Smashing Pumpkins
Category: Food
Free Range Change
People Are Crazy
Yesterday we were driving on the highway (not a road, not a street–but a major United States highway), and we noticed that cars were slowing down in the right lane because they could not get around something. As we came up on it, I discovered it was a woman in a wheelchair–no, wait–not one, but TWO sets of wheels, so another person was behind her as well. It was a TANDEM wheelchair outing, not on a sidewalk nor the shoulder of the road nor a bike lane (there were none), but on a highway, and ON TOP OF THAT, the man behind her was walking a black and white dog. Multitasking, if you will. And where were they going? Turns out, they took a right into the Sonic. Yes, and it wasn’t even Sonic Happy Hour, when tots and Route 44 limeades are half-price. I guess they thought they’d book it on over to the Sonic at twilight (death wish, much?) for a footlong Coney, while getting the dog exercise and holding up traffic. Really?
Tiny Bubbles
Look closely (double-click) and you can see the fizzy carbonation shooting up into the air!
I really don’t understand how people can cut out soda in their diet. Soda makes me so happy. Despite the empty calories, the caffeine, and the high fructose corn syrup, I still delight in those tiny bubbles. And, no, mineral water/club soda is not the same. At all.
Hazelnuts Roasting On An Open Fire
Why does hazelnut creamer taste sooooo good in my coffee, but hazelnuts taste worse than rancid calf fries?
At that moment when I pull back the foil freshness barrier on my new can of mixed nuts, a world of opportunity explodes. Like Guy Fieri says (excessively), “Everyone is in the pool.” And it’s all good; we’re all friends here. Except you, hazelnuts. Nobody invited you. We don’t want you living in our neighborhood, much less swimming in our pool. Go home. Go back to your fibrous husk and don’t come back.
Hazelnuts are otherwise known as filberts (which seems better suited as a name for a male born in the 1930s), but did you know they are also called cobnuts? Verily, I say this unto you. Can you feel your mouth salivating?
It is rather joyous to say “Kentish Cobnuts” aloud, however. Go ahead. Kentish Cobnuts. Kentish Cobnuts. Why isn’t there a band called The Cobnuts? It makes much more sense than The Lovin’ Spoonful. Moving on…
It is a universal truth that the filbert is the base of the nut totem pole, the bottom in the hierarchy, the least desirable. It’s the Mike Nesmith of The Monkees, the Whoopi Goldberg of The View. And why is it that I can pony up extra money to weed the commoner’s peanuts out of the can entirely, but those dang hazelnuts are still clear and present?
What gives? This is the land of the free! Do the rest of you really enjoy hazelnuts? Are you busy spreading Nutella all over your nine grain toast each morning? You know cashews are superior. And pecans. And almonds. And Brazil nuts. Heck, even peanuts are superior to those wretched hazelnuts. I would pay good money for someone to invent something akin to a metal detector, but much smaller and possessing the power to pull filberts to the top of the can, so I can grab them and fling them out into the back yard for my aging dogs to digest. I’m pretty sure any animal that eats lizard tails as an appetizer preceding a meal of its own poop wouldn’t mind a filbert. Then again–it’s a FILBERT. Ick.
The only thing worse is biting into a nut of higher caliber, and then realizing it’s rotten. Planters be damned!! And you never get the head’s up on that; it’s always a crapshoot. By the time you notice, you’ve already chewed it to a paste, and you can’t really spit it out, so you just swallow it down, hoping to quickly toss a fresh nut down your gullet to cover the taste of the foul one.
I admit I do eat them, but only because I’m all kinds of cheap and can’t fathom paying for something that may get wasted. But sometimes I leave several in the can before tossing it out. It makes a nice rattling sound as it hits the side of the garbage bin.
Dilly Bars & Hungr-Busters
Desert Oasis
We visited The Oasis this past weekend in central Texas and enjoyed a nice meal of redfish, grilled veggies, and rice. The Oasis has never (in decades) been known for decent or reasonably-priced food, so this was quite a surprise. And though it was a steamy 104 degrees in the sun, the shaded deck (and surrounding fans) allowed for a comfortable meal.
The lake level has been so low for so long, that it’s hard to recall a time when Lake Travis was full, and we weren’t under mandatory watering restrictions. This island shouldn’t really exist. It should all be under water.
Despite the heat, humidity, and low water levels, the lake can still be an enjoyable spot for breathtaking views. The dozens of sailboats and waterboats, skiers and fishermen can testify to that.
