My spoon is too big
[ 13 Comments ] Posted on 09.12.04 in observations, random
In pondering what the greatest eating utensil is (barring the spork, which isn’t a true instrument of consumption in that it is a hybrid first created in a laboratory), I’ve considered them all. I thought about forks, knives, and chop sticks; but I’ve decided that the MVP of the dinner table is most decidedly the spoon.
They’re useful for most any purpose under the sun: scooping, stirring, and even the occasional cutting of especially tender delights.
Most mashed and soft foods that I consider to be in the “mounded” category are perfect for the spoon. From ice cream to mashed potatoes, the spoon shows them who’s boss by shoveling them from their temporary housing on the good china to the acidic realm of your mouth.
Lemonade and iced tea which lack the cavity fuel necessary to make our human bodies go can be stirred with a healthy dosage of sugar by the spoon. There are even spoons with long handles for that sort of thing. How thoughtful of the spoon manufacturers to make such entities as to not force moist stirring hands.
And when spoons can be use din unconventional ways, they truly show their necessity. Cheesecake is no match for the edge of a spoon, which can act as a replacement knife if it was accidentally taken away with your entree plate. Spoons can oft times be used in the place of forks, as well. When there is no fork readily available, the spoon comes to the rescue and, while not poking to grasp (which, by the way, can be an impediment to retaining the natural juice and flavor in some meats), the spoon shovels the food to the warm recesses of within your pie hole. Yes, spoons truly shine when given seemingly impossible eating situations that otherwise would not be achieved without them.
In conclusion, I salute you, spoon. You are this year’s recipient of the Most Valuable Eating Utensil Award. May your days from now on be long and prosperous, and may you keep up the good work concerning all things food. Thank you.
I’m only sleeping
[ 2 Comments ] Posted on 07.18.04 in observations, random
This summer, I’ve started to take naps in the afternoon. After a day of watching a bunch of kids, I can be quite tuckered.
If someone’s home with me at the time, I tell them I’m going to be napping as to reduce inadvertent sequences of awakening. Usually I say, “Good night,” but now I realize this goodbye is potentially inaccurate.
I take my naps from (roughly) 3:30PM EST to 5:00-6:00PM EST. Therefore, it’s not nighttime when I retire to my quarters.
What am I supposed to say, then? “Goodnight” doesn’t suit the situation, and “good afternoon” is typically associated with a greeting, not a declaration of absence.
You know it’s summer when I fret over silly things like this.
Won’t you be mine?
[ 8 Comments ] Posted on 07.13.04 in friends, observations
I live in a house on the corner of a two street intersection on the south side of town. My family has never been overly friendly with our neighbor-types, but after a few years in this home, I’ve gotten to know a few of them.
First, there’s Steve. He lives across the smaller of the two streets from me. He’s a drug burnout that the seventies left behind, stuttering and drinking the day away. Day by day, he sits at the old wooden picnic table under his old oak tree next to his family’s 1978 Chevy pickup drinking can after can of some cheap domestic beer. Usually around 3:00 PM, he runs out of his brewskies and walks the two blocks to Walgreens for more of his Old Milwaukee. Whenever I see him, he’s already downed a case or two. This, coupled with his old partying days causes him to slur his speech and results in a certain incoherency between his brain and his mouth. So, whenever you see him coming, you’d best get in the house to avoid uninteresting, nowhere-bound conversation.
Next to him lives Gary, Steve’s brother. Gary is a 50-something year-old bachelor, aside from the fact that he lives with their mother. Gary is a mailman who owns a nice Harley. However, he only rides the cycle on Saturdays for about an hour. All the other time he carts around in his mail truck or Steve’s old, clanky pickup. Gary does most of the yardwork for his family and when he does so, he wears the same 30-year-old white shorts that come to about eight inches above his knee. It’s not a pretty picture.
Next door to my house lives the ancient Mrs. Elsie Grecko. When my mom was a kid, any balls accidentally thrown into her yard were gone. Forever. After her husband died, she took to tilling the land in her yard with a rake. Every day of the year, the old leather-like sack of skin would sag outside, rake in hand, and start beating. And beat the land, she would, until evening falls. She still does this every day, every so often stepping back to eye her work. At times, she can achieve a nice criss-cross effect in the dirt that used to be her yard with her rake marks, but that’s only if she’s pounding the land. Sometimes you can spot her whacking her driveway with the rake, but that’s only if she gets bored with her daily land cultivating campaign.
Caddy corner to the Duchess of the Dirt lives the Alexander family, the nicest folks you’ll ever meet. The patriarch of the family is Jim Sr., an ice cream store proprietor. I can only suppose his business isn’t doing well, because of the perpetual lack of cars in the parking lot, but Jim doesn’t seem to mind. Along with every serving of ice cream, you get some soul food to boot. Free gospel teachings, that is. And even if you didn’t want to listen to Jim, you’d have to. The man speaks (although it’s a bit nasally) with an uncommon loud air about him. About anything. The other night I was trimming the hedges in my back yard and he, out of the blue, says, “If you ever need a good grill, I’ll tell you what, you’d best get it from Wal Mart. Oh, it’s great. $57.90, already assembled. Yeah, best grills in the world. Better, even, than Home Depot! Seriously, you should get one of these grills. Best in the world. $57.90, installed. Best grills in the world up there at Wal Mart. Yeah.”
And across the larger of the two streets is an older couple, and though I don’t quite know their names, I do know what kind of people they are. Dirty rotten scoundrels, they are. The whole lot of ‘em. Since they’re older and unemployed, they have a certain scheme for money. Most every Saturday, they have a garage sale. Not the sort where you have a bunch of crap you need to sell, but the kind where you have the same outrageously-priced stuff that nobody buys week after week. They’re bloodthirsty about what they do, too. They take advantage of your directional signs. They offer to take them down because they use them, and then they leave you high and dry. They suck away the competition whenever you try to clean out your garage and make a bit of a profit. Useless, I say. Out of all of my neighbors, they’re the ones I think I like the least. Harmless drunks, crazy elders, and talkative ice cream salesmen I can take. Cutthroat pack rats? Now that’s another story.