My sister Monica and I are having a wonderful time on the road, going down to nephew Bob Roland's wedding's down in North Carolina.
We got on the road around 8:00 a.m., Monica's Jeep stuffed to the gills with everything from yeast for baking, to Chiavetta's BBQ sauce to my rolling bag with my cross-stitch supplies.
We made stops about every hour and a half, partly to relieve our aging bladders, but also to relieve the stiffness in the joints that settles in when one is cramped inside a car.
One of our first stops was at the magnificent and gleaming welcome center at the Pennsylvania border, with a panoramic view of Lake Erie. The gentleman working there gave me some free coloring books featuring Pennsylvania history for me to send to my sponsored children in Guatemala.
There were two Japanese families there, with 4 daughters altogether, and while the girls gamboled in the picnic area, and one of the dads took pictures of the Lake, the other parents slumped at picnic tables, staring at the big minivan they had rented, the expressions on their faces clearly reflecting that they were contemplating murdering the idiot who had come up with the plan to transport 4 lively girls across across the United States in a minivan. No doubt the idea had belonged to the guy with the camera.
We hit our first check in Pennsylvania, where we stopped for a restroom in a construction area, stumbled upon a Brewster's ice cream/Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs restaurant, and after we stopped for a nutritionally dubious lunch, we got totally turned around trying to get back on I-79. The Pennsylvania signage for the detour was typically obtuse and inadequate, and we almost got trapped in a Moebius loop of poorly marked roads.
Upon entering West Virginia, the speed went up to 70 MPH, and the cars whizzed past us at dizzying speed on the winding moutainous roads. The scenery was magnificent, but the poor Jeep labored up the steep mountain grades.
At one point, we saw a billboard perched on a mountainside, and at first, we could have sworn it said, "Hiring?...Jesus Christ," but upon closer observation, we discovered it read, "Hurting?...Jesus Cares." We were relieved, because at first we were afraid that Jesus had been having a rough time since the economic downturn of 2007, and that if that were the case, surely His unemployment benefits would be running out by now.
At one point, we passed the "Stonewall Jackson Resort" state park. We wondered what the resort activities could be -- routing Union troops on horseback?
We were also amused by the names of some of the towns in WV -- "Nutter Fort," "Flatwoods" (were the trees 2-dimensional?), "Lost Creek" (surely, if they'd been able to name it, they'd been able to find it), "Mink Shoals," "Little Otter" and "Big Otter," and finally, "Big Chimney" (no doubt where the Big Otter, like Winnie-The-Pooh, got trapped and had to fast before he could be pulled free by the Little Otter).
After we got to the hotel, we were decided to go see the movie "The Help," because we had both loved the book so much. Around the middle of the film, I noticed an elderly lady get up from her seat, trip over the lighting strip on the floor, get turned around, and then fall slowly, throwing out her arm to break her fall. Unfortunately, the arm snapped like a twig. Many of us rushed to her aid. Her daughter supported her, and a physical therapist in the audience held her arm in alignment, while Monica and a man ran to get assistance.
Eventually, the paramedics arrived, and the movie was paused and the lights came up to give the paramedics a chance to work. At one point, the dear lady mumbled that she was so sorry to have given so much trouble to everyone, and I piped up that it wasn't all bad, because now she was surrounded by 5 handsome men who came to her rescue. She chuckled, and then raised her good arm in farewell, to a chorus of, "You take care, now!" "We'll be praying for you, honey!" and the universal, "God Bless!"
The movie resumed without incident. Naturally, Monica and I got a little lost on our way back to the hotel, but at last, the Big Otter in the Big Chimney guided us back home.
What adventures will today bring?
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
There's something very, very twisted about gmail
It's free, so I know shouldn't complain, but if you write an email about your cat, you get an ad pop up at the top for cat trees. VERY creepy, because gmail is reading the contents of your email. It's kind of like an electronic stalker. Only without the threat of gmail showing up naked on your front porch and asking if you ordered a pizza.
Anyway, tonight, OUT OF NOWHERE, this ad pops up: "Sporrans for every budget. www.usakilts.com." I had no emails about the Scots, men in skirts, men with nice calves, woolen socks, porridge, highland reels, nervous sheep -- NOTHING. (Sorry for that last one, Scottish listies. I'm a very, very, very bad girl, and a man with nice calves wearing a kilt should come and spank me.)
So, what part of gmail's fevered imagination thought I was pining for a sporran? Which I suppose is better than pining for the fjords, because then I'd be a dead parrot.
Man, I have got to stop sending out emails after 1 bottle of Woodchuck hard cider. That stuff messes with my head.
