There were quite a number of unkind comments about my frog last week at Sam and Deb's anniversary party.
I'd like to point out a few facts for the record.
1. Doug spent some time at the party trying to teach his dog Roxie to bite socialists. Yet all of the socialists at the party remained unbitten at the end of the evening after the bourbon and the beer ran out. My frog has understood since birth that it's his duty to bite socialists, as any socialist who cares to put his finger near the water in the frog bowl will quickly learn.
What's more, my frog's cousins have an entire socialist city terrified. And they're too tough for the wimpy authorities of an entire left coast state, as you dog lovers will learn if you play the video at this link. Dogs have the mentality of fawning slaves; my frog is an unrepentent revolutionary. http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2004/05/25/eveningnews/main619543.shtml
2. David mentioned finding it strange that I write about my frog as though he were a touchy feely pet. My frog is plenty touchy feely. He takes great interest in me when I give him his occasional food pellet, and he gets touchy feely whenever I put a finger within a couple of inches of the water, perhaps because he mistakenly thinks I'm a socialist.
3. In the course of the party I learned some pretty disgusting things about the eating habits of both Doug's Roxie and of Liana and Catherine's cute little Shih Tzus. If my frog is a coprophagist he is at a minimum discrete about it. What happens under the rocks in his bowl stays under the rocks.
4. At 23 years old my frog can benchpress a rock that outweighs him by several times, and he does it whenever I forget to feed him for a few days. Also, in his younger days, he demonstrated the ability to eat an entire tadpole almost as big as him in only two days. Plus, he can broadjump about 30 times his length, and he can highjump about 10 times his length, or at least he could a few years ago when he last escaped from the tank. Finally, he can hold his breath for at least twenty minutes, which is the longest I've ever had the patience to watch him closely. Tell me about your canines when they can do any of those things.
Update: Linda informed me that I may have unjustly identified Doug and Jenny's dog Roxie as a devotee of coprophagy. Linda says it is Rebecca and Matt's dog that goes in for pungent eating. Linda further said the women at the party all agreed that it's only logical that the girl dogs don't indulge and that only boy dogs are filthy pigs.
Showing posts with label deb. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deb. Show all posts
Monday, June 1, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
They're watching you Debra
I think of Deb every time I see one of these articles about the increasing use of cameras to monitor traffic and neighborhoods and in school buses and public bathrooms and the changing rooms at Walmart and such. I'm just kidding about the public bathrooms and the changing rooms - I think. The authorities monitor behavior in public bathrooms with undercover cops, and Walmart probably monitors its changing rooms with geezers too frail to put up front where they might be trampelled in a shopper stampede. But they might be using cameras and we don't know about it because they haven't been caught yet.
I think this camera thing is a good idea; but it doesn't go far enough. Imagine how much more efficient government offices and school classrooms would be if the bureaucrats and teachers knew they were being watched and recorded full time. But we would have to be careful not to hurt the economy. The fall-off of donut sales near police stations would be dramatic and might put Dunkin Donuts out of business; and the sudden rise in demand for gas might drive up prices if all the ghost employees at the various national and state bureaucracies actually started having to show up for work. Also, imagine the stress on the supervisors at the Department of Labor and the Department of Education if they suddenly had to start showing up and also had to find make-work for all the sons and daughters and nephews and mistresses of the various Congresscritters so they would look busy on the videotapes. Claims for disability might skyrocket.
On the other hand, imagine the positive effects on the economy. The feed from a webcam trained on Michelle Obama's new vegetable garden behind the White House, for instance, would probably become an instant hit and generate lots of advertising dollars to help support the government. Imagine the sudden rise in the sales of seeds as everybody rushed out to get what they need to plant what Michelle is planting as she flexes those fine toned arms of hers that the press has been all in a tizzy about.
The public would also learn lots of important information as well if there was a camera focussed on Michelle's garden. For instance, does Michelle use a stoop hoe or a long handled hoe; or does she use those little ergonomic stainless steel trowels and rakes and dibbles that they sell at Smith & Hawken; you know, the kind of tools that look like they were designed by Buckminster Fuller and cost like $39.95 each? And when she picks her vegetables later in the year; will Michelle use one of the baskets that you get when somebody gives you a Harry & David Christmas assortment, the way I do; or will she use a faux Hopi or Navajo basket like those they sell at Williams and Sonoma when she picks her arugula? The boost in sales of gardening equipment and supplies could be immense if the public knew these things.
And then there are the questions pertaining to fertilization and soil amendment. Does Michelle use cow manure or does she use horse manure? Does she shovel the manure into a 55 gallon drum and then fill the drum with water so she can feed each heirloom tomato plant with a little cup of tea, the way Grandpop L used to do? Or does she bury a little fish with each corn seed the way the Indians taught Pilgrims to do before the Pilgrims figured they knew enough and drove all the Indians away? Does Michelle have a mulch heap like I do behind the house, or did the President buy her one of those fancy $179.95 rotating drum compost things that claims to make good compost out of kitchen scraps and lawn clippings in 30 days? Imagine the amount of potential mulch that must be generated by the White House kitchen when they throw those big dinners for all the third world dictators who visit.
