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.

Thank A Vet

Smokey the Cat was feral when he tracked us down.  Underweight and a social misfit, he quickly adapted to life at easternshorefishandgame.com.  Everyone here enjoys his company as he enjoys theirs.

 

He is smart and he shows his learned talents opening doors, notifying you of  dwindling food in his dish, and announcing visitors.

 

He is pretty much amenable to everything anyone does to him with two exceptions: He doesn’t like having his claws clipped, and he dislikes being picked up by the scruff of his neck.

 

The problem lies in that in order to clip his nails, one has to grasp him by the nape of his neck.  If you grab him by the nape of his neck he will go berserk.  BERSERK!

 

To keep him from catching his claws on the carpet with every step, he needs to have them trimmed – a painless exercise for nearly every cat – semi-annually.

 

I schlepped Smokey to the vet’s office at a veterinarian chain whose name rhymes with er, it actually rhymes with nothing – Banfield Animal Hospital - for this regularly scheduled adventure only to be met by a young receptionist.

 

Smokey was checked in at which time I clearly said, in English, “Don’t touch him by the nape of his neck.”

 

This young chippie nodded and smiled indicating she understood the words coming out of my mouth.

 

It wasn’t long before she returned to the waiting room to retrieve Smokey in his cage, at which time I asked her if she remembered what I told her moments before.

 

“Don’t pick him up by his nape,” she correctly replied, again with a smile and nod.

 

It didn’t take very long before she rushed out of the Banfield examination room, panting and wearing a fearful look in her eyes.

 

“We can’t get him out of his cage; he’s growling and hissing at us!” she relayed to me.

 

I strolled into the small exam room, reached inside his cage and picked him up with no blood shed.

 

“You tried to grab him by…” was all I could say before both the veterinarian and her aide interrupted with, “The nape of his neck.”

 

Indeed the message had made its way to the powers-that-be, but the message went unheeded.

 

A few quick hisses and surly looks passed back and forth between Smokey and the vet but, all was well after a few brief minutes.

 

It should be noted that this was not the first time this scenario played out at a Banfield Hospital.  Two years ago, Smokey actually chased the vet around the exam room and was sedated to get him to comply.  That Banfield location officially banned Smokey from re-entry.

 

The moral of this story is simple: Don’t bother to speak to Banfield personnel as they don’t listen either.

Jellyfish

Jellyfish are those prehistoric creatures that invade our waterways during warm weather.  They have no sense of sight, no respiratory system, no central nervous system, and no spine.  Still, they get around enough to feed and annoy humans.

Every trip to Walmart brings tears to my eyes.  It seems as though only a few short seconds go by before I spot clearly disabled individuals leaning upon shopping cart handles to support themselves.

These poor folks of all sizes, colors, and ages sachet along with obvious medical conditions pointing to missing spines.

All these patrons push their carts with their elbows, hunched over as if ready to eat from a trough, and maneuver throughout the store with little control of their “vehicles” and sporting dazed looks.

Such pathetic scenes are real tear-jerkers for other shoppers – seeing the handicapped stress themselves out to obtain sustenance and miscellaneous goods.  The bravery of these skeletally-deprived shoppers makes me think of all those boneless chickens sold.

How tough would life be trying to exist without leg, back, and chest bones?  It’s clear all these ‘cart leaners’ are experiencing the same woes as our tasty boneless chicken dinners.

Maneuvering their carts without the use of their hands makes for a genuine challenge for them and their fellow shoppers, alike. 

“Precision” is not a word associated with directing wire baskets on wheels through limited spaces between fragile glassware and bottled food stuffs.   Quite often, these cart leaners run into roof-supporting poles and other shoppers’ carts, then feigning even seeing the injured party as if they miraculously arrived via transporter from the Starship Enterprise.

And, while we’re on the subject of controlling your shopping cart, when not pushing it, it should be neatly parked against one side of the aisle.  This simple procedure would allow other people to easily pass the often-cramped spaces inside stores maximizing the use of all valuable floor space.

I should not have to call to, and beg you, to move your cart and over-inflated ego so that I may pass.

Yesterday, I was trying to make my way through the produce department when a huge roadblock stopped me from proceeding.  A self-centered clown had his cart turned sideways in the aisle while he was examining corn-on-the-cob like a CSI investigator searching for DNA.  After two calls to get his attention failed, I pushed his cart aside getting his undivided attention.  At that point, he became belligerent to the position of attempting to make an example of me.  He failed.

We are a nation of laws that range from not being able to spit on seagulls, to murder, sometimes.  It should be the law that one must push their shopping cart with their hands – both of them.  And, walk upright while doing so.  Otherwise, those lawbreakers could be considered jellyfish.

Wanted: Fresh Ideas

Growing up in the Dark Ages, we had little in the way of television entertainment.  I recall watching Mickey Mouse, The Lone Ranger, The Roy Rogers Show, and Lassie as educational TV on the three channels we received.

 

That was before the United States consisted of fifty states, and everyone in the country was overly-sensitive to every word exiting the mouths of others.

 

At the time, these shows were the greatest venues to aid with our developing imaginations.  For example, after helping Roy Rogers follow the bad guys across the western landscape, I would pretend – equally well – that I was assisting him.  Riding my stick horse and drawing my six-shooter, I would corner those bad guys and relish in the moment before heading off to a plate of Mom’s meatloaf.

