The Square Peg – The Cookbook Conundrum

The Square Peg – The Cookbook Conundrum

© S. Bradley Stoner

I ran into Colonel Duffer Sunday afternoon. I’d only seen him long enough to exchange a wave with him on about five occasions since the debacle on the golf course… and that was a long time ago. The Colonel has been busy. Doing what, I have no idea, but he’s gone a lot.

“Howdy, Colonel, how are things going for you?”

“Okay, I guess. I got roped into being on a couple of committees. One for the American Legion and one for the VFW. I’ve been busier that a grunt digging a foxhole with a teaspoon.”

“That’s pretty busy,” I agreed. “How’s the wife?”

“She’s enjoying my retirement a lot more than I am… she’s got her cooking club, her card club, and her reading circle. In between those, she spends her time on the computer or yakking with the kids. I thought I’d get a nice weekend to myself, but no… the Home Six tells me I have to build her more bookshelves.”

(For non-military folks, an O6 is a full bird colonel and the Home Six refers to the commanding officer at home… the wife… for obvious reasons).

“Geez, she already has a whole room full of shelves. How many books does she have?”

“More than I can count,” Duffer said miserably. “She even made me box my military books and took over those shelves. Said that, since I was retired, I shouldn’t need to refer to them any more.”

“My wife has quite a collection of books too,” I noted, “but she wouldn’t dream of touching my library. Although I must admit that I need to build her a couple of more books cases, but between her office and the bedroom, she doesn’t need to encroach on my space.”

“Yeah, well mine just added a bunch of cookbooks she picked up at a garage sale.”

“Holy cow, how many does that make?” I asked, having seen the three bookcases in the breakfast nook and three more in the living room full of cookbooks.

“No idea, but it’s a lot. I wouldn’t mind if she made something from one of those books, but she doesn’t. She just likes to look at them once in a while.”

“Never?!” I gasped.

“Nope. When she does cook, she just hauls out that old notebook of hers or shoots from the hip. I’m not complaining about her cooking mind you, it’s good solid meat and potatoes food… except for that time she decided we needed to be vegetarians. I’m glad that didn’t last.”

“Wow.”

When I got to thinking about it, I realized that my lovely collects cook books she doesn’t use either, but she gets e-books. She told me today that she probably has 3,000 of them in her Kindle archive. And then I have quite a few on grilling and barbequing that I don’t really use. I think a lot of us just get in a rut, but on the other hand some of the ingredients they list in those cookbooks strike me as a little strange. Oh well, maybe I’ll haul out one of those we have on the shelf and see if I can find something different one of these nights… maybe.

The Square Peg - The Return of Slick

The Square Peg - The Return of Slick
© S. Bradley Stoner

Woke up this morning and stepped out front to check the weather. Yeah, I know I could watch the weatherman on the news, but I trust my eyes and my nose, not to mention old injuries and joints, more. Why? Because they're generally more reliable. I took a deep breath... and I wished I hadn't. There was a pungent odor permeating the neighborhood... sort of like a mix of mesquite and sulfur. Heavy fog held it close to the ground. I left the sanctuary of the porch that is enclosed on three sides. I wish I hadn't done that either. There, belching gray-black smoke from a stubby stack, was that dilapidated old motor home in front of Bingo Bob's house. After a few weeks, Slick was back.

Now for those of you who don't remember, Slick is Bob's cousin... the one who fancies himself an inventor, but who is actually just a craft show gypsy (no offense to Gypsies). Behind that cruddy old motor home of questionable parentage, was an equally decrepit old boat. About a sixteen footer. It had a center console, but no wheel and wire guts hanging out where the gauges had once been. It had twin outboard motors, if you could call them that. Only one had a prop and both of them were missing their cowlings. Even at this distance, I could make out crusts of rust in between the globs of black grease, or was it congealed oil. Who knows? There was a hole in the port side about the size of a basketball through which you could see the pile of junk on the deck. One thing was certain, that tub wouldn't float and it dang sure wouldn't move under its own power.

I spotted Slick exiting his abode, dressed in Bermuda shorts and athletic shirt with hair sticking out the the arm holes and rear yoke, scratching his behind in a most immodest manner. Hoping the thick fog would obscure Slick's view, I turned to make my escape. Too late. I think the guy has 360 degree radar or something.

"YO," Slick yelled so the entire neighborhood could hear it. It started all the dogs barking.

I waved and turned to head inside, figuring it was too early for Slick to trot in my direction. I figured I was safe. I figured wrong. Slick was capable of a surprising burst of speed despite his beer belly and short legs. Heck, that big stogie with the end fired didn't even slow him down. I moved quickly toward the driveway. No way I was going to let Slick inside my house. In fact, I wasn't sure I wanted him on my driveway, but that was a moot point now, because there he was in all his glory, standing smack dab in the middle of my driveway. 