And then there's pest control. Is Michelle planning to squish those big green worms between her thumb and forefinger if she finds them on her tomato plants? Will she have a tick can half filled with water like Pop used to have to drop the ticks into if she gets one on her while she's gardening, or if the girls find a fat tick on their dog? Or is Michelle going to teach her girls to gently return the tomato worms and the ticks to the wild the way the PETA folks would no doubt prefer?
These are the crucial questions to which the public needs answers every bit as much as the Limerick police need to know whether Deb comes to a full honest to God stop at the stop sign on Ridge Pike when she goes to work in the morning.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123811365190053401.html#articleTabs%3Darticle
I think this camera thing is a good idea; but it doesn't go far enough. Imagine how much more efficient government offices and school classrooms would be if the bureaucrats and teachers knew they were being watched and recorded full time. But we would have to be careful not to hurt the economy. The fall-off of donut sales near police stations would be dramatic and might put Dunkin Donuts out of business; and the sudden rise in demand for gas might drive up prices if all the ghost employees at the various national and state bureaucracies actually started having to show up for work. Also, imagine the stress on the supervisors at the Department of Labor and the Department of Education if they suddenly had to start showing up and also had to find make-work for all the sons and daughters and nephews and mistresses of the various Congresscritters so they would look busy on the videotapes. Claims for disability might skyrocket.
On the other hand, imagine the positive effects on the economy. The feed from a webcam trained on Michelle Obama's new vegetable garden behind the White House, for instance, would probably become an instant hit and generate lots of advertising dollars to help support the government. Imagine the sudden rise in the sales of seeds as everybody rushed out to get what they need to plant what Michelle is planting as she flexes those fine toned arms of hers that the press has been all in a tizzy about.
The public would also learn lots of important information as well if there was a camera focussed on Michelle's garden. For instance, does Michelle use a stoop hoe or a long handled hoe; or does she use those little ergonomic stainless steel trowels and rakes and dibbles that they sell at Smith & Hawken; you know, the kind of tools that look like they were designed by Buckminster Fuller and cost like $39.95 each? And when she picks her vegetables later in the year; will Michelle use one of the baskets that you get when somebody gives you a Harry & David Christmas assortment, the way I do; or will she use a faux Hopi or Navajo basket like those they sell at Williams and Sonoma when she picks her arugula? The boost in sales of gardening equipment and supplies could be immense if the public knew these things.
And then there are the questions pertaining to fertilization and soil amendment. Does Michelle use cow manure or does she use horse manure? Does she shovel the manure into a 55 gallon drum and then fill the drum with water so she can feed each heirloom tomato plant with a little cup of tea, the way Grandpop L used to do? Or does she bury a little fish with each corn seed the way the Indians taught Pilgrims to do before the Pilgrims figured they knew enough and drove all the Indians away? Does Michelle have a mulch heap like I do behind the house, or did the President buy her one of those fancy $179.95 rotating drum compost things that claims to make good compost out of kitchen scraps and lawn clippings in 30 days? Imagine the amount of potential mulch that must be generated by the White House kitchen when they throw those big dinners for all the third world dictators who visit.
And then there's pest control. Is Michelle planning to squish those big green worms between her thumb and forefinger if she finds them on her tomato plants? Will she have a tick can half filled with water like Pop used to have to drop the ticks into if she gets one on her while she's gardening, or if the girls find a fat tick on their dog? Or is Michelle going to teach her girls to gently return the tomato worms and the ticks to the wild the way the PETA folks would no doubt prefer?
These are the crucial questions to which the public needs answers every bit as much as the Limerick police need to know whether Deb comes to a full honest to God stop at the stop sign on Ridge Pike when she goes to work in the morning.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123811365190053401.html#articleTabs%3Darticle
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Dancing, Dancing With The Stars, and the dog show syndrome
Jas told me yesterday that Hobbs was viciously attacked by a pit bull while he was innocently performing his duty of taking Sam out for a walk. The pit bull viciously chewed up Hobbs' tail despite Sam's valiant efforts to drive him off.
Now, unless you happen to be a groundhog, you know Hobbs to be the very model of an even tempered, well adjusted and peaceable canine, exceptionally well suited for his role as Sam's minder when he's out of sight of Deb. Hobbs is very different from the sort of high strung, overspecialized and neurotic dogs that are being bred by upper class twits to win dog shows. Pit bulls are an example of the kinds of dogs bred in the past by lower class twits to win the kind of dog shows that predominated back in the age when bull and bear baiting and dog fighting to the death were the cultural equivalent of Dancing With the Stars.
In short, Hobbs is a good all-purpose dog while pit bulls are bad single-purpose dogs. Just as Jas and Kathy are good dancers and dance instructors while the sort of neuroticly grinning high kickers who teach and dance with the stars on Dancing With the Stars are bad dancers and worse dance instructors. The Dancing With the Stars instructors and the kind of folks who win dance competitions are the pit bulls and ridiculously over-grinning, over-coiffed, over pampered, over-bred, under-dressed, over-specialized poodles of the dance world. Not that there's anything wrong with that, except that the preposterous poodles and steoidal pit bulls are taken out of their properly fenced dog runs and inevitably escape the leash.
