Last night, TER and I went shopping for the remaining items required for his upcoming trip to Williamsport, PA for Baseball Camp. I’m almost of jealous of what will be his exciting adventure – playing the game at the Little League capital of the world. Second only to the fervor of counting the days during which I will be childless is my anticipation of seeing the place for myself when I go there to pick him up next Friday. I love baseball and cannot wait to see that Mecca!!
In a moment of what can only be described temporary insanity on my part, I drove straight to the place that shall not be named, but that I will refer to as WM. It was a conscious effort to save money on the myriad of items still on the shopping list. Little did I know the high price I would pay for my frugality. It may be a case of no good deed going unpunished, or it could be bad karma coming after my ass. If it was karmic retribution, I think I am even with the gods.
The department store trauma began when I asked an employee where I might find the dressing rooms so that the boy could try on the gym shorts which took him no less than 20 minutes to pick out. Keep in mind that this woman was on the floor, re-folding girls tops that had been haphazardly rummaged through by the rude customers who populated the store. My question about the dressing room was met with a blank stare and a mumbled “huh?”. This was the only discernable verbal response I got because this publicly-visible employee spoke no English. Why in the world is such a deplorable linguist positioned in a location where it is a hugely viable possibility that she would be asked questions in English? Good night in Heaven! So, I proceeded to wander about on my own and eventually found the dressing room, wherein it took TER 10 full minutes to try on two pair of shorts. I still don’t understand that delay.
Once his shorts had been formally selected, we proceeded on to look for beach towels. Crazily, I assumed beach towels would either be found in the towel department, or perhaps with the seasonal stuff, like pool toys and whatever. Nope. No beach towels were to be seen. I decided to throw the dice and ask the next employee I found (no small feat) about the possible location of beach towels. She had no clue, but at least could tell me so in broken English. She kindly walked with me to the Customer Service (hahahahaha) desk at which a gentleman informed me that all moisture alleviators would be found in the housewares department, near the washcloths and shower curtains. When I insisted this was untrue, he then informed me that they must be out of stock. What? Ok, whatever. So I ventured off one more time to search for more items on the list, by this time muttering under (and sometimes over) my breath such phrases which I should not have been vocalizing in public. To TER’s credit, he kept silent during my semi-public tirade and immense frustration at the ludicrous happenings inside the store. I finally told him that I HAD to get out of there, NOW! Whatever we didn’t have in the cart, I would get elsewhere. I just HAD to leave. You know that feeling you get when you know that if you don’t remove yourself from a particular setting, somebody is going to get hurt? That was me.
The few check-out lines which were open all had at least three other brain-addled customers waiting in line. So, I had the bright idea to just use one of the self check-out lanes, all of which were shockingly line-less. Upon scanning my third item – travel-sized shampoo – the senseless scanner/screen combo informed me that I had to “wait for assistance”. For what? I again graced anyone within earshot with a few choice words. You will be stupefied to learn that no assistance came forth. The machine cared not, assumed I was some moron who lacked swiping ability and refused to allow me to continue the check-out process. That’s it. I was DONE. Done. Done. Done. One foot already over the line of the cliff of Tolerance of Absurdity, I stormed out of WM. Left, just left. Left my cart right where it was, and left. Had to leave. Just had to. TER followed silently behind. When Mom is shaking in an attempt to not commit an act which would force WM to, in the future, carry straight jackets (likely in the housewares department) for occasions during which irate customers need to be restrained, a bright child will obey the wordless orders to make no sudden moves and to accept as appropriate everything Mom just said and did.
As God as my witness, I will never again enter a WM store. Now, who wants to go to Target with me tonight?
July 16, 2009
July 12, 2009
Big Bang Befuddlement
If you shot a high-powered rifle off the coast of the Atlantic Ocean at a 45 degree angle, how far do you think the bullet would go?