Anyway, tonight, OUT OF NOWHERE, this ad pops up: "Sporrans for every budget. www.usakilts.com." I had no emails about the Scots, men in skirts, men with nice calves, woolen socks, porridge, highland reels, nervous sheep -- NOTHING. (Sorry for that last one, Scottish listies. I'm a very, very, very bad girl, and a man with nice calves wearing a kilt should come and spank me.)
So, what part of gmail's fevered imagination thought I was pining for a sporran? Which I suppose is better than pining for the fjords, because then I'd be a dead parrot.
Man, I have got to stop sending out emails after 1 bottle of Woodchuck hard cider. That stuff messes with my head.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Two out of three housecats surveyed surprisingly do NOT like Chiavetta's chicken
For those of you unfortunate souls who don't live in Western NY and have never experienced Chiavetta's BBQ chicken, you're missing one of this region's great cultural and gastronomic contributions to Western Society. If you want to raise a bucketload of money for your organization, you invite the Chiavetta's people to come to your location, and you put out signs announcing they're coming.
On the appointed day, a Chiavetta's truck will roll up, and a young man will efficiently set up a BBQ pit on your location and get the coals going. He will then spend the next couple of hours roasting half-chickens, drenching them with a giant paintbrush soaked in Chiavetta's famous marinade. The brush will not touch the raw chicken, but the marinade is showered on the chickens by the deft flicks of the cooker's wrist, the way a priest showers the congregation with holy water from an aspergillum (yes, I had to look up that word).
Meanwhile, the people wishing to raise money will have their Styrofoam clamshell containers ready, and volunteers will be standing by the boxes of coleslaw and potato salad that Chiavetta's provides, spoons in hand, ready to dish out sides. Chiavetta's also provides rolls, packaged butter pats, and sealed packages of utensils/salt/pepper packages.
A volunteer will toss the white roll and pat of butter into the clamshell after the chicken and the sides have been loaded. I have been such a volunteer, and once customers see the signs and smell the chicken, you can't keep up with the demand. Plop chicken, scoop sides, toss roll and butter, close clamshell, drop all into a plastic bag with the little package of plastic utensils and salt/pepper packets, hand chicken to customer, customer hands money to money taker. Lather, rinse, repeat, until all the chicken is gone.
I was once at a park selling chicken on a fine autumn day, and from an adjoining park, over a quarter of a mile away, a woman beelined to our location like a desert traveler homing in on an oasis. "I smelled Chiavetta's!" she exclaimed.
Once all the chicken is cooked, the young man will douse the coals, and pack up his cooking equipment. In a neat environmental miracle, no sign of the giant cooking pit is left once the Chiavetta's truck pulls away from your site. It's like they were never there, except the air remains redolent with the delicious smell of roasted chicken, and the volunteers' ears are assaulted with the weeping of customers who arrived too late to get any chicken.
Chiavetta's sells their wonderful marinade to a grateful public, and no Western NY household fridge is complete without a bottle. (For those of you out of state, it's available on Amazon.com.) I wanted to send a bottle to my cousin Ken in Japan, but the USPS won't allow you to ship liquids in the mail. So, the stricken people of Japan will have to continue to labor under the dual burden of recovering from the earthquake, and not eating Chiavetta's chicken.
Recently, Chiavetta's opened up a take out store in Lockport, in Niagara County, and have billboards advertising the location here in Buffalo, in Erie County. I'm told these billboards have led to increased salivation within Buffalo's city limits.
Anyway, I had to tell you that story to tell you this story.
I was running errands this afternoon, and everywhere I went, I saw signs in churchyards and schools: "Chiavetta's BBQ Fundraiser on Saturday." Naturally, I was filled with an intense longing for Chiavetta's chicken, a longing almost as strong as the lost soul feels for his Creator.
I had time to swing by the take out store, and it was my lucky day, because a brace of half-chickens had just come off the outdoor roasting pit. I took a half-chicken home, tantalized the whole way by the odor filling my car.
As I was eating my dinner, my 3 cats came to investigate, lured by the scent. I tore off 3 pieces from the drumstick, for while the meat is tender to the point of falling off the bone, it's still my least favorite part of the chicken. I set out the 3 pieces in bowls on the floor.
Ninja raced up, grabbed her piece, and scurried away with it, having learned in a hard school that running away from the larger and more aggressive Sybil is the only way to hang onto your share of rare table scraps.
Sybil and Skippy looked at their pieces of chicken, then turned to me with puzzled expressions. "It smells like chicken," I could almost hear them say, "but what's that weird vinegar smell?" Their shares remained untouched.
Ninja slinked back to the chicken twice more, hardly daring to believe her good fortune that the other 2 cats hadn't gobbled up their pieces. With each return visit, Ninