Tag Archives: humor

Musings

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Don’t worry, my friends. When I muse upon anything, it’s not expected to change the world. Nor change my mind. Least of all, change me.

Though I can’t guarantee any of that. Most of the changes, of course, are fairly insignificant since most of my musings are mighty silly. Whether the changes are for the better or worse, given my goofiness, time and my critics will undoubtedly tell.

What’s on my tiny mind today? Tiny thoughts.

Like: If policy-makers are serious when they say we should reduce waste, then why are the bags for collecting rubbish and taking it to be heaped in the landfill mostly touted by manufacturers as being more desirable because they’re nearly indestructible? And as a corollary question, how many policy-makers can fit into one of those indestructo-bags? Oops, I said that out loud, didn’t I. Just one of life’s little conundrums.

Should that be ‘conundra’? Conundrae? I had to look it up and absolutely hooted with joy when I saw the responses to a Guardian (Thank You, British linguistic pugilists! Thank you!) inquiry on the topic. Yet more delightful musings spring forth from the very thought of these brainiacs tussling humorously over the proper plural, whether there is one, and whether anyone ought to give a fig about it.

I also muse on things like: If I always dreaded and hated pressing clothes at laundry time, so much so that I got rid of the requisite appliance many years ago, yet I am now slightly obsessive about folding clothes so that they seem, possibly, neatly pressed…is that ironic? I would be hard pressed to say.

Like: If “Youth is wasted on the young,” why do the people who say so think that by recapturing the privileges and advantages of youth, they would remain mature enough to give the lie to their assertion? I guess they’re too busy being self-congratulatory on having a George Bernard Shaw quotation up their sleeves to consider any other delusions. Unless they’re too busy checking to see whether Shaw was restating (“Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children.”) Oscar Wilde—and who wouldn’t? Wilde was the bonniest of mot-smiths.

All I can think in response to it, in fact, is: Why leave it to young people to act like children anyhow? It’s only in my latter years that I have gained a deeper appreciation for my natural talent and efforts combining to keep me so wonderfully immature.

With that, I will say that it’s probably past my bedtime (one of the catalysts for my current state of fuzzy thinking, perhaps, but surely not the only one), and whether that’s because I’m such a child or because I’m such an old lady is kind of irrelevant, isn’t it. Good night, then, and may all of your dreams come true. As long as they’re full of Wilde brilliance.

Photo: Deep Thoughts

Ta-ta, toodle-oo, and a good nighty-night to you all!

 

 

And Look out for the Piranhas

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Digital illo: Mr. Tough Guy

You may call me *Mister* Tough Guy, if Yes, Sir! isn’t satisfactory.

So you’re a big shot, eh! Not everyone is as impressed with your highfalutin pedigree and your cosmopolitan veneer as you might hope.

Small Pond, Small Fry

Some clown came to town from the city

But he didn’t know everything, did he?

The result was so bad

That, alas, the poor lad

Was the first course we had, out of pity.

Digital illo: Uh-oh.

Suddenly I sense there’s another school of thought…

I Woke Up at Seven Eleven…

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Punctuation; spelling, grammar, diacritical marks; so crucial to our ability to interpret the world. Take that post title, for example, and imagine that if instead of 7:11 I were referring to waking up in a 7-Eleven convenience store. Both are possible, in the real world, but one would be pretty far preferable to the other in terms of personal comfort. And if you know me, you know that I mean waking up in the middle of a lousy little quick-stop shop, unless we’re talking opening my eyes at 19.11, or 7:11 post meridiem. Sorry, Mornings, I just can’t seem to learn to love you.Digital illo: Wrong Side of the Bed

The idea of finding myself in the snack food aisle of a convenience store when I opened my sleepy eyes is not, perhaps, ideal either. For any number of reasons, it could prove unsettling, if not dangerous. But I’m still leaning toward it as the better alternative, if I had to choose. Sleep calls to me.

I probably should consider where it means I went to sleep in the first place, if I’m waking up surrounded by small packages of foods with shelf lives longer than the motor oil that’s sold in the next aisle. Was time travel involved? If so, I can only hope that I went backward and thus gained some extra snooze time, or so far into the future that there is already a cure for what I will have contracted by lying on the floor where so many strangers have trod, sneezed, and drooled. But I’m still willing to consider it a worthy risk, because that’s just how important my nap time is to me.