Yeah, um, I don't know either. This is the question 13-year old TER asked me yesterday. Out of nowhere. Apropos to nothing. While I was sitting at the dining room table clipping coupons for the grocery store food that nourishes his body and mind just so that his surely-larger-than-mine brain can come up with questions like this. To ask me. Why me? My only response was to cock my head to the right, squint my eyes in confusion, laugh stupidly and say "I can't believe you just asked me that!".
The fact that he can even come up with such questions makes it clear that he will, in very short order, be more intelligent than I ever was. As most parents do when presented with an off-the-wall question, I told him to Google it. Or, that he should call his uncle, who was, at that same moment in time, hanging out at a gun shop. His response to this pass-the buck suggestion was to tell me that he didn't really care that much. I don't get it. How can a child possibly come up with such a query, ask it of an adult whom he knows wouldn't have faintest idea of how to even hazard a guess, but not truly be curious enough to hunt down the answer for himself? Then what is the point of asking the question in the first place?
I tried to Google the answer, but still don't know how much ground (or water) a bullet would cover in such a situation, assuming that there was no wind. I'm the one who doesn't give a good gosh damn, yet I'm the one trying to find out. What's wrong with this picture?
However, a random person on http://www.answers.yahoo.com/ who claims to have a degree in mechanical engineering tells us that:
Neglecting air resistance, it would travel 20.66 miles if fired at a 45 degree angle.
Vy = 571.144 m/sVy = Vo + (gravity)(time) 571.144 = 0 + 9.81(t)t = 58.22 seconds Vx = 571.144 m/sX = Xo + (Vo)(t)X = 0 +(571.144)(58.22)X = 33,252 metres X = 109,094.50 feet X = 20.66.
Good to know.
July 8, 2009
Stop Using Protection
Mind out of the gutter - this is not about ungloved love.
The town in which I live is populated by less than 15,000 people, but contains more than 967,000 stop signs. One would think this would result in traffic congestion which rivals that of horrifyingly wretched, ozone-depleting cites such as Los Angeles and Atlanta; the latter of which should be bitch-slapped for the fact that 99.9% of its roads contain the word Peachtree. However, since I am the only one who comes to a complete stop at each and every one of the red octagons, vehicles manage to make their way around town with no real hindrances.
Not only do I stop at stop signs, I also - GASP - cease my car's movement at red traffic lights, of which there are merely 48,000 in town. Law-abiding citizen I am, I further only make a right turn on red after coming to a complete halt. Evidently, most are unaware of this requirement. Or maybe I am wrong; perhaps it is an actual mandate that red lights are only meant for those turning left, going straight, or need time to send an email on their Crackberry.
While fully decelerated at such a red light this weekend, I observed a family crossing the street to my right. Dad walked beside two youngins who were riding their bikes. Both kids wore helmets - my first clue that this was a dorky family. I have never understood why and when it was determined that children must be protected from all possible danger. Helmets, knee pads, leashes for unruly toddlers (in my day, if we ran in the mall, we just got smacked), gps microchips implanted in the back of the necks of newborns......Good Lord. Soon, there will be invisible force fields in which to encase your children as soon as they get out of bed (with its protective rails, of course) in the morning.
It's ok to fall down and skin your knee; both of mine bear scars from childhood falls. And, it's ok to let your kids do stupid things and learn from the consequences. Go ahead, touch the hot stove and see what happens! You're talking to a girl who once, for no explicable reason, through a rock the size of a baseball up in the air - proceeded to look up at it and have gravity bring it back down right onto her face, knocking out a front tooth! Guess what, I didn't do that again.
But I digress. Behind Dad and overly-protected bike-riding kiddos was Mom. She was pushing an umbrella which carried a kid who was probably two years old. Keep in mind, the boy was IN THE STROLLER. He wasn't pushing, he wasn't standing in it, hell, he looked quite comfortable in his chauffeured state. My eyes popped out of my head when I realized that he too, HAD ON A HELMET! WTF?? Ok, this family is worse than dorks, they are complete, brainwashed buffoons.* I predict that each of their now-unscathed children will be verbally tormented and have cafeteria food hurled at them by the time they reach second grade.