Slick didn't wait for me to make an opening remark. "Whaddaya think of my new boat? Ain't it a beaut?! And I got it for a song! Traded a guy a rebuilt can opener and one of them cheap fantasy swords for it. I figure I got a whole twenty bucks into it. Leaves me plenty of margin to fix this baby up!"

"I'm not sure," I opined, "I think the other guy might have gotten the better end of that deal."

"Haw haw... yer quite the card, ain't ya?"

Only I wasn't joking, and I told him so. Slick's face clouded a little, then brightened. He opened his mouth, but I was saved by the bell... Bingo Bob had come out of his door and saw that Slick had returned sometime during the dead of night. "Dammit Slick, I told ya last time ya couldn't park that piece of crap here! The HOA won't allow it." 

"Oh hell, Bob... I just spent the night. I'm leavin' in a couple of hours. I gotta be in Wisconsin next Tuesday. I should be able to just make it."

"Well, ya better come eat some breakfast now then."

"Keep yer britches on. I'm visiting' with yer neighbor."

"Oh, it's okay, you better grab your breakfast while you can," I said, hoping he would take the hint. No such luck.

"Hey... you ought to see the big screen TV I got at the swap meet."

"That's okay, Slick, I have a couple of good TVs already, so I don't really need one."

"No, no. I'm not selling it. Just wanted to show you the special mount I invented for it. I'm lookin' for investors. It's really cool," he added, "it's a ceiling mount.. you know, so you can watch TV in bed without being propped up. You just look straight up from yer pillow and wake up with nary a crick in your neck,"

I was impressed. Not by his invention, but by the fact that he knew the word "nary" and even used it correctly. I began to wonder if his hustler, pitchman linguistic style wasn't put on, but I didn't ask. There are some things you just don't need to know and, frankly, I didn't want to spend an extra hour with Slick. I might be retired, but I have better things to do. About that time, Bingo Bob yelled at him again, this time with an edge to it.

Slick made a noise and said, "Guess I'd better  go before he has a kitten. Maybe we can spend a little more time together next time I come by"

I bid him goodbye and happy travels, but next time I'm going to look out my window to make sure Slick's rig isn't out there before going out.

The Square Peg - #!@* Flaptop

The Square Peg - #!@* Flaptop

© S. Bradley Stoner

Well, I was finishing up my walk yesterday... I got a late start, really late. About two in the afternoon. Hey, it was sunny and in the 70s.. shorts weather. It had been in the low 40’s in the morning and while I like crisp, clear mornings, I hate walking in sweats. Trust me, down here the 40’s are sweats weather. I must be getting old. I used to wade in 38 degree streams fishing in Montana in my jeans and never even raised a goosebump. I still don’t raise a goosebump in our lower temperatures here, but my left knee and right shoulder complain a lot. I could tell you why, but you’d just get bored. Any was as I rounded the corner and headed up the slight hill toward Bingo Bob’s house, I spotted Bob and Paula Pettingzoo engaged in an animated discussion. I was just about to turn around and go the other way when Paula spotted me and waved. Too late, dammit.

Had to keep my heart rate up, so I kept up the pace. I reached them with the full intent of saying “hello” as I went past, but, alas, it was not to be. Paula shouted something at Bob. Bob turned around and said, “Hey, settle an argument for us.” ‘Oh crap,’ I thought, but didn’t say it out loud.

“What’s the problem?” I asked, hoping it was something simple. Turns out, it was simple, but some people have a knack of making the obvious complex.

“It’s my #!@* flaptop,” Bob said. It keeps giving me an error message when I turn it on. Paula says I’m doing something wrong. I say I’m not.”

“What happened to that new tablet you bought... you know that Micromush piece of crap you spent too much on. I thought you liked that. Why are you using that old crappy laptop... you know it’s ‘laptop’ not ‘flaptop,’ right?

“This one’s a flaptop,” Bob whined, releasing his hold on the screen portion, whereupon it slammed closed. “See? Flaptop.”

“You didn’t answer my question about the tablet,” I prodded.

Bob scuffed a toe on the sidewalk and looked up at the sky in silence.

“C’mon, Bob, give.”

“Yeah, Bob, give,” Paula pressed... like I needed her help to get it out of him.

“Ummmm.... uh... I took it fishing with me on the boat and I was watching a movie when a whopper hit my line and started running with it. Well, I jumped up and...”

Bob didn’t have to finish the thought. I could just see that tablet arcing through the air and going kerplop in the drink as he lunged for his pole. “Well, did you at least land that whopper?”