Perhaps it’s better to let go of the whole conundrum and assume that I was merely inspired by a glance at the clock when I woke mid-sleep to think of such things at all. Odd things can happen when anything awakens one in the midst of heavy slumber. I’d work on this puzzle further, honestly…if I weren’t so…sllleeeeeeeepy…

Careening toward Excellence

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Digital illo from photos: Psycho-Zydeco 1There is no chance, however infinitesimally remote, that I will ever be perfect in any way. Olympic scores of 10 notwithstanding, I suspect that quantifiable perfection is beyond human reach altogether. My reach, however, I can guarantee unequivocally will remain ever short of the absolute.

And I make no apologies for it. Argue the possibility for human outliers if you will, I am no such exemplar.

This doesn’t excuse a perpetual state of lying down on the job. Corpses are already better at that task than we are while still alive, no matter how expertly lazy. And you know that I do speak as a highly skilled practitioner of that art. Not being a corpse, just yet, thank you. Laziness.

I also know, however, that from play, serendipity, accident, and even out of the occasional non-life-threatening disaster can come growth and inspiration. We improve more by learning from our mistakes than from thinking, “Nailed it!” and settling comfortably into what we hope is an easy formula for repeating the success. This, however counterintuitive it may seem, gives me hope.

Perhaps as I go bouncing through life in my random, attention-deficit-slanted, cheerily inefficient way, I may well stumble upon my better self, eventually. Don’t look for me in the Hall of Fame, let alone among the stars. But if my fine intentions and a healthy dose of good fortune should, like mythic planets, align at some heroically splendid place and time, you can certainly find me in the shining company of the wonderfully, luckily contented.Digital illo from photos: Psycho-Zydeco 2

Foodie Tuesday: The Not-So-Great Pretender

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Unskilled as I am at so many culinary things, my well-intentioned fakery in attempting to prepare favorite treats from various delicious cuisines is not only highly unlikely to ever be quite accurate in its representation of the real deal but also just plain goofy and messy. I apologize to any purists out there, but I’m not above stealing ideas from everywhere I’ve ever found foods to love. And often, putting my own twisted twist on them, too. Perfect accuracy may, after all, be slightly overrated.Photo: Korean BBQ

After a recent delicious trip to a Korean BBQ house here in north Texas, I got good and hungry for a host of tasty Asian-inspired treats I hadn’t had in a while. I particularly wanted to revisit a recipe I hadn’t made by hand in many, many years: Jiaozi, or potstickers. And of course, I wandered off on my usual tangents. Making the wrapper dough wasn’t my best skill even when I was supervised by my teachers in my Chinese language, culture, and cuisine workshop back in college, and I had it in mind to attempt a gluten-free version on top of that, this time around, so instead of getting a nicely malleable dough in which to wrap the filling and practice my dumpling pleats—the one part of the wrapping that I was reasonably good at doing, thanks to Mom’s early training of me in the arts of tender lefse dough handling and pie crust edge crimping—I got falling-apart dough that was more easily squeezed around the filling in highly abstract, squishy-squashy little dumplings.

Pretty, they were not. I will attempt to revise the dough with the addition of egg binder next time and report back. But I got my poor little raggedy jiaozi to hold together just enough to fry and steam them, and the ingredients were at least agreeable enough to taste passable in the event, so I will keep trying. Meanwhile, I give you these little wounded stegosaurs:Photo: The Homeliest Jiaozi

The Homeliest Jiaozi this Side of the Yangtze

Make jiaozi wrapper dough: 3 cups gluten-free all-purpose flour + 1/4 tsp salt + 1 1/4 cups cold water [+ 1 egg, probably, for future reference]. Knead well into a nice elastic dough, wrap and refrigerate to rest for a minimum of 30 minutes.

Make filling: cook 1/2-1 cup minced meat (I used lamb this time) with 1 T minced fresh ginger, 1 tsp finely grated lemon/lime zest, 1 tsp minced fresh jalapeño, 1 handful sugar snap peas sliced crosswise into small rings, 1/1 rib celery (minced), 1 tsp minced shallots, good splashes of Tamari, rice vinegar, and dry Sherry, and a small splash of toasted sesame oil. Drain and cool the mixture slightly.