I was just about to roll down my window and harass them myself, but the light turned green and the impatient jerk behind me immediately honked his horn at me! I had to drive away - 75 yards to a stop sign.
* Please note that neither Mom nor Dad wore a helmet. I defy you to explain that one.
The town in which I live is populated by less than 15,000 people, but contains more than 967,000 stop signs. One would think this would result in traffic congestion which rivals that of horrifyingly wretched, ozone-depleting cites such as Los Angeles and Atlanta; the latter of which should be bitch-slapped for the fact that 99.9% of its roads contain the word Peachtree. However, since I am the only one who comes to a complete stop at each and every one of the red octagons, vehicles manage to make their way around town with no real hindrances.
Not only do I stop at stop signs, I also - GASP - cease my car's movement at red traffic lights, of which there are merely 48,000 in town. Law-abiding citizen I am, I further only make a right turn on red after coming to a complete halt. Evidently, most are unaware of this requirement. Or maybe I am wrong; perhaps it is an actual mandate that red lights are only meant for those turning left, going straight, or need time to send an email on their Crackberry.
While fully decelerated at such a red light this weekend, I observed a family crossing the street to my right. Dad walked beside two youngins who were riding their bikes. Both kids wore helmets - my first clue that this was a dorky family. I have never understood why and when it was determined that children must be protected from all possible danger. Helmets, knee pads, leashes for unruly toddlers (in my day, if we ran in the mall, we just got smacked), gps microchips implanted in the back of the necks of newborns......Good Lord. Soon, there will be invisible force fields in which to encase your children as soon as they get out of bed (with its protective rails, of course) in the morning.
It's ok to fall down and skin your knee; both of mine bear scars from childhood falls. And, it's ok to let your kids do stupid things and learn from the consequences. Go ahead, touch the hot stove and see what happens! You're talking to a girl who once, for no explicable reason, through a rock the size of a baseball up in the air - proceeded to look up at it and have gravity bring it back down right onto her face, knocking out a front tooth! Guess what, I didn't do that again.
But I digress. Behind Dad and overly-protected bike-riding kiddos was Mom. She was pushing an umbrella which carried a kid who was probably two years old. Keep in mind, the boy was IN THE STROLLER. He wasn't pushing, he wasn't standing in it, hell, he looked quite comfortable in his chauffeured state. My eyes popped out of my head when I realized that he too, HAD ON A HELMET! WTF?? Ok, this family is worse than dorks, they are complete, brainwashed buffoons.* I predict that each of their now-unscathed children will be verbally tormented and have cafeteria food hurled at them by the time they reach second grade.
I was just about to roll down my window and harass them myself, but the light turned green and the impatient jerk behind me immediately honked his horn at me! I had to drive away - 75 yards to a stop sign.
* Please note that neither Mom nor Dad wore a helmet. I defy you to explain that one.
June 30, 2009
My Four- and Two-Legged Children
The other day, the boy and I took Haaaaawleeeeee Pupster (aka Holly or You Dumb Dog) to the dog park for some canine play time. Before I moved to the great metropolis that is Northern Virginia, I had never even heard of a dog park. Huh? A park just for dogs? Um, why? Now I know why. There are two types of dog owners here: 1) those with multi-million dollar homes with big yards and paid employees whose sole responsibility is to care for the household tail-wagger; and 2) the majority of us with apartments or condos or townhomes with, if you're lucky, postage stamp-sized yards, with only whiny children to force to take out the dog to pee and poo. These cooped up dogs need a way to expend their energy.
So, alas, we have dog parks. Ours is actually kind of nice, a 90' x 150' shaded area with on-site water to quench the thirst that the pups work up during play time. It is covered only in dirt and mulch, so be prepared to come home with a blackened, mud-covered dog if you go there shortly after a good rain. I once saw a "dad" on the verge of tears when his lovely white Akita found a deep puddle and proceed to roll in it. Dirty dog. Funny to us other owners, but not to her person. I did cry out 'oh no!' in feigned sympathy for this guy's upcoming chore of giving a thorough bath and bleaching to the muck-riddled dog. Holly is a Border Collie - half black/half white, so she'll only been in need of 50% of such a cleansing the first time she discovers such slimy soaked soil. Right?
During our most recent excursion, there were plenty of other mangy mutts running around, so Holly was in doggie heaven. She's a herder, so loves to chase and corral the other animals, no matter their size. She's also uber-friendly and takes time out from her work to greet and love and kiss every human who wanders into the park. Lucky for her, she's quite adorable, so nobody seems to mind the unexpected saliva she is prone to heap on her victims.
Holly's play time lasted about 45 minutes, until it became evident that she was too pooped to run any more, and needed to go home for a doggie nap. She was ready to leave, but 13 year-old TER was not. He hadn't played at all - with Holly. Instead, he had made friends with a large, prissy poodle. This prissy poodle is named Rocco. He must have been gay, as all male poodles must be. That, or very secure in their sexuality. Really, when was the last time you saw a male poodle, much less one named Rocco, that had the appearance of a dog overloaded with testosterone - ready to bear his teeth and eat you in one bite? Never. They are just the prissiest breed out there. (I do not count any creature that fits in your purse as a dog - only as overgrown rats. If you can drop kick it, it is NOT a dog!)
I finally separated the boy from his effeminate friend and piled both he and Holly back into the car. That puppy immediately lay down on the back floorboard and dozed all the way home. That boy asked if we could go again tomorrow. I think he and Rocco made a date. They will have to reschedule. TER has baseball practice all week, and I'm sure Rocco the poodle has Doggie Ballet class or some such thing.
June 24, 2009
He'll Take That To Go
It is well-known amongst my friends and family that I am a devoted fan of Starbucks. Venti Skim Nonfat Latte is my stimulant of choice. I do not indulge myself in this $3.65 plus tax treat every morning, but somehow, on the days I do, the birds sing a little sweeter, the sun shines a little brighter, and my eyes dart back and forth with greater speed. Caffeine is the great equalizer for those of us who are not morning people, and have to deal with freakily cheery folks who have been awake since 4:30, have done two loads of laundry, washed the car, painted the neighbor’s house and recounted the votes of the Iranian election – all before clocking in at the office at 9:00 a.m.
This morning’s visit to a local House of Morning Invigoration was an extra-special pleasure, because I saw something odd. One of those things that makes your little head turn to the side, your mouth open a bit wider, your eyes squint, and your mind think “huh?”. Here’s what happened….
I noticed that the guy in front of me in line was kind of cute. This is apropos of nothing, but an attractive man is always a happy sight. Said gentleman exited the store about 30 seconds before I did with what I imagine was the beverage that puts some extra bounce in his step. Once I left the store and proceeded to my vehicle, I noticed that Cute Man was parked directly to the right of my car. Now, here’s the thing……..his mode of transportation was a motorcycle. Assuming that it must be quite a feat to drive a Chopper while joyously downing an espresso drink, I slowed my walk to the car so I could continue the observation of the fellow who was no longer Cute Man, but Gee-He-Must-Be-Coordinated Man. A millisecond later, he became Somehow-Related-To-MacGyver Man. It was not his intention to move on down the road with handle bar in one hand and a hot drink in the other. His procedure involved the strapping of the Starbucks cup to the back of the bike!!! Next to a back-pack looking thing on the back of the bike was some kind of uber-cup holder.