On Saturday evening Linda and I went to the Ballroom on High for its second anniversary dance. The first hour of the evening was given over to dance demonstrations that ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. Jas and Kathy did a real Bolero. A western style couple did a real Two Step and some other country style dances. A swing guy did a real Lindy Hop, which is sort of a jitterbug on steroids. Lin Kettenberg and her husband did a real Foxtrot. All were sublimely better at those dances than any of us ordinary social dancers in the audience who dance for fun and exercise will ever get. But what made them sublime was that they were real; the level of their skill was within range of what we clodhopper social dancers can imagine as being within the range of the possible and desirable.
Interspersed with the real dancers listed above were others who "danced" in the manner of the sort of overbred Chihuahuas and Corgis and Schnauzers and Dachshunds who instruct the stars on Dancing With the Stars in the kind of "dancing" that's more suited to comparison with a performance by the Flying Wallendas or the Chinese National Acrobatic Troup than with a genuine social ballroom dance.
That wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that Jas and Kathy are planning to abandon us and move to Florida. And Farrell plans to turn over their teaching slot to a pair of haughty, overtrained Pit Bulls whose artificial international ballroom competition grins are a cover for their genetic predisposition to bite the tails off us clodhoppers and thus ruin the Wednesday night social dance lesson that we and the other social dancers enjoy.
We had a great time on Saturday night; but it's sad that the event also contained the clear message that the Wednesday night dance lessons will soon go the way of all good things once the "professionals" take over.
Now, unless you happen to be a groundhog, you know Hobbs to be the very model of an even tempered, well adjusted and peaceable canine, exceptionally well suited for his role as Sam's minder when he's out of sight of Deb. Hobbs is very different from the sort of high strung, overspecialized and neurotic dogs that are being bred by upper class twits to win dog shows. Pit bulls are an example of the kinds of dogs bred in the past by lower class twits to win the kind of dog shows that predominated back in the age when bull and bear baiting and dog fighting to the death were the cultural equivalent of Dancing With the Stars.
In short, Hobbs is a good all-purpose dog while pit bulls are bad single-purpose dogs. Just as Jas and Kathy are good dancers and dance instructors while the sort of neuroticly grinning high kickers who teach and dance with the stars on Dancing With the Stars are bad dancers and worse dance instructors. The Dancing With the Stars instructors and the kind of folks who win dance competitions are the pit bulls and ridiculously over-grinning, over-coiffed, over pampered, over-bred, under-dressed, over-specialized poodles of the dance world. Not that there's anything wrong with that, except that the preposterous poodles and steoidal pit bulls are taken out of their properly fenced dog runs and inevitably escape the leash.
On Saturday evening Linda and I went to the Ballroom on High for its second anniversary dance. The first hour of the evening was given over to dance demonstrations that ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. Jas and Kathy did a real Bolero. A western style couple did a real Two Step and some other country style dances. A swing guy did a real Lindy Hop, which is sort of a jitterbug on steroids. Lin Kettenberg and her husband did a real Foxtrot. All were sublimely better at those dances than any of us ordinary social dancers in the audience who dance for fun and exercise will ever get. But what made them sublime was that they were real; the level of their skill was within range of what we clodhopper social dancers can imagine as being within the range of the possible and desirable.
Interspersed with the real dancers listed above were others who "danced" in the manner of the sort of overbred Chihuahuas and Corgis and Schnauzers and Dachshunds who instruct the stars on Dancing With the Stars in the kind of "dancing" that's more suited to comparison with a performance by the Flying Wallendas or the Chinese National Acrobatic Troup than with a genuine social ballroom dance.
That wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that Jas and Kathy are planning to abandon us and move to Florida. And Farrell plans to turn over their teaching slot to a pair of haughty, overtrained Pit Bulls whose artificial international ballroom competition grins are a cover for their genetic predisposition to bite the tails off us clodhoppers and thus ruin the Wednesday night social dance lesson that we and the other social dancers enjoy.
We had a great time on Saturday night; but it's sad that the event also contained the clear message that the Wednesday night dance lessons will soon go the way of all good things once the "professionals" take over.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Echoes of Mom
I was just out in the woods wearing one of the two green Farm Credit Bureau knitted pullover caps that Mom got for me at least thirty years ago. Those knitted caps have gotten more and more ratty over the years; but I've found it impossible to replace them. Mom herself made me a new knitted cap in the 90's in an attempt to replace them; but it proved inferior because she made it only single thickness. Those Farm Credit ones are double thickness. There's a small but significant chance that one day Linda will need to send the 911 people to find me in the woods where I'll be lying under a felled tree like Mr. Colwell's dog. If such an event occurs in the winter the ambulance attendants may first spot the bright green of one of those Farm Credit Bureau caps.
On Saturday evening I met a couple, Leon and Betsy, at the Valentine's Day Dance up at the Ballroom on High who live in Silverdale, which was the site of the Farm Credit Office where Mom worked after they closed the Trooper office.
Last Thursday, Jas and Kathy and I played Scrabble using Mom's swivelling deluxe board with the little ridges that prevent the letter tiles from moving around. Naturally we talked about how Mom would give that forceful arm pump of hers when she put down a high scoring word and especially when she won a game.