Divide the wrapper dough into 60 pieces, starting work with 1/4 of it at a time and keeping the rest chilled until ready to prepare dumplings. Roll each little piece into a ball and then into a flat circle, about 3″ in diameter. Put a small spoonful of meat filling on the wrapper, pull the sides into a half-moon shape around it, and gently pleat the curved edge, sealing it with water, egg wash, and/or a fork’s tines. Or, if your dough behaves like mine did, pull it up around the filling and squeeze the sorry-looking little objects into submission.

Pour a little cooking oil (I used avocado) into a large, flat pan, place the dumplings curved side up in the oil like little half-moon sailboats with just a little space between them, and put the pan on medium heat. As the bottoms of the jiaozi begin to brown, pour a little broth or water over them (just about 1/4″ or so), cover the pan, and let them steam gently for a few minutes to firm up, watching that the heat doesn’t get too high, or the liquid will cook away completely or break the dumplings into mush. At this point, the jiaozi can be refrigerated in a covered dish to be finished later. I put mine in a microwave-proof small casserole that still allowed them to sit on their flat bases in one layer, pouring the remaining steaming liquid over the top, so that I could finish steaming them and, if needed, crisping their little bases, when I was about to serve them for lunch the next day. Or you can, of course, keep on with the steaming and crisping for immediate eating.

Serve them hot, with a saucy little blend of Tamari, vinegar, and a few hot pepper flakes or added crushed fresh ginger on hand for dipping them.

Rules of Travel

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Photo montage: Rules of TravelFrom my first days of international exploration, when I was still a wide-eyed college kid meandering Europe with my older sister, I recognized that whatever differences I see and experience in each place and on each expedition, there always seem to be threads of very familiar commonality as well. My sister and I dubbed these rather predictable elements of the journey our Rules of Travel. There is often a noticeably preset quality to certain places, events, and happenings that can make me feel, simultaneously, utterly out of my element and surprisingly at home wherever I roam.

For example, personal comfort is the lens through which I always view my current place in the world, so it’s only natural that such things as temperature, relative safety, quantity of elbow room, and other such characteristics always feel slightly less ideal than, well, my ideal. So one of our Rules went a bit like this:

Degrees of ambient temperature in the waiting area for a winter train are inversely proportional to the number of minutes before the train arrives.

That wonderful three-and-a-half month trip happened to be in the year of a record cold winter, when typically easy-rolling European trains were stranded or derailing, never mind having trouble keeping to a tight schedule, when towns that normally were undaunted by modest drifts of snow became isolated spots on a vast white map, unconnected by their accustomed transport and communications alike and filled with a cohort of folk ranging from the slightly mystified to the miffed, who were parked there perforce until such time as a bit of thaw or an intrepid snowplow should free them again. Needless to say, our itinerary moved in unpredictable fits and starts that found us standing for rather extended periods shivering on train platforms, huddled in our entire inventories of clothes layered together with a few sympathetic donations from relatives’ and friends’ closets, wondering not just when but if our train would ever arrive, and finding that it was essentially up to chance no matter how everyone tried.

Dashing through many a train station, airport, and tourist venue over the same trip, we had plenty of opportunity to observe a number of other repeated elements.

One obvious constant of student travel like ours was that funds were ever seemingly flush only in currencies not applicable in our present location; the corollary to this rule was that we always managed to arrive in said location on a Saturday evening, when the banks would not be open again for the exchange of funds into the local currency until Monday morning. By that time at least one of us was actively considering whether the peeling wallpaper in our shabby flophouse-du-jour had been applied long enough ago to have wheat-based paste behind it for the licking. Okay, that part was literal only once that I can remember, thankfully. The rest of it was pretty frequent, though, the Saturday arrivals happening oftener than they should to a couple of people who had somehow managed to get accepted for university studies. Sometimes, at that, arrival was on the tail-end of a marathon train trek meant to avoid overnight hostel fees en route but where we’d also regrettably neglected to pack more than one lunch for the whole two or three days, as the trains didn’t take our current currency either.