By this time, since I didn’t have the nerve to walk up to him, lean over and learn the process by which his liquid libation was to be successfully transported, I had no choice but to get into my car and place my drink in the cup holder bequeathed to me by Honda. I peeked out the corner of my eye, but was unable to see what I wanted, a system that must have involved straps, duct tape, bungee cords and various widths of rope. Bummer. Like an obsessed dork, I tried to follow him once we both left the parking lot, but I lost him. I had SOOOOOOO many questions for him. For example: Dude, how did you do that? Dude, why did you do that? Are you really so late for work that you don’t have time to partake of your drink while still at Starbucks? Was this some kind of dare? How much spilled out? Are you single?
This, I suppose, is one of life’s mysteries that will never be solved. It will always make me go hhhhmmmmm. Especially since I confirmed with my motorcycle-riding boss that strapping coffee to the back of bike is NOT something you see every day.
I wonder what he does when it's his turn to bring in coffee for everyone in the office.............
This morning’s visit to a local House of Morning Invigoration was an extra-special pleasure, because I saw something odd. One of those things that makes your little head turn to the side, your mouth open a bit wider, your eyes squint, and your mind think “huh?”. Here’s what happened….
I noticed that the guy in front of me in line was kind of cute. This is apropos of nothing, but an attractive man is always a happy sight. Said gentleman exited the store about 30 seconds before I did with what I imagine was the beverage that puts some extra bounce in his step. Once I left the store and proceeded to my vehicle, I noticed that Cute Man was parked directly to the right of my car. Now, here’s the thing……..his mode of transportation was a motorcycle. Assuming that it must be quite a feat to drive a Chopper while joyously downing an espresso drink, I slowed my walk to the car so I could continue the observation of the fellow who was no longer Cute Man, but Gee-He-Must-Be-Coordinated Man. A millisecond later, he became Somehow-Related-To-MacGyver Man. It was not his intention to move on down the road with handle bar in one hand and a hot drink in the other. His procedure involved the strapping of the Starbucks cup to the back of the bike!!! Next to a back-pack looking thing on the back of the bike was some kind of uber-cup holder.
By this time, since I didn’t have the nerve to walk up to him, lean over and learn the process by which his liquid libation was to be successfully transported, I had no choice but to get into my car and place my drink in the cup holder bequeathed to me by Honda. I peeked out the corner of my eye, but was unable to see what I wanted, a system that must have involved straps, duct tape, bungee cords and various widths of rope. Bummer. Like an obsessed dork, I tried to follow him once we both left the parking lot, but I lost him. I had SOOOOOOO many questions for him. For example: Dude, how did you do that? Dude, why did you do that? Are you really so late for work that you don’t have time to partake of your drink while still at Starbucks? Was this some kind of dare? How much spilled out? Are you single?
This, I suppose, is one of life’s mysteries that will never be solved. It will always make me go hhhhmmmmm. Especially since I confirmed with my motorcycle-riding boss that strapping coffee to the back of bike is NOT something you see every day.
I wonder what he does when it's his turn to bring in coffee for everyone in the office.............
June 22, 2009
Reality bites
John and Kate Gosselin have separated. If you do not know of whom I write, you either live under a rock, or are one of those freaks who suspiciously claim to have never watched even one episode of reality tv. Oh, come on. There are now approximately 538,429 reality tv shows to be found (and joked about) on network and cable television. My favorite show title (and I swear I've never watched this one) is The Exterminator. eeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww The show I'm most ashamed to admit I've seen more than once is Scott Baio is 45 and Single. It was, and really only could have been, a train wreck.
A train wreck is now what many will call the beloved adults of Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Parents to eight kids, and married ten years, the couple have decided to separate. Conjecture abounds, most assuming that the shear spectacle that became their lives once the reality show about their family gained popularity is the sole cause of the split. This is likely at least partially true, but for purposes of this think piece, I choose to operate under the notion that this is not unlike many other 'regular' divorces.
I cried when Jon and Kate officially announced what most everyone had deduced, that they plan to go their separate ways. All televised evidence to the contrary, I kept my fingers crossed that they could work out their differences.