Mom was very serious about Scrabble, playing it like a contact sport with very definite rules and very definite protocols of courtesy. Her "Gimme the letter bag!" could carry a real edge, especially when she was losing. And there was almost no better way for me to get a rise out of her at a family dinner than by mentioning just loudly enough for her to hear that I first beat her and Pop at the game when I was nine; which was untrue, but too good not to claim occasionally so Mom could exclaim "You did not!"
Then Marianne reminded me of another of Mom's characteristic reactions after dinner last night over at Sam and Deb's. She was talking about impressive Scrabble words. I was too modest to remind her of the time in Stone Harbor when I told her to look up "Galleass" as I started to put down all seven of my letters to connect the top center triple word block with the "s" that Mom had started a word with on the top right triple word block. The best part was that Mom didn't exclaim "Son of a Bitch!" until after Marianne read out the definition. The truth is that I told Marianne to look it up because I wasn't a hundred percent sure of the spelling; but having Mom tacitly admit by her delay in reacting that she didn't know the word made the moment priceless, even before I reached for the bag and realized that the game was over because there were no more letters.
Scrabble and Mom memories don't get much better than that.
On Saturday evening I met a couple, Leon and Betsy, at the Valentine's Day Dance up at the Ballroom on High who live in Silverdale, which was the site of the Farm Credit Office where Mom worked after they closed the Trooper office.
Last Thursday, Jas and Kathy and I played Scrabble using Mom's swivelling deluxe board with the little ridges that prevent the letter tiles from moving around. Naturally we talked about how Mom would give that forceful arm pump of hers when she put down a high scoring word and especially when she won a game.
Mom was very serious about Scrabble, playing it like a contact sport with very definite rules and very definite protocols of courtesy. Her "Gimme the letter bag!" could carry a real edge, especially when she was losing. And there was almost no better way for me to get a rise out of her at a family dinner than by mentioning just loudly enough for her to hear that I first beat her and Pop at the game when I was nine; which was untrue, but too good not to claim occasionally so Mom could exclaim "You did not!"
Then Marianne reminded me of another of Mom's characteristic reactions after dinner last night over at Sam and Deb's. She was talking about impressive Scrabble words. I was too modest to remind her of the time in Stone Harbor when I told her to look up "Galleass" as I started to put down all seven of my letters to connect the top center triple word block with the "s" that Mom had started a word with on the top right triple word block. The best part was that Mom didn't exclaim "Son of a Bitch!" until after Marianne read out the definition. The truth is that I told Marianne to look it up because I wasn't a hundred percent sure of the spelling; but having Mom tacitly admit by her delay in reacting that she didn't know the word made the moment priceless, even before I reached for the bag and realized that the game was over because there were no more letters.
Scrabble and Mom memories don't get much better than that.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Pizzles, Pogo Sticks and Pogo Possum
Pizzles. The women made pizzles during the cookie baking a few weeks ago. I'm speechless. Well, perhaps I'm not completely speechless.
We went over to Sam and Deb's for Christmas dinner. First off I saw Deb's sister Donna put a pat of butter on the mashed potatoes we brought. I hope her cholesterol numbers are well under control. Eight pounds of potatoes. Two teaspoons of salt. About half a teaspoon of pepper. Three quarters of a pound of butter. And a little milk which wasn't needed. The potatoes were just a bit too creamy; but they almost all went. And the only quibble was by Marianne who just had to get in a little dig.
After dinner I told Sam that he was completely off base on Christmas Eve when he asserted in his typical no-doubt-about-it fashion that the Pogo Stick was named after the Pogo comic strip. It sounded shaky to me at the time, so I looked it up. The Pogo Stick was patented in 1919; while the Pogo Possum comic strip didn't start til the 1940's.
Sam, of course, reacted to being trapped by trying to switch fields. He lamely claimed that the Pogo comic strip was named after the Pogo Stick. But I had already foreclosed that escape by looking up the info on the comic strip. No mention of any Pogo Sticks; but lots of mention of the writer choosing names to go with the type of animal. So the possum's name is Pogo for onomatopoetic reasons, not bouncing reasons. Besides, who would ever envision a sluggish waddling possum bouncing like a person on a Pogo Stick? If the character was named Pogo Pronghorn it would perhaps make sense to think that it was derived from a Pogo Stick; but thinking that of Pogo Possum doesn't make a lick of sense.
So I was up two points on Sam. And I still haven't gotten around to checking on whether Volare is the only foreign language song ever to get to number one on the Pop charts. Sam claims we saw that song sung on the Ed Sullivan show with Uncle Angelo that time when Mom and Pop were gone for a week and Aunt Tavia and Uncle Angelo were babysitting us. I tend to believe Sam in this case because he's pretty good with family stories; although the Volare flourish is just the sort of thing he would gratuitously embroider into a story. Sam's not a just-the-facts guy like me. Anyway, it's also intriguing to wonder where Mom and Pop went that time. And just now I realize where Mom and Pop went that time. The only other time I can remember anybody moving in to babysit us was when Grandmom and Grandpop L came up to take over while Mom was in the hospital having Marianne. But that's a story for another time. I have to get to the pizzles.