“Shut up,” Bob replied hostilely.

“Let me see your laptop.” I took it, set it carefully on the hood of his truck and lifted the screen to what should have been a normal position... tilted slightly away from the keyboard. I should have noticed that it raised way to easily. I didn’t and took my hand away to press the power button. The screen hovered for just a second before it went crashing down onto the hood. Uh oh/

“I TOLD ya it was a #!@* flaptop!” Bob shouted. “Now ya probably broke it good!”

I pressed the power button. The old laptop sputtered. The hard drive labored to spin. It sounded like an ungreased bearing. The fan rattled, coughed and died momentarily before rattling once more. I watched the screen. It glowed. It brought up the Windows start screen.. you know, the one that says “Windows Starting Up,” and hung there for about forty seconds before the Windows 98 icon appeared and wavered.

“Huh,” Bob declared, “it never went that far before today.”

Paula seemed mesmerized by the ancient icon on Bob’s screen. “I loved Windows 98,” she cooed. “It was so reliable.”

I thought about mentioning that old 98 has about as many security gaps as a colander has holes, but I didn’t. I had once been rather fond of 98 as well... that is until I discovered XP. Millennium and Vista were crap. XP was and is a great operating system and I still use it... with some really great anti-virus and anti-spy software of course. What I like about XP is that you can load outside programs with it... you’re not stuck with strictly Micromush stuff that you have to license annually like the new operating systems. But I digress.

Anyway, the icon gradually gave way to reveal Bob’s start menu. It and the desktop took another five minutes to load, during which time Paula took the opportunity to talk about her new dog rescue efforts. She informed us that she had recently rescued two adorable little dogs... a Pomeranian mix and a Chihuahua from the local animal shelter. Okay, so now I know who owns those two yappy dogs that won’t shut up for hours on end. Paula leaves them out while she’s volunteering at the shelter or one of her other causes. I mentioned the barking dog ordinance. Paula glared at me and called me a not so nice name.

Bob ignored us both and attacked the key board when laptop quit making working noises. He brought up his old Explorer version and it tried to, but couldn’t connect with the Internet. “@#&$%*@@#$!!” Bob hollered.

“Watch your mouth, Bob,” Paula challenged.

I’d repeat what Bob replied, but it wouldn’t look a whole lot different than the above. Use your imagination. And then he added, “And your !@$%ing yappy #!@* dogs too!”

“Careful Bob... your Jersey is showing.”

“Aw !@$% it.” he shot back. “Why can’t I get the Internet?!”

I checked his connection. “Do you still have that old dialup modem?” I asked innocently.

“!@$% you too!” he stormed. “I’m gonna go buy another tablet!”

“Catch ya later, Bob... you have a nice day,” I chortled and headed for my home.

I didn’t get what he yelled after me, but I imagine it was some other colorful New Jersey appelation.

The Square Peg - WE WAS ROBBED!!

The Square Peg - WE WAS ROBBED!!

© S. Bradley Stoner

Well, it's Sunday again. That day every red-blooded American has been waiting for all week. No, it ain't Friday everybody waits for... at least not between August and January... It's Sunday... FOOTBALL! No, not that sissy game where players kick a round ball and chase after it... the one that involves crashes of he-men the size of small buses, and some not-so-small buses. Yep, the arena of grunts, groans, and organized mayhem. 

We love it! Nothing better. Unless, of course, you hang around post-game when all those losing team whiners gather to cry in their beer. "We was robbed!" they yell. The curse the Zebras (you know, refs, umps and field judges) for being complete idiots, and blind no less, for missing that critical call that would have given THEIR team better field position. Or the one that gave the other team just one more chance to win the game when time had run out. I'm not mentioning names or teams here, that would be impolite, but one wears green and the other baby blue. 

Bingo Bob had a fit after that game. Duncan Donutz was rolling on the floor laughing at him... well he would have been laughing, but he'd lost his voice yelling at the Zebras for missing calls that were "clearly pass interference on the..." blue team. Of course Bob swore up and down (and I do mean "SWORE") about that rotten face mask call. 

"He barely TOUCHED it!" Bob screamed at Duncan. 

Between silent guffaws, Duncan managed to croak, "Yeah... that's why his head jerked around."

"Time was out!" Bob stamped the floor... yep, he really did stamp. It looked kind of funny... like a little kid playing horsey. "The game was OVER."

"Uh uh," Duncan said, rearranging the wedge of cheddar, "they had one play because of that obvious penalty!"

"It was a BAD call!" Bob sputtered.

"It was a GOOD call,"Duncan returned, "probably only one of a very few they got right. Besides... your defense  totally blew the coverage."