We’re just happy the trees are still green in August, instead of pointy brown branches, singed from oppressive sunlight. Dog days indeed.
Kilamanjaro Rises Like Olympus Above The Serengeti
So maybe it’s not the Serengeti per se, but it’s hot here in Texas. We just spent an hour and a half at soccer practice, watching a dozen pre-adolescent boys in windshorts, long socks, and flushed faces as they scrimmaged on the treeless field. No trees on the perimeter. No wind blowing. And P.S. it’s 103. Right now. As I’m typing. Now, the thermometer on my dashboard reads 113, but technically, the official reading is 103–with 103 predicted every day for the next week.
There stands one sky-high pole near the field, a light that comes on at dusk if a seasonal game is to be played. The one long eighteen inch-wide shadow that it cast was exactly where I set up my folding chair. To keep my lap shaded meant that my left ear was left vulnerable to the sun’s rays, and it quickly felt singed. Then another parent arrived, and he set his chair a couple feet to the left, closest to the pole (and the adjacent trashcan, around which menacing wasps flew). The others set their chairs to my right, so that we were all aligned perfectly like little planets, lifting our chairs and scooching back an inch at select intervals as the relentless sun traveled across the sky.
Just sitting in the shade, beads of sweat ran down my neck, down my spine, into the spot where a tramp stamp would be, had I been reckless and drunk over a decade ago. Even younger, thinner parents were pouring sweat and pounding bottled water. No wonder the kids, ever in motion, ever in the sun, kept hunching over to catch their breaths. Youth was not wasted on them. They kept up the pace–running, passing, kicking, yelling–stopping to take swigs from Igloos three times total. Those little buggers were tough!
We took my son out for ice cream afterward, where he got a scoop of cookies ‘n’ cream, loaded with toppings that included gummi bears (which he called “nummi bears”–“that’s what all the kids at school say”), as well as “whoopers,” which were really Whoppers, and some caviar-looking seawood fruit pellets with a name like soba. Odd. There we sat, consuming ice cream (not frozen yogurt) in the lovely air-conditionedness of the parlor, while my drenched bra began to cool down. Nothing like a wet underwire digging into your flesh to make you enjoy being a woman. Nonetheless, I felt a wave of gratitude: Thank you, Lord, that I was born in a First-World country, into an era with conditioned cold air, with enough disposable income to buy each family member ice cream with all the toppings you can shove in the cup. It may be hot, but we know how time flies. It’ll be Christmas in no time.
Spaghetti Swooshing
I was reading a back issue of Saveur magazine this morning (the cover picture of sliced watermelon drew me in), and this picture was on the back page.
Spaghetti swooshing requires no use of one’s hands. Ever heard of such a thing?
Deep Fried Bottom Feeder
Over the weekend, we visited quaint little Marble Falls, Texas and dined at http://www.rivercitygrilletx.com/, a lovely restaurant overlooking Lake Marble Falls.
Pickle Parts & Pepper Carcasses
When I purchase a package of bacon, I expect slabs of dead piggy, all red and white marbled and ready to fry. I do not anticipate random snouts and tails tossed in. In civilized society, that would be unthinkable. If I wanted that, I would simply buy hot dogs. Likewise, when I buy a carton of orange juice, I have the power to decide how much pulp I would like, but I can be certain that strips of rind will not be thrown in for flavor.
So why is it okay for pickle and jalapeno companies to shove in pickle tops and jalapeno tops in my jars of otherwise usable food items? The answer is: IT IS NOT. If Tylenol can’t include razor blades in their bottles of acetaminophen any more, then this should not be permissible as well.
It’s like people who went to I.T.T. who couldn’t find jobs and are now passing out flyers; they’re saying, “Here, throw this away for me.” That’s what these manufacturers are essentially demanding of me, the consumer. Throw your own crap away. Don’t fill up my jar with your rubbish. Why do I have to pay for that?
No one wants to bite into a breakfast taco, filled with a salsa containing pointy jalapeno stems that slit the roof of her mouth. Joe Schmoe doesn’t want to spend his piddly lunch hour, wretching up the half-chewed bite of ham and cheese sandwich containing a hard, impenetrable pickle top. Who can afford to spit out forty cent’s worth of lunch? Not me. Not in THIS recession. Not in this lifetime.
If they can put a man on the moon before I was even birthed, if they can put a lifetime of entertainment on a teensy wittle phone that only requires one to merely wave his hand across in order to answer said overpriced, soon-outdated phone, then they can remedy this. Chop chop!
I Don't Get It 