

 

The Washington Redskins have quarterback RGIII, or Robert Griffin, III, who is likely to replace President Obama as the next king of the universe.  It’s great that RGIII may actually lead the United States into war with Syria, right after he finishes with that cure for cancer.

 

In any case, one of the other guys on the team is critical to its success – the center.  The center is the fellow who picks the ball up from the ground and hands it to the quarterback.  That oversimplification is actually quite complex.  You see, it is the center that must point to the guys on the other side of the line of scrimmage, a clearly critical action that ensures your team realizes there are other guys actually there.

 

But, the crux of the game is the arrangement of plays.  These football players are skilled professionals who must remember quite a number of plays – run and pass.  To realize true success, these plays are drilled over and over and over so that there will be no chance of error in the game itself.

 

These plays are scripted, like a complex dance, by former players and coaches who painfully go over these steps with their studies.  Eventually, they are ready for game day and call the plays with the help of assistant coaches and assistant assistant coaches.  These plays are transmitted via wireless communications, and are so secret that these coaches cover their mouths with folders while reading the plays.  It seems that opponents employ lip-readers to spy on the other guys to intercept that crucial information.

 

Nonetheless, here’s a copy of secret plays that will be used throughout the football season, and into the Superbowl: first down, run up the middle.  Second down, run up the middle.  Third down, throw a forward pass 7 feet over the intended receiver’s head.  Punt the ball to the other guys.

Not Free No More

In cooking, the “Holy Trinity” consists of onion, bell peppers, and celery.  In Roman Catholicism it refers to the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.  In my world, the trinity refers to stuff that should be free: air, water, and parking.

 

Fortunately for business people and the politicians, they already figured out how to charge for all three.

 

Air for your car or bicycle tires now come from a pump that costs a dollar and up.  This used to be a freebie at service stations but, no longer.  Some ‘suit’ realized we all need air now and then so, why not charge for it?

 

Cement-mounted pumps awaiting at most service stations and car washes sit with coin slot agape, ready to swallow up to eight quarters to extract air from the atmosphere and push it into your tires.  You are not really buying air, just the method to get it where you need it.  That is slick.

 

Water is another gimmick that has taken on a whole life of its own.  Seventy percent of the Earth’s surface is covered with water.  That being said, free water used to be available from water bubblers – or fountains – until another marketing genius thought, “Since people are so thirsty, we can now charge a buck for a bottle!”

 

And so they did.  Now, even in some restaurants, a glass of water costs money.  Here’s a news flash from www.easternshorefishandgame.com: Water is free from faucets in your kitchen and bathroom.  Your garden hose has some cheap or free water, too.

 

We were actually encouraged to buy bottled water years ago.  It seems as though bottled water was supposed to be better for you than tap water, not containing all those nasty chemicals that tap water contains.  Fluoride and chlorine were introduced into the water supplies to prevent cavities and water-borne illnesses, respectively.  Now, we have a vehicle – through bottled water – to circumvent these prophylaxis measures.

 

Now, we are being discouraged from drinking bottled water because of all those pesky plastic bottles that are winding up in landfills.  Uh, oh.  The law of unintended consequences is in motion.  I have a solution.  Canteens filled from your home water tap.

 

But, parking is the big kick in the pants.  State governments require us to have our vehicles registered, inspected, and equipped with many safety options, all on our dimes.  Many over-populated urban areas also require owners to pay a local tax for the privilege to “garage” your vehicle in a specific jurisdiction.  The odd part of all this is that once you have met all these criteria, you are issued a ‘zone decal’ indicating which zone in which you reside.  All is well until you want to park your vehicle in a zone other than yours.  How great is that?

 

How about those specialty shops we were supposed to support – the local stores operated by small business owners?  They are neatly placed on old brick sidewalks on quaint neighborhoods with period façade buildings, but no parking lots.  Perhaps the planners thought patrons would visit these establishments riding up on their palominos or pushing their aluminum walkers.  When parking became a premium because of potential shoppers, garages were constructed to funnel vehicles to them to clear the narrow cobblestone streets.  But, parking fees needed to be established to discourage traffic in these picturesque areas.  What?

 

This is a snapshot of the forward thinkers populating our municipalities and future businesses.  That’s too bad.