A bit later Hobbs was being cute, playing his well practiced "I want a treat" game. Have I ever mentioned that Hobbs runs that house? Anyway, Sam suggested to Deb that she give him one of the pizzelles, "He likes the pizzelles," Sam said. So Deb goes in the dining room and gives Hobbs his treat. Then she comes out and reports that she gave Hobbs a pizzle; at which Sam, Deb, Dolores and Marianne laugh. It's clearly an inside joke; but the combination of the pronunciation with the fact of Hobbs getting a treat has rung a bell for me even though some coincidences are just too incredible to occur; and at that point even I wasn't fully connecting all the dots, at least not consciously. So I spell out P-I-Z-Z-L-E and ask if that's how they're spelling the word.
They explained that they're laughing because Rebecca, whose last name will not be mentioned to spare her embarrassment, had her pizzelle recipe labelled "pizzles" when she came to the cookie baking to make them. It also turns out that the inside joke people are laughing because they found the mis-spelling funny; but they're unaware that the joke goes deeper. So I point out that I could be wrong - I was wrong on a vocabulary question one time in the 1980's and I was wrong on a simple word spelling question one time in the 1950's, onstage at a spelling bee unfortunately - but I'm pretty sure a pizzle is the particular body part that connects a bull and a cow when they're in a romantic frame of mind and endeavoring to make a new little cow or bull.
None of them have heard of this meaning, even though I know for a fact that Sam has read Commanche Moon by Larry McMurtry. The word is used in there, quite memorably in a sentence uttered by Captain Inish Scull that I could come close to quoting if this weren't a family blog. The relevant phrase is ". . . a Dalrymple pizzle." I haven't googled that but it may work if someone has extracted memorable quotes from the book.
They're all doubting me so much that Deb even gets up and checks their dictionary; and she finds that pizzle isn't in their dictionary. So now even I'm doubting. But understand me. I'm not doubting the existence and meaning of the word. I'm doubting the quality of Sam and Deb's dictionary. And, just a little part of me is thinking that maybe I have the spelling wrong, even though I can visualize that sentence in Commanche Moon.
So when I got home I checked on the web, and sure enough there it is. Pizzle is not only a word, it's a pretty old word; and it's primary meaning is just what I thought. Not only that; but one of its other meanings, as a name brand for dog treats, explains why I perked up when Deb returned and mentioned that she had given Hobbs a pizzle.
Rebecca has a dog. I need to remember to buy a treat for him next Christmas. Maybe I'll pick up one for Hobbs too.
We went over to Sam and Deb's for Christmas dinner. First off I saw Deb's sister Donna put a pat of butter on the mashed potatoes we brought. I hope her cholesterol numbers are well under control. Eight pounds of potatoes. Two teaspoons of salt. About half a teaspoon of pepper. Three quarters of a pound of butter. And a little milk which wasn't needed. The potatoes were just a bit too creamy; but they almost all went. And the only quibble was by Marianne who just had to get in a little dig.
After dinner I told Sam that he was completely off base on Christmas Eve when he asserted in his typical no-doubt-about-it fashion that the Pogo Stick was named after the Pogo comic strip. It sounded shaky to me at the time, so I looked it up. The Pogo Stick was patented in 1919; while the Pogo Possum comic strip didn't start til the 1940's.
Sam, of course, reacted to being trapped by trying to switch fields. He lamely claimed that the Pogo comic strip was named after the Pogo Stick. But I had already foreclosed that escape by looking up the info on the comic strip. No mention of any Pogo Sticks; but lots of mention of the writer choosing names to go with the type of animal. So the possum's name is Pogo for onomatopoetic reasons, not bouncing reasons. Besides, who would ever envision a sluggish waddling possum bouncing like a person on a Pogo Stick? If the character was named Pogo Pronghorn it would perhaps make sense to think that it was derived from a Pogo Stick; but thinking that of Pogo Possum doesn't make a lick of sense.
So I was up two points on Sam. And I still haven't gotten around to checking on whether Volare is the only foreign language song ever to get to number one on the Pop charts. Sam claims we saw that song sung on the Ed Sullivan show with Uncle Angelo that time when Mom and Pop were gone for a week and Aunt Tavia and Uncle Angelo were babysitting us. I tend to believe Sam in this case because he's pretty good with family stories; although the Volare flourish is just the sort of thing he would gratuitously embroider into a story. Sam's not a just-the-facts guy like me. Anyway, it's also intriguing to wonder where Mom and Pop went that time. And just now I realize where Mom and Pop went that time. The only other time I can remember anybody moving in to babysit us was when Grandmom and Grandpop L came up to take over while Mom was in the hospital having Marianne. But that's a story for another time. I have to get to the pizzles.
A bit later Hobbs was being cute, playing his well practiced "I want a treat" game. Have I ever mentioned that Hobbs runs that house? Anyway, Sam suggested to Deb that she give him one of the pizzelles, "He likes the pizzelles," Sam said. So Deb goes in the dining room and gives Hobbs his treat. Then she comes out and reports that she gave Hobbs a pizzle; at which Sam, Deb, Dolores and Marianne laugh. It's clearly an inside joke; but the combination of the pronunciation with the fact of Hobbs getting a treat has rung a bell for me even though some coincidences are just too incredible to occur; and at that point even I wasn't fully connecting all the dots, at least not consciously. So I spell out P-I-Z-Z-L-E and ask if that's how they're spelling the word.