In the interest of full disclosure, I have never been married. Therefore, many of you will likely decide to tell me where to stick it after I make my comments on the subject.
I have friends and family members who have: divorced with kids; divorced without kids; divorced more than once; or wished they were divorced, but didn't pursue it because of the kids. Most sorrowful of all, I know couples who, in my unsought opinion, should never have been married in the first place. These duos are the most tragic to me. There are probably more reasons to NOT get married than there are TO get married. Too many couples have managed to either convince themselves that something is right when it is not, or have fallen into a situation they can't see their way out of. Do not castigate me for this assessment, for the same is true of all relationships, not just marriage.
Any divorce is markedly upsetting to me. In some kind of twisted paradox, perhaps this is because I never have been married. Somehow, whenever a couple I know personally, or just know of, decides to end what was assumed at the beginning to be a permanent relationship, it takes away another piece of my hope that love will win out - for better or for worse.........until death do they part.
My parents have been married for 38 years. My mother's parents were married 54 years before my grandmother died. No doubt they would have been married for 54 more had God allowed for an unlimited life span. These facts are glorious and keep me from becoming irrevocably cynical about the existence of everlasting love.
However, I notice far too many having to find their inner peace and sanity by disuniting from their partner, rather than clinging to them.
I really do not know what my point is here. What I do know is that I am disheartened by the fact that nobody has bothered to marry me, but am relieved that nobody has ever come to the conclusion that they don't want to be married to me anymore.
A train wreck is now what many will call the beloved adults of Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Parents to eight kids, and married ten years, the couple have decided to separate. Conjecture abounds, most assuming that the shear spectacle that became their lives once the reality show about their family gained popularity is the sole cause of the split. This is likely at least partially true, but for purposes of this think piece, I choose to operate under the notion that this is not unlike many other 'regular' divorces.
I cried when Jon and Kate officially announced what most everyone had deduced, that they plan to go their separate ways. All televised evidence to the contrary, I kept my fingers crossed that they could work out their differences.
In the interest of full disclosure, I have never been married. Therefore, many of you will likely decide to tell me where to stick it after I make my comments on the subject.
I have friends and family members who have: divorced with kids; divorced without kids; divorced more than once; or wished they were divorced, but didn't pursue it because of the kids. Most sorrowful of all, I know couples who, in my unsought opinion, should never have been married in the first place. These duos are the most tragic to me. There are probably more reasons to NOT get married than there are TO get married. Too many couples have managed to either convince themselves that something is right when it is not, or have fallen into a situation they can't see their way out of. Do not castigate me for this assessment, for the same is true of all relationships, not just marriage.
Any divorce is markedly upsetting to me. In some kind of twisted paradox, perhaps this is because I never have been married. Somehow, whenever a couple I know personally, or just know of, decides to end what was assumed at the beginning to be a permanent relationship, it takes away another piece of my hope that love will win out - for better or for worse.........until death do they part.
My parents have been married for 38 years. My mother's parents were married 54 years before my grandmother died. No doubt they would have been married for 54 more had God allowed for an unlimited life span. These facts are glorious and keep me from becoming irrevocably cynical about the existence of everlasting love.
However, I notice far too many having to find their inner peace and sanity by disuniting from their partner, rather than clinging to them.
I really do not know what my point is here. What I do know is that I am disheartened by the fact that nobody has bothered to marry me, but am relieved that nobody has ever come to the conclusion that they don't want to be married to me anymore.
June 21, 2009
Oh Deer, I need some Carbs!
My dear son, TER, is a hunter. It's an outdoor activity that he and my brother, his dear uncle JET, have connected over. The boy has been joining the man at the Hunt Club for years. It has come to my attention that the rule is that What Happens At The Club, Stays At The Club. It is legend - the amount of liquor consumed, four-letter words hurled about, and the not-for-children movies shown to anyone who happens to be in the room at the time. Neither of the two would ever confess to such, but I would bet $5.00 that my 13-year old has already had his first taste of beer; or possibly whiskey, since that is a family favorite. Quality time in the form of Bulleit Bourbon Bonding.