 

It seems as though many of today’s writers are my age and having flash-backs to the days of black and white television.  Yes, television was strictly black and white until the 1960’s.

 

These writers have been taking small screen programs and turning them into cinema productions for some years now.  Superman is an excellent example, as is Batman.

 

But, let’s not forget the ‘newer’ shows that have been re-done into movies.  Starsky and Hutch, The A-Team, Get Smart, and Dark Shadows, are among the resurrected programs that were questionable during their initial TV run.  No need to remake these shows into movies for more humiliation.

 

Enter The Lone Ranger.  The Lone Ranger was a personal friend of mine – he and Tonto, that is.  These guys and I rode countless miles of trails in search of the dirt bags needing capturing.  I’d like to feel that both of these fellows would be in dire trouble if not for my riding and shooting skills.  Still, in their new movie, there was little interest in this duo and no mention of me.

 

Losses for this film are estimated to near $190,000,000.  That’s a whole bunch of money for those of you keeping track.

 

I’m not sure how much money the other movie remakes took in, or even why they were made in the first place.  Perhaps those old writers felt a new generation should revel in the adventures and antics of characters of days-gone-by.

 

Perhaps those writers could not conjure up a new, unique idea in the form of a storyline.  In any case, these TV shows had a shelf life that expired before their venue became color, and clearly don’t translate well into digital age adventures – big name stars, or not.

 

So what is next for a rewritten television show geared for a new generation?

 

Lassie.  For youngsters in the my little cyber world, Lassie was a Collie who was smarter than Timmy, his master.  Timmy and the surrounding townspeople were always acting the klutz by becoming involved in any number of misadventures.  A falling windmill traps farmer Brown, a chicken starts a fire in the barn, Aunt Sue tumbles into a well, and Lassie alerts Timmy to their dire situations.

 

Barking and gesturing with his nose – Lassie was a girl actually played by a boy dog – Timmy would eventually catch on to Lassie’s alerting him about some unfortunate event.  Sometimes Timmy would be able to handle the matter with Lassie, other times they required the extra help of Timmy’s Dad.  Always, though, the outcome was heroic.

 

This type of family-oriented entertainment is not conducive to a digital-accustomed audience that relishes movies such as Avatar.  So guys, save your time and money and don’t make Lassie into a movie.

Baloney

Since I have a pretty good memory, I’d like to take this opportunity to point out a few things that many Obama administration folks said that everyone else forgot.

 

A quick visit to the White House website unveils a sentence, “President Obama is committed to making this the most open and participatory administration in history.”  Unfortunately, the famed historian Michael Beschloss – don’t feel bad; I never heard of him either – claims he is the smartest man to ever become President and, Obama’s IQ is so high, it is off the charts.

 

We wouldn’t really know because Obama refuses to release his college transcripts.  The rest of his record speaks for itself.

 

The Affordable Healthcare Act, aka. Obamacare, will save so much money, it will pay for itself.  Yeah, right.  Not even in its infancy, Obamacare is becoming a genuine liability for the Democrats.  Nancy Pelosi smugly said her bunch of henchmen would need “to pass the bill to find out what’s in it.”  Sens. Mitch McConnell, and Jeff Sessions, Republican turncoats, felt Senator Pelosi’s statement had merit.

 

Not only is Obamacare an albatross around the neck of America, it is a very costly albatross.  So much so, that Obama has postponed the costly penalty phase for large employers that don’t provide healthcare for its employees.  Remember this SNAFU when the mid-term elections occur for Democratic and turncoat politicians.  Since we now know “what’s in it,” we can kill Obamacare and fire arrogant Nancy Pelosi.

 

While George W. Bush served his two terms as president, we heard nothing but slander coming from the Left.  “He’s so stupid,” and “What an embarrassment to America he is,” were just two ugly, inaccurate statements used as fact against President Bush.

 

Enter Vice President Joe Biden.  Uncle Joe is best described as an imbecile in a nice suit.  It seems as though no one in late night comedy or the press can hear the words exiting Uncle Joe’s yap.  They are usually the words that would come from someone high on weed – a stoner.  Yet, this example of someone who needs medication is always placed above President Bush, Sarah Palin, and former VP Dan Quayle, who famously misspelled “potato.”

 

Cindy Sheehan, kook-at-large, relentlessly protested at the White House when George Bush was president.  She felt the need to spotlight the fact President Bush involved us in a war in Iraq.  After his term was up, she then bought land near his home in Texas to continue the protest.  Maybe this crazy dolt doesn’t know President Obama got us involved in a war in Afghanistan.  Maybe?

 

Fast and Furious, a poorly designed and executed plan to sell weapons to Mexican drug lords, and then blame this illegal action on legitimate American gun owners, needs questions answered from the top law enforcement officer, Eric Holder.  AG Holder, the hapless head of the Department of Justice, could use some personal jail time to jog his memory for contempt of Congress he exhibited during hearings on this matter.

 

And Michelle Obama, the First Lady, just mentioned that she considers the White House “a prison.”  Far be it from me to tell Mrs. Obama what to do but, I suggest if she is so uncomfortable in “the people’s house,” she rent a place in which she would be less painful.  Nigeria, perhaps.