They explained that they're laughing because Rebecca, whose last name will not be mentioned to spare her embarrassment, had her pizzelle recipe labelled "pizzles" when she came to the cookie baking to make them. It also turns out that the inside joke people are laughing because they found the mis-spelling funny; but they're unaware that the joke goes deeper. So I point out that I could be wrong - I was wrong on a vocabulary question one time in the 1980's and I was wrong on a simple word spelling question one time in the 1950's, onstage at a spelling bee unfortunately - but I'm pretty sure a pizzle is the particular body part that connects a bull and a cow when they're in a romantic frame of mind and endeavoring to make a new little cow or bull.
None of them have heard of this meaning, even though I know for a fact that Sam has read Commanche Moon by Larry McMurtry. The word is used in there, quite memorably in a sentence uttered by Captain Inish Scull that I could come close to quoting if this weren't a family blog. The relevant phrase is ". . . a Dalrymple pizzle." I haven't googled that but it may work if someone has extracted memorable quotes from the book.
They're all doubting me so much that Deb even gets up and checks their dictionary; and she finds that pizzle isn't in their dictionary. So now even I'm doubting. But understand me. I'm not doubting the existence and meaning of the word. I'm doubting the quality of Sam and Deb's dictionary. And, just a little part of me is thinking that maybe I have the spelling wrong, even though I can visualize that sentence in Commanche Moon.
So when I got home I checked on the web, and sure enough there it is. Pizzle is not only a word, it's a pretty old word; and it's primary meaning is just what I thought. Not only that; but one of its other meanings, as a name brand for dog treats, explains why I perked up when Deb returned and mentioned that she had given Hobbs a pizzle.
Rebecca has a dog. I need to remember to buy a treat for him next Christmas. Maybe I'll pick up one for Hobbs too.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night
I've been told that some folks have been wondering why I haven't posted anything here for a while. Part of the truth is that my laptop, on which I'm writing this, has a virus that has been causing it to crash regularly. Another part of the truth is that I've been immersed in a couple of pretty good novels. And the final part of the truth is that I've started several blog entries that haven't worked.
So, I'd be working on a frustrating blog entry and the laptop would crash. And when the laptop crashed I would use it as an excuse to pick up one of the novels. Then when I returned to the laptop after it restarted, I would find myself facing the still unsatisfactory blog entry. So I would try a new start for it, or a new middle, or a new end, and then the laptop would crash again. And I would go off to one of the novels again.
The two novels were Fleet of Worlds by Larry Niven, which I finished a couple of days ago and Playing for Pizza by John Grisham, which I finished an hour or so ago. Both were excellent, but now they're done. I plan to loan Playing for Pizza to Sam and Jas because it's about football, Italians and food; but Fleet of Worlds will go up on the shelf with the other science fiction since nobody around here likes science fiction.
We had a great Christmas Eve gathering here earlier even though we missed Al R and Angela. Al's down in Florida crowing about the warm temperatures every time we talk to him on Saturday mornings. Angie's out in San Diego waiting on a back operation that's now scheduled for New Year's Eve day, of all the days. Hopefully they'll get to cutting on her back before they get to partying.
Thankfully Catherine and Liana came over to help with the food preparation. Linda and I couldn't have done it without them. There is a tempo necessary to preparing the various fried foods.
Incidentally, the laptop crapped out after the line above and restarted itself. I went out and had a cigarette and read the beginning of The Godfather Returns by some schlemiel named Mark Weingardner. How can it be that the best writer they could hire to continue the godfather saga can't write one tenth as well as Mario Puzo? Well, at least this novel is set in the time of the original novel and uses some of the original characters.
Anyway, we had a great Christmas Eve gathering of the tribe. Marianne and Dave managed to find the old pogo stick I wrote about a few days ago and gave that to me as a Christmas present. I was encouraged to try it out; but I'm not that stupid. Nor was I that drunk. I'm told that Samuel managed to do ten jumps on it when the younger and more foolish folks took it out to the driveway, so the darn thing still works fifty three years after I first got it as a gift. Meanwhile it's now propped out there by the front door, so I'm stuck with it again.
Rebecca brought very serviceable red baccala stew, although it wasn't a hundred percent Aunt Mary style, and Rebecca fessed up to messing with the recipe. Caramelize some tomato paste indeed! Mom would have said "quan de gatsa de mossa." But I think Mom would have approved of the flavor. Also, Rebecca gave Sam a Marche' cookbook which looked interesting. It had what looked like some of the traditional recipes in there. I have to borrow it from Sam and read it.
The fried foods were as delicious as they were unhealthful. And, as usual, the folks ate an unbelievable amount of garlic and oil spaghetti. Some of them corrupted it with a topping of the quite good tomato gravy that Deb brought, but all seemed to enjoy it. There is a segment of the family that refuses to recognize that garlic and oil spaghetti is too good to mess up with tomato sauce.
I'm always amazed when they compliment that spaghetti on Christmas Eve. Just for the record there's nothing magical about why it tasted the way it did. The secret is in the garlic, the fresh instead of dried parsley and the egg noodle spaghetti instead of water based pasta. It's an everything to excess recipe.