I have never been to the Hunt Club, and feel in my soul that I haven't missed out on a thing. I'll drink my Jim Beam in my own home, in my own Diet Coke, thank you very much. If I want to be with a slew of rowdy, politically-incorrect drunken delinquents, I would just as soon plant myself in a nearby NFL locker room, the center of fraternal attachment. It is easy for me to not hang out at the Club for an even more discriminating reason. I do not hunt. It's simply not my thing. The idea of awakening at the butt crack of dawn to don unbecoming coveralls to track a dear deer just does not interest me. However, my son and my brother find this exhilarating. Barely conscious and freezing their disguised-as-woods hineys off, they climb trees to hang out on a stand, waiting for hours just to see if a doe or buck happens by.
My disinterest in the hunt should not be confused with a dislike of it. With a dear population that truly is out of control, there must be methods employed to control those Bambi-esque creatures of God. I do not feel that hunting is cruel and would never begrudge the men at the Hunt Club the pursuit of their 'hobby'. TER has now killed three dear in his career; the first kill was the most satisfying and we have a tasteful photo of the boy and his prey framed and hung on a wall of our home. All hoofed ruminants taken down by the members of the Club are butchered into various food items. This is the fact that makes it very easy for me to not disparage what some see as butchery. UNLESS......
I become responsible for cooking said meat. There has not been a time when I have consumed the venison in any form. ** They tell me that is has a beef-like taste, only more "gamey". And I don't think they mean Monopoly or Pictionary. Even though I have heavily drawn the line at my lips regarding what I will do with this stuff, I am still not thrilled with the prospect of making supper when TER requests some sort of venison. Tonight, it was venison burgers, to be made of the ground venison which has been in my freezer for many, many months. I had hoped it was successfully hidden behind the Eggo waffles and frozen peas, but I guess not.
So, oh, what the hell. "Sure, honey," I say, "Deer Burgers it is". When packaged, the ground venison is in the form of a loaf of Jimmy Dean sausage, only ickier. Forming the very red leaking meet into patties was part 1 of the job. Part two was cooking them on the griddle. While venison MAY taste like beef, it sure as hell doesn't smell like it. More ickiness. Fifteen minutes later, the burgers are ready and TER is practically jumping with delight at the stove when I slide his burger, now dressed with a slice of American cheese, onto the bun on his plate. mmmmm mmmmm The burger was yummy, so I was told. I'll take his word for it, 'cuz ain't no way I was going to formulate a first-hand opinion on the matter!! (Ham and cheese sandwich served as my dinner later in the evening.)
In the end, the masticated meat sat happily in TER's tummy, but the stench of the process of cooking it lingered in my nose. And not in a good way. Smells such as this, and Limburger cheese and the Korean Kimchee, are not chased out of a room by a quick spray of Lysol. These nasal offenders must be eradicated by the production of another vittle which produces an enticing order, so as to counteract that of the offending venison.
I chose bread. I love baking bread. By hand. No machine for me. Cooking (stuff I'm going to eat) is an activity that can de-stress me and sometimes even cancels the personal pity party I am having at a given moment. Kneading the dough is very cathartic and a fantastic way to physically eliminate some anger. And it makes the kitchen smell heavenly. And smell heavenly my house does now - all three loaves are out of the oven and cooling on the counter. They yeasty aroma has wafted all the way to my office upstairs at the other end of the house! My nose is happy.
And now I have three venison burgers and three loaves of bread. Let me know if you'll be stopping by for dinner tomorrow. Stay as long as you like, but no longer than three days, or else you and any fish I happen to have lying around will start to stink as well. And then I'll have to bake more bread.