"WE WAS ROBBED!!" Bob fairly screamed.

It would have come to blows, but when the two approached each other, neither could reach the other with fists. Between Bob's beer belly and Duncan's donut belly, all they could do is whiff in the air. I decided I'd better stop it before they knocked over the big screen TV Bob had bought on Cyber Monday... I never did find out if he got out of paying for the broken TVs on Black Friday.

"All right... that's enough. "The IMPORTANT game is coming on."

By important, I mean of course, without mentioning names, the one between the guys with a horse on their helmet and that other "unbeatable" team. At least that's what all the commentators said. Hey... I watched that game, and yeah, there were some bad calls... on both sides. But in the end, the better team won! Again, I won't mention names, but they wear orange. 

Now, I have a friend who is a rabid fan of the other team... and yeah, he whined about the officiating. Tough beans! Swallow that losing pill and suck it up buttercup. It's a good thing we don't live anywhere close to each other or it might have come to blows... and he's younger and more muscle bound than I am. I really don't have to guess what the outcome of that would have been. 

Happy Sunday, y'all... and hey! Stay safe out there!

The Square Peg - I Have Met the Enemy and He is Dust.

The Square Peg - I Have Met the Enemy and He is Dust

© S. Bradley Stoner

It must be cleaning day for me. Well, I don't know if it must, but it is. With vacuum, mop and bucket in hand, I attacked. It was a battle, but I defeated the crumbs in the kitchen, the tracked in outdoors indoors, spots in the shower, splatter on the stove top, soap scum in the sinks, and overdue leftovers in the fridge. Yep... they fought me all the way, but my sinks are now whiter than white, the tile floors are shiny, and the carpet has  been relieved of bits of grass, leaves and that funny looking smudge that came from I don't know where. Ahhh... I took a break for a cup of coffee and glanced out the glass of the French doors to the patio. Arghhh! What is that floating in the sunlight?!

Dust... those tiny little specks of... Of what? Does anybody know what that stuff we call dust is made of? Somebody has to have analyzed it. I know! Google it! Aha! Wikipedia has a whole section on the stuff summarized in the opening paragraph...

"Dust consists of particles in the atmosphere that come from various sources such as soil, dust lifted by weather (an aeolian process), volcanic eruptions, and pollution. Dust in homes, offices, and other human environments contains small amounts of plant pollen, human and animal hairs, textile fibers, paper fibers, minerals from outdoor soil, human skin cells, burnt meteorite particles, and many other materials which may be found in the local environment."

I now have a basis to narrow down my dust source. I have filters on my central air... really good filters, so the only dirt and pollen that could get in is what sticks to me when I've been outside working or what wafts in when I open a door. And I can't think of any recent volcanic eruptions in the neighborhood, so we can cross that one off the list. Human and animal hairs? Okay, I'll buy human... we've both got a good head of hair, but it isn't short and I'm pretty sure whiskers from shaving go down the drain... in fact, I know they do. That's why I have to clean the traps periodically. Yuck. Textile fibers... boy they must be tiny. Burnt meteorite particles? Seriously? How would they get in my tightly sealed home? Human skin cells. Well, that's kind of disgusting. If the other things are relatively small in percentage, I'd better stop exfoliating.. oh wait, I can't. It's kind of a natural process. Judging by the accumulation, if I started saving the stuff, I could build a golem in about a year and a half. Maybe, I could put him in charge of dusting. Sigh.

Well... dusting doesn't do itself, now does it? I grabbed our duster... it's one of those fuzzy nylon affairs that the manufacturer advertises that it grabs dust and doesn't let it go. Sure it does. As I set to work, wielding that weapon of mess destruction, I notice in the streaming sunlight that the enemy is escaping in hordes and regrouping on things I just cleaned out. Tricky little bast... um particles. I know they are just gathering for a counter attack with the first gust from the central air... and I have a feeling they aren't all going to get sucked into the filter trap. They're slippery little devils. I get out my Dust Buster... maybe that will work. The enemy clings to the brush tip, refusing to go down without a fight. I pull off the brush, reverse it and let the nozzle such as much as it can. Better, but not perfect.

Resolutely, I go for the big guns. An impregnated dust cloth to which I add a spritz or fifty of Endust. Finally, I have decimated their strength through sheer determination. But the cost was heavy. I'm sapped... I'm hot... I'm sweaty... and, HORRORS! I notice little motes falling like snow from my arms. Oh no! Betrayed by deserters from my own body! CURSE YOU DEAD BARREN! I have met the enemy and he is dUSt! It's a no win situation... it's a war of attrition... and, unless I can control my own troops, I'm gonna lose.