One bulb of garlic for each 14 ounce package of egg pasta even though your hands get cramped from chopping so much garlic. Buy a chopper if you don't want your hands to get cramped. Don't cut down on the amount of garlic. And one supermarket bunch of chopped fresh parsley for four packages of pasta, which is how much we went through tonight. Also, a couple of tablespoons of salt at least in the pasta cooking water and a tablespoon or so of salt in the couple of cups of olive oil in which the garlic is cooked until some of it is browning. Forget all that stuff you were told about not overcooking garlic. Some of the garlic has to be overcooked.
Truth to tell, in my own opinion, I could have browned the garlic a bit more than I did tonight. I was a bit too quick to put in the water and parsley. But things were a bit hectic over there what with the four packages of pasta being a bit too much for the size of the cauldron that Kathy loaned us. Also, I was getting a bit tired of cooking by that point, and I had forgotten the garlic and oil for a bit and they were on high. So I panicked a little when I saw the first brown bits and put the water and parsley in maybe a couple of minutes too soon.
So, I'd be working on a frustrating blog entry and the laptop would crash. And when the laptop crashed I would use it as an excuse to pick up one of the novels. Then when I returned to the laptop after it restarted, I would find myself facing the still unsatisfactory blog entry. So I would try a new start for it, or a new middle, or a new end, and then the laptop would crash again. And I would go off to one of the novels again.
The two novels were Fleet of Worlds by Larry Niven, which I finished a couple of days ago and Playing for Pizza by John Grisham, which I finished an hour or so ago. Both were excellent, but now they're done. I plan to loan Playing for Pizza to Sam and Jas because it's about football, Italians and food; but Fleet of Worlds will go up on the shelf with the other science fiction since nobody around here likes science fiction.
We had a great Christmas Eve gathering here earlier even though we missed Al R and Angela. Al's down in Florida crowing about the warm temperatures every time we talk to him on Saturday mornings. Angie's out in San Diego waiting on a back operation that's now scheduled for New Year's Eve day, of all the days. Hopefully they'll get to cutting on her back before they get to partying.
Thankfully Catherine and Liana came over to help with the food preparation. Linda and I couldn't have done it without them. There is a tempo necessary to preparing the various fried foods.
Incidentally, the laptop crapped out after the line above and restarted itself. I went out and had a cigarette and read the beginning of The Godfather Returns by some schlemiel named Mark Weingardner. How can it be that the best writer they could hire to continue the godfather saga can't write one tenth as well as Mario Puzo? Well, at least this novel is set in the time of the original novel and uses some of the original characters.
Anyway, we had a great Christmas Eve gathering of the tribe. Marianne and Dave managed to find the old pogo stick I wrote about a few days ago and gave that to me as a Christmas present. I was encouraged to try it out; but I'm not that stupid. Nor was I that drunk. I'm told that Samuel managed to do ten jumps on it when the younger and more foolish folks took it out to the driveway, so the darn thing still works fifty three years after I first got it as a gift. Meanwhile it's now propped out there by the front door, so I'm stuck with it again.
Rebecca brought very serviceable red baccala stew, although it wasn't a hundred percent Aunt Mary style, and Rebecca fessed up to messing with the recipe. Caramelize some tomato paste indeed! Mom would have said "quan de gatsa de mossa." But I think Mom would have approved of the flavor. Also, Rebecca gave Sam a Marche' cookbook which looked interesting. It had what looked like some of the traditional recipes in there. I have to borrow it from Sam and read it.
The fried foods were as delicious as they were unhealthful. And, as usual, the folks ate an unbelievable amount of garlic and oil spaghetti. Some of them corrupted it with a topping of the quite good tomato gravy that Deb brought, but all seemed to enjoy it. There is a segment of the family that refuses to recognize that garlic and oil spaghetti is too good to mess up with tomato sauce.
I'm always amazed when they compliment that spaghetti on Christmas Eve. Just for the record there's nothing magical about why it tasted the way it did. The secret is in the garlic, the fresh instead of dried parsley and the egg noodle spaghetti instead of water based pasta. It's an everything to excess recipe.
One bulb of garlic for each 14 ounce package of egg pasta even though your hands get cramped from chopping so much garlic. Buy a chopper if you don't want your hands to get cramped. Don't cut down on the amount of garlic. And one supermarket bunch of chopped fresh parsley for four packages of pasta, which is how much we went through tonight. Also, a couple of tablespoons of salt at least in the pasta cooking water and a tablespoon or so of salt in the couple of cups of olive oil in which the garlic is cooked until some of it is browning. Forget all that stuff you were told about not overcooking garlic. Some of the garlic has to be overcooked.
Truth to tell, in my own opinion, I could have browned the garlic a bit more than I did tonight. I was a bit too quick to put in the water and parsley. But things were a bit hectic over there what with the four packages of pasta being a bit too much for the size of the cauldron that Kathy loaned us. Also, I was getting a bit tired of cooking by that point, and I had forgotten the garlic and oil for a bit and they were on high. So I panicked a little when I saw the first brown bits and put the water and parsley in maybe a couple of minutes too soon.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Another great dance class
Linda and I just returned from our Wednesday evening dance class up at the Ballroom on High in Pottstown. A great break in the middle of the week, nice people, a little exercise, and the challenge of learning new tricks. Some of us, of course, learn new tricks faster than others.