You see where this is going. Natural, practical brilliance, at least on my part, was never actually part of my traveling kit.

Another Rule: Escalator and pedway handrails are precisely calibrated to move at a rate relative to the underfoot surface that guarantees anyone holding a steady position of both hand and foot will arrive at the end of the stair or passage fully prone. For greater variety and increased adventure, some engineers build variable speeds into both surfaces’ mechanisms, providing the options of both ventral and dorsal arrival positions on the same equipment. It’s similar to the knowledge that all shopping carts worldwide are produced to assure that one wheel will consistently aim fourteen degrees further to the right, the east, or the direction of Purgatory than whatever direction the other ones are headed.

You might think from reading this that I am not fond of travel, or at least that I’m quite awful at it, but I’m really just more tolerant of uncertainty and willing to subject myself to chance than I generally give myself credit for being. In a way, I realize that I’m a living miracle. I am terrified of change and newness, easily intimidated, I have no natural compass sense, I’m forgetful and quickly confused, and I abhor discomfort. I stumble around, blundering little animal that I am, and forget all of the smart Rules I’ve ever known. But I’ve gotten to go gallivanting in a pretty good variety of really wonderful and interesting places, to meet fantastic people and see and do amazing things, and above all, I’m here to tell the tale. If that isn’t a fine endorsement of going with the flow as a traveler, I don’t know what is. That’s the only Rule that counts.

With Age comes [Some] Wisdom

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Drawing: Old So-and-SosOld So-and-Sos

Yea, smell that rose!

It’s on the nose.

Not one of those

Who would suppose

That poems, prose,

And speeches’ throes

Must not disclose

Where their heart goes,

I always chose

To stick to those

That told my nose

What was a rose.

Vegetable Bliss

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Photo: Vegetopia IIn addition to the under-appreciated benefits of simply vegetating for rest and personal renewal—the old R&R that current generations seem to forget to practice in our constant race for connectedness and communication and “productivity”—vegetating is a state in which the highly desirable happy accident of inspiration has room to occur. Some inspiring thoughts could even lead to a great invention or contribution to society. Mine, not likely. But if I don’t take the opportunity to allow that creative space, how will I know?Photo montage + text: The Faithful Gardener

It’s worth the risk, in my view, of fulfilling my destiny as one who will never have the Great Idea. By trying the intentional-vegetative approach, I might surprise even myself. And I’m certain that having a little more time spent as a human plant form is bound to have a positive effect on my general well-being, at the least. Indulge me. Better yet, indulge yourself from time to time.Photo: Vegetopia II

Nobody Wants to Confess to being a Sneaky Snacker…

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…but most of us are not only guilty of such misdemeanors but occasionally even get caught with our paws in the pasta. We’re not always major miscreants, but there are times when even the most proper of persons likes to break protocol just a bit. Ah, well, we do so love our naughty little secrets!Photo + text: Snack Sneaker

Because I Can

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Photo: Homemade ToothpasteEverybody does certain things for no particular reason—sometimes to show off just a little, sometimes to test our limits a bit, and sometimes for the Everest-scaling excuse “Because it’s there.” Some of the things we do with the latter brand of casual offhandedness might, of course, be far better thought through, given that the utterer of that famous phrase died on the mountain and his body wasn’t even found until about 75 years later. But I’ll grant you that sometimes, too, a seemingly aimless act can lead to more useful ends.

As a person seriously devoted to both comfort and safety, I am more than content to leave any because-I-can acts of physical or psychological derring-do to anyone who wishes to live on the edge. I like my secure and restful life, thankyouverymuch, most especially the life part of it. But I’m willing, on occasion, to do small and non-dangerous experiments, if they seem to offer any interesting byproducts of use or entertainment.

Like making home-mixed shampoo, skin lotion, and toothpaste.

Sorry, if you were hoping for something really exciting! My inner life of fantasy has all of the elements of danger that I have the slightest interest in experiencing. But my day-to-day life and its practical requirements offer plenty of areas for potential improvement. If I can make my chores simpler, my needs smaller, the products I use slightly less expensive or toxic or complicated, and any other kinds of fixes that seem likely to make daily living pleasanter in any way, I’m generally glad to make the attempt at some point.

I don’t like most perfumed products. Nature gives me lots of wonderful smelling stuff to enjoy without my wanting to complicate those scents with artificial add-ons, so I’m more likely to buy an unscented, hypoallergenic version of any product if I can, and just enjoy the benefits of some of my favorite real-life ‘byproduct perfumes’: coffee brewing, freshly cut alfalfa hay, wet sidewalks after a long-awaited rain, a sleepy baby’s milky breath, sun-heated cedars and Douglas-fir trees, yeasty cardamom bread coming out of the oven. Flowers bursting into bloom in the garden. Salt spray at the shore. Spiced cider steeping on a cold night. Maybe it’s because I just recovered from a two-week cold, saw my poor spouse go through his own afterward, and woke up stuffy-headed again this morning, but the idea of all of those very lovely perfumes is the more alluring without thinking of their being masked by any artificial ones.

Then again, not only do I like to be clean both in my home and my person, there are some scents that do enhance my sense of cleanliness and good health in their ways, so I am not averse to adding those that I like, in the quantities I find appealing, to home-brewed stuff of personal- and home-care when I do make them.

My shampoo is almost always the all-purpose blend of a very plain liquid hand soap like Ivory (one could also use a similarly simple, if slightly more expensive, liquid Castile soap like Dr. Bronner’s) with nothing more complicated than tea tree and peppermint oils added in for their refreshing and slightly antimicrobial/antiviral qualities. The plain, oil-free soap is good for nearly any sort of (personal or house) cleaning that doesn’t require scrubbing, and with the oils it’s sufficient for my showering or bathing and hair care, no creme rinse needed. I don’t invest in any special skin treatments beyond the same home-mixed blend of skin moisturizer I’ve used on my face since my eccentric old dermatologist gave me his “recipe” of one part oil-free, hypoallergenic skin cleansing lotion + 1 part oil-free, hypoallergenic skin moisturizer + 1-2 parts water to use daily about 35 years ago. I have far better skin now than I did back then, so I guess it still works just fine.

The toothpaste-making is a work in progress, but I’m generally happy with that little science project as well. I have excellent teeth to begin with, so I wouldn’t recommend everyone jumping into fiddling with homemade toothpaste without consulting your dentist first, but these are also pretty standard toothpaste ingredients, so I’m not especially fearful of ruining my pretty white choppers. The blend at the moment is 1 cup baking soda (very mildly abrasive, and has some ability to remove or lessen stains and freshen breath—not, mind you, baking powder, unless you’re intending to bake your teeth into some sort of snack food) +1 cup coconut oil (melted for blending) + 1/2 cup powdered xylitol (the sugar alcohol sweetener, currently thought to be a cavity-fighter when used in moderation) + 2-3 Tbsp peppermint extract (flavor and breath freshening) + 2 drops blue food coloring. The latter is primarily to remind me that it’s toothpaste, since it’s just stored in a 2-cup jar in the medicine cabinet at the moment and I am, after all, occasionally forgetful. I might try the addition of a little Bentonite clay for better light abrasion, but didn’t have any on hand.

Let me just add that this little project is not my attempt to avoid fluoride. You are all free to choose to use it or not, but I am delighted that my first dentist happened to be among the first adopters of dental fluoridation and my home water district among the first adopters of fluoridated water. I have as near to perfect teeth as any 50-something I know, along with my three siblings, and our parents had typical earlier-generation rates of cavities and other dental problems; my dentists since then have agreed that early and consistent application of fluoride is very probably a significant contributing factor in this one-generation upgrade on general oral health. I don’t doubt that there are potential problems with overexposure or tradeoffs in other areas of health and well-being, and yet I wouldn’t trade any of those for a set of strong, healthy teeth with no caps, fillings, or other major interventions having been necessary, never mind growing up without fear of dentists and their tools. That’s my story. But I’m dubious that the occasional batch of homemade toothpaste without fluoride, at this point in my life, is going to threaten my dental magnificence. If my dentist tells me otherwise, I’ll switch back without a fuss. I’d hardly risk my teeth any more than I would life and limb for a little experiment.

I’m not, after all, that much of an adventurer.Photo: DIY Dentifrice