** I would never have made it on Fear Factor as the only 'exotic' foods I have ever consumed are escargot and turkey balls (yes, Those Balls).
I have never been to the Hunt Club, and feel in my soul that I haven't missed out on a thing. I'll drink my Jim Beam in my own home, in my own Diet Coke, thank you very much. If I want to be with a slew of rowdy, politically-incorrect drunken delinquents, I would just as soon plant myself in a nearby NFL locker room, the center of fraternal attachment. It is easy for me to not hang out at the Club for an even more discriminating reason. I do not hunt. It's simply not my thing. The idea of awakening at the butt crack of dawn to don unbecoming coveralls to track a dear deer just does not interest me. However, my son and my brother find this exhilarating. Barely conscious and freezing their disguised-as-woods hineys off, they climb trees to hang out on a stand, waiting for hours just to see if a doe or buck happens by.
My disinterest in the hunt should not be confused with a dislike of it. With a dear population that truly is out of control, there must be methods employed to control those Bambi-esque creatures of God. I do not feel that hunting is cruel and would never begrudge the men at the Hunt Club the pursuit of their 'hobby'. TER has now killed three dear in his career; the first kill was the most satisfying and we have a tasteful photo of the boy and his prey framed and hung on a wall of our home. All hoofed ruminants taken down by the members of the Club are butchered into various food items. This is the fact that makes it very easy for me to not disparage what some see as butchery. UNLESS......
I become responsible for cooking said meat. There has not been a time when I have consumed the venison in any form. ** They tell me that is has a beef-like taste, only more "gamey". And I don't think they mean Monopoly or Pictionary. Even though I have heavily drawn the line at my lips regarding what I will do with this stuff, I am still not thrilled with the prospect of making supper when TER requests some sort of venison. Tonight, it was venison burgers, to be made of the ground venison which has been in my freezer for many, many months. I had hoped it was successfully hidden behind the Eggo waffles and frozen peas, but I guess not.
So, oh, what the hell. "Sure, honey," I say, "Deer Burgers it is". When packaged, the ground venison is in the form of a loaf of Jimmy Dean sausage, only ickier. Forming the very red leaking meet into patties was part 1 of the job. Part two was cooking them on the griddle. While venison MAY taste like beef, it sure as hell doesn't smell like it. More ickiness. Fifteen minutes later, the burgers are ready and TER is practically jumping with delight at the stove when I slide his burger, now dressed with a slice of American cheese, onto the bun on his plate. mmmmm mmmmm The burger was yummy, so I was told. I'll take his word for it, 'cuz ain't no way I was going to formulate a first-hand opinion on the matter!! (Ham and cheese sandwich served as my dinner later in the evening.)
In the end, the masticated meat sat happily in TER's tummy, but the stench of the process of cooking it lingered in my nose. And not in a good way. Smells such as this, and Limburger cheese and the Korean Kimchee, are not chased out of a room by a quick spray of Lysol. These nasal offenders must be eradicated by the production of another vittle which produces an enticing order, so as to counteract that of the offending venison.
I chose bread. I love baking bread. By hand. No machine for me. Cooking (stuff I'm going to eat) is an activity that can de-stress me and sometimes even cancels the personal pity party I am having at a given moment. Kneading the dough is very cathartic and a fantastic way to physically eliminate some anger. And it makes the kitchen smell heavenly. And smell heavenly my house does now - all three loaves are out of the oven and cooling on the counter. They yeasty aroma has wafted all the way to my office upstairs at the other end of the house! My nose is happy.
And now I have three venison burgers and three loaves of bread. Let me know if you'll be stopping by for dinner tomorrow. Stay as long as you like, but no longer than three days, or else you and any fish I happen to have lying around will start to stink as well. And then I'll have to bake more bread.
** I would never have made it on Fear Factor as the only 'exotic' foods I have ever consumed are escargot and turkey balls (yes, Those Balls).
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