The Ballroom is run by a fellow named Faryl Codispoti who has a website named swingkat.com. Faryl and his wife are mostly into swing dancing and they run swing dances on Friday nights. Sam, Deb, Jas, Kathy, Linda and I have been going to the ballroom dances on Saturday nights off and on for a couple of years. We've also been taking lessons on Wednesday nights, especially since Jas went off and got certified as an instructor. He and Kathy have become quite the professional instructors, so much so that they've accumulated a following.
Where can you get a better deal than $9 for an hour long dance lesson on Wednesday night and $12 for a beginner lesson and a couple of hours of dancing to a DJ on Saturday nights? Reasonable prices and a group of genuinely nice people. Up to a hundred or so come to the Saturday night dances, and we've gotten to know about twenty or so of them pretty well.
Linda and I have gotten pretty decent at the Waltz, Foxtrot and Rumba, and we can do a passable imitation of a jitterbug. We can fake a bit of Samba, and we discovered that you can do a Rumba to a Cha Cha and get away with it. Sam and Deb are better and, of course, Jas and Kathy are in a different class. But even they are outclassed by some of the folks who come on Saturday nights.
Jas was teaching solo tonight because Kathy wasn't feeling well. That was a bit of a challenge because we're getting to the complication point in the intermediate Rumba class where some of us old dogs are seriously having problems with the new tricks. But the quality and sheer niceness of the thirty or so folks in the class made it a great time.
The Ballroom is run by a fellow named Faryl Codispoti who has a website named swingkat.com. Faryl and his wife are mostly into swing dancing and they run swing dances on Friday nights. Sam, Deb, Jas, Kathy, Linda and I have been going to the ballroom dances on Saturday nights off and on for a couple of years. We've also been taking lessons on Wednesday nights, especially since Jas went off and got certified as an instructor. He and Kathy have become quite the professional instructors, so much so that they've accumulated a following.
Where can you get a better deal than $9 for an hour long dance lesson on Wednesday night and $12 for a beginner lesson and a couple of hours of dancing to a DJ on Saturday nights? Reasonable prices and a group of genuinely nice people. Up to a hundred or so come to the Saturday night dances, and we've gotten to know about twenty or so of them pretty well.
Linda and I have gotten pretty decent at the Waltz, Foxtrot and Rumba, and we can do a passable imitation of a jitterbug. We can fake a bit of Samba, and we discovered that you can do a Rumba to a Cha Cha and get away with it. Sam and Deb are better and, of course, Jas and Kathy are in a different class. But even they are outclassed by some of the folks who come on Saturday nights.
Jas was teaching solo tonight because Kathy wasn't feeling well. That was a bit of a challenge because we're getting to the complication point in the intermediate Rumba class where some of us old dogs are seriously having problems with the new tricks. But the quality and sheer niceness of the thirty or so folks in the class made it a great time.
Friday, September 12, 2008
I wonder what the law is on these in Pennsylvania
Debra has an issue with ATV's crossing their property; and, sorry to say, but Hobbs is getting a little old to handle the groundhog problem. I bet if she buys one of these and fences it back there all that with the trespassers will stop; and Hobbs can enjoy a well deserved retirement from groundhog control.
We're talking a bargain price also - five hundred bucks.
I'm thinking one of them would nicely solve the problem of deer eating my lily buds. I have to talk to Linda about this. We've been thinking of getting a pet. May as well get one that can pull his weight.
http://www.texasobserver.org/article.php?aid=2835
We're talking a bargain price also - five hundred bucks.
I'm thinking one of them would nicely solve the problem of deer eating my lily buds. I have to talk to Linda about this. We've been thinking of getting a pet. May as well get one that can pull his weight.
http://www.texasobserver.org/article.php?aid=2835
Monday, July 21, 2008
A couple of weeks ago I discovered that 32 ounces of ricotta
A few weeks ago I discovered that 32 ounces of ricotta, a pound of penne pasta and a ball of mozzarella combine into a lot more than two people can possibly eat. In this case it made two pretty sizable casseroles. One of those casseroles fed me and Linda for a dinner and then me for lunches for the next three days.
That left the other casserole which I put in the freezer. That one is now patiently defrosting. We'll be taking it over to Sam and Debs place in a half hour or so to eat with Delores who is watching Hobbs and the house and pool.
We've been visiting Delores and Hobbs, and the pool, a lot over the past couple of 90+ degree days since Sam and Deb have been out of town. And I've been thinking of Sam a lot. Last night I thought about him while eating the excellent cucumber I liberated from his garden. Home grown cucumbers really are a lot better than store bought. I may consider growing them next year.
That left the other casserole which I put in the freezer. That one is now patiently defrosting. We'll be taking it over to Sam and Debs place in a half hour or so to eat with Delores who is watching Hobbs and the house and pool.
We've been visiting Delores and Hobbs, and the pool, a lot over the past couple of 90+ degree days since Sam and Deb have been out of town. And I've been thinking of Sam a lot. Last night I thought about him while eating the excellent cucumber I liberated from his garden. Home grown cucumbers really are a lot better than store bought. I may consider growing them next year.
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