It's All About The Potatoes

I have been fortunate enough to travel extensively and even liv (e in two countries. Among the lessons I have learned....fried potatoes in any language are tasty. Having said that, let me share some of the experience with you.
Pommes Frites
The French have a way with any cooking, they aren't just bragging when they say so. I spent a remarkable week or so in Paris awhile back and tried my best to eat the classic French dishes. Thus the escargots (delicious) in garlic butter, the baguette (I swear, the bread IS better), etc. I cannot say that one meal was superior to any other, they were all marvelous. I had the pommes frites with a steak and both were awesome. Thin, crispy, perfectly salted, the potatoes did not need any condiments. It would have been a waste of both catsup and potatoes. At another meal, lunch as it happens, I partook of a sandwich in a Greek sandwich shop. The topping for the lovely, fresh ingredients was a healthy serving of pomme frites. An idea that should be borrowed and lavishly used.
Chips
I visited France while living in northern England, an industrial city near the border with Scotland. There I learned to appreciate, and cook, chips. They are not French fries, maybe because of some lingering disagreement with France, but they are fried potatoes. During my time in the chippy (Fish 'n Chip Shop named Cherry's) I lifted huge dishpans of peeled potatoes, loading them into the chipper...somewhat like a wood chipper but smaller, though just as noisy. The potatoes then proceeded through the chipper into the now empty dishpan underneath, sliced into a size reminiscent of steak fries in the U.S.A. After dumping the potatoes into a vat of vegetable shortening roiling at 360 degrees F, I waited until they were crispy brown and floating. Dipping them out with a basket kind of ladle they went in to a metal, heated bin to wait for customers. And customers there were. This little shop was in the middle of the working class district, near a lot of pubs. We sold chips, and other chippy food, from opening until closing. The chips were taken from the bin, still blazing hot, placed on blank paper, salted and dressed with vinegar according to the tastes of the customer.

The Political Scene

Todays political climate is all about special interest groups lobbying to keep health care expensive, oil prices up, and the USA shopping. 

It also appears to be very important for the USA to continually be at war. Look at the last century if you doubt this. Or, actually, the last two centuries. Wait a MO! Aren't we just a little over two centuries old? So, once the Independence was Declared it became important to keep the military occupied. Well, it does keep the generals from staging coups in D.C., mostly. If you don't understand the concept of shopping being related to wars, well I'm not sure I can elucidate. 

Do they come in Mauve?

But, I'll try for a bit. Congress (and Senate) has a lot of politicians, mostly male, who want to remain in Washington. That is where the parties flow freely, beautiful women want to sleep with powerful men, and lobbyists want to use all of that action to keep THEIR jobs and salaries. So that the lobbyists can shop. And the hostesses can spend. And the mistresses can buy pretty lingerie. And the political spouses can order from caterers and liquor stores...you get the drift. Washington (insiders and lobbyists and caterers) and Congress keep each other happy and busy, better than living in smalltown U.S.A., right? The generals/admirals come to town when they want more money. If they don't get the money they could make trouble. So, Congress gets the military powerful busy...shopping. 

Unfortunately, they only want to buy bullets and guns and tanks and billion dollar equipment. A LOT of money is what it takes to keep the Generals shopping. But then once they buy all the things on their lists, and run out of DOD money the Generals have to put the equipment to work. Otherwise the American taxpayer would object (apparently most of us don't; maybe because we're busy shopping or wanting to shop but can't because we're broke). And the only place to use those delightful items on the Generals and Admirals lists is...you got it....WAR!

I have a simple proposition...send everyone home from Washington D.C., take the lists away from the DOD, and find some lists out here in the heartland that might benefit from a multi-billion dollar influx of funds. I have my own list if anyone is interested.

Perfect Breakfast

One pecan waffle with butter and pure maple syrup
Two eggs, over easy, cooked by a loving hand
Three sausages, with sage
Four pieces of crispy bacon
Five ounces of orange juice, lots of pulp
Six ounces of crispy hash browned potatoes, with hot sauce
A family to share the table

Envy isn't necessarily green, it may be grey

I grew up during the '50's and '60's, married first in 1965.

So, I've been around long enough to earn the grey hair on my head. There have been other marks of the miles as well: to wit, a long scar on my abdomen from surgery, wrinkles around my eyes, sagging jowls,other sagging bits. There have been a LOT of miles. And I'm pretty well content with my life so far. I didn't run the marathon I wanted to run...but I ran the River Run (15k in Jacksonville, FL) three times. There was never that black belt in karate...but a yellow. I'm still not scuba certified, but there may be time.

I do have three brilliant, gorgeous, adult children and four brilliant, gorgeous grandchildren. Learning along the way that I am not cut out for marriage (after 4) is the price of admission for me. And it is okay. However, just in the past 24 hours I have discovered a part of me heretofore uncharted and, in fact, denied. I am envious.

Not green with envy, that is far too light a term for the blaze of chagrin, pain, discomfort, which surged through my brain and heart.

I have recently been in contact with a person from my senior class. He had asked a favor, a small one. We have not been in contact for 45 years. In fact, I don't think he ever talked to me directly in school. I do know I didn't like him in high school. He was arrogant, way too self assured, and dismissive. Probably traits I hold as well. But when I looked him up online I found he has had an incredibly successful life/career. Everything seems just as he projected it in school. No apparent bumps in the road. Of course I am sure that is not entirely accurate, everyone has bumps. But he has made it this far with material possessions, family, success in every facet of his life. He is even more handsome as he has aged!

How could that be! We came from the same small community, had much the same education...including an Ivy League graduate school. What happened? Have I learned other lessons? Does his thousand dollar suit hold up better than my $30 uniform? I'm still looking for answers. At this point perhaps the search is where I need to be. I will do the favor for him, and I will continue to pray that he gets everything he wants. He deserves it and I need the practice praying.

Blood On the Tracks

"I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail,
Poisoned in the bushes an' blown out on the trail,
Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn.
Come in, she said,
I'll give you shelter from the storm."

-Bob Dylan, Shelter from the storm,
from the album Blood on the Tracks

 I could have just as easily begun this column with Lennon's quote from A Day in the Life, "I read the news today, oh boy." I have been searching for something topical to write about, and all I found was local tragedies, meaningless repetition and mortgage rates.


I found an article on why marijuana should not be legalized; that is a subject for another time. I found a report of a young mother who decided that murdering her toddlers was a solution simpler than changing diapers. The hot-button issue du jour is the proposed cultural center to be built near Ground Zero, in Manhattan--and, that is an unfit subject for my table, as one of the other editors and I cannot agree on the direction. Perhaps she should hurl a coffee mug at me (a reference to the Kevin Bacon vehicle "He Said / She said"; c'mon get with the minutiae) and then we could film it for a YouTube clip instead of a column.


As always, I digress.


I prefer that life is boiled down to simplicity; sometimes, to do so requires ignoring part of the point of view, which is, of course, a fallacial way to argue. It is easy to pick one side of an argument, ignore the other, and call it good. It also happens to be incorrect by its very definition. So, I am not going to do that.


Nor am I going to submit a column that states that "I have nothing to say"; I always have an opinion on something. It remains to be seen where my mind is today, as I am feeling lazy upon healing from a bad summer cold.


This is also not news-worthy.

Perhaps I should indulge my inner spite-monger and launch a diatribe against illegal Mexican (and Central American) immigrants, because I got an over-spiced burrito in New Mexico. They put boiled pig skin in the damned thing; all of them should be raped and murdered as they attempt to gain access to a decent standard of living. No, wait, that already happens on the border crossing.


Besides, I would then be forced to point out that all of the 9/11 hijackers crossed into the U.S. via Canada. Perhaps it is time for those Maple tree-huggers to feel the wrath of being sodomized by the barrel of an M1A1 Abrams tank. While they're at it, those Canadians can keep their weather, too; how often during winter are we shelled by a sub-zero front "down from Canada" ? Too often. Take Michael J. Fox back, and God Fuck the Queen.

The Burj Khalifa

My solution for the cultural center is simple; send a bomber to knock down the Burj Khalifa (formerly known as the Burj Dubai), and then we (the United States of Amurrica and the followers of the tenets of Islam) would be even-Steven. No muss, no fuss. If we smash their 2,717 foot-tall building into rubble, as was done to our World Trade Center buildings, then the Moslems can have their cultural center near the Ground Zero site. Fair is fair.


The above paragraph was metaphorical, by the way. I am not completely serious. The proposition does have merit, however.

The Beer, The Whole Beer, And Nothing But The Beer: Standing Room Only

Ever since I fell off the back of a flatbed trailer in 1984 (which my uncle had asked to park on the side of our front yard, lacking his own sufficient space) into a clear plastic glass filled with vodka, I was hooked on alcohol and its “benefits”. Vodka was best then, as it looked like a glass of water. It did not make one walk and talk like they had just a few glasses of water, however. Concealing its identity was necessary at the time, being as I was fifteen. Now, while fifteen may reasonably be considered too young to drink, twenty-one is simply too old. A person, upon waking up for the beginning of their eighteenth year, can vote in political elections, or join the armed forces and go off to war to die for their freedoms, as long as those freedoms don’t include such blatant misuses of adulthood like consuming alcohol. I digress chronically, get used to it.

Satan's Nectar

This behavior continued, more or less, until I went cold turkey from the Wild Turkey in 2002. Moving on to present day, I no longer feel the urge to slur through life liquefied, but I do still like to sit down and have a beer or three. The difference today being, I actually care what the beer tastes like, as opposed to how little I might have to spend to achieve moments of clarity. Let’s say that for the better part of twenty years, I spent enough money on Budweiser to keep little Augustus Busch XV comfortably hooked on whatever pill is trendy when he reaches his addictive age. I’m sure our world really needs a male Paris Hilton to round itself into shape. He can fuck Clydesdales on national television, it’ll be a hoot.


What does a reasonably intelligent (former?) alcoholic do with their days off? That is correct, start a search for their personal “ultimate beer”. There have been quite a number that are immeasurably satisfying, to date. Landshark Lager, Pilsner Urquell, Grolsch, Yuengling to name a few. Unfortunately, there are also still beers like Coors. Excuse me, Coors: The Banquet Beer, as they’re trying to sell it as this week.

Do not trust this man.

I’ve had a long-running hatred of Coors, going back to the days when Mark Harmon would STAND IN THE GODDAMN BEER. He has not been forgiven. In fact, I think he should be found, and ended at the ankles. He can then have his stumps sewn into whatever version of Air Jordan’s we’re pretending Michael actually wore as he hops off merrily into another heartfelt episode of NCIS. The “banquet beer” pitchman is Sam Elliot. Fine. Picture yourself for a minute. Yes, you’re the type of person who organizes a banquet. You go to great lengths to make sure everything runs smoothly. You want your guests leaving happy, with a memorable evening. What do you do to help ensure this? Naturally, you stock up on Coors. Fucking Coors? Really? Get the hell away from me. The last thing I need is some gravel-gargling walrus telling me what I should drink.


To wrap it all up in one messy little package, I’m a recovered (my opinion) alcoholic who likes to drink recreationally. Rather than my previous interpretation, which was seemingly a race to find out how quickly I could introduce my face to the floor on any given evening. It managed to do a number on my memory as well, but that’s another story.

The Reigning Champion

The current heavyweight champion, in my world, is the Carlsberg Elephant.

I Know Liberal Is Profanity but....

I'm well aware that I am an unusual woman. Born in Texas, a baby boomer, raised in a Catholic ghetto, graduate of a Catholic grammar school, high school, university; graduate of undoubtedly the most liberal, socially conscious, graduate school of Christian theology in the world (Go Union Heretics!).

My politics and spiritual practices would get me beheaded in some cultures, burned in others; I am guilty on all counts. I was also the wife of a military man for 20 years during the Viet Nam War and its aftermath. Marching the picket lines for farm workers, sitting in at Columbia University to protest apartheid ... I even got arrested celebrating a Holy Thursday Communion service outside of the Shell building in NYC (also apartheid). My liberal credentials are impeccable.

I support the death penalty (for rapists, serial killers, and sexual predators of all kinds) and believe licensed concealed hand guns are the right of all non-felons. (So, okay, my liberal ticket sometimes gets unpunched.) The problem is: I live/work in an environment of bigotry, mysogony, and ignorance that leaves my brain bleeding sometimes. And I cannot say a word out loud. So, I scream in silence here, again preaching to the choir.

Philanthropist and Used Car salesman

Today I "learned" (while preparing my lunch) that Bill O'Reilly is a philanthropist of the first order, contributing millions to charity; brilliant beyond imagining;and justifiable in his hate filled diatribes. I also learned that people who get government benefits are just lazy and should be dropped from the "payroll" immediately.

I was preparing my lunch because I have no money until payday. Me in my barely minimum wage job, working 12 hour shifts, but no longer under the poverty line because "the government" has lowered the minimum.

The people who were espousing all of the above "knowledge" are coworkers, each of whom make at least twice what I do, have insurance elsewhere ...therefore no need for the company to provide it.
It looks like I am just ranting here, and I am. Screaming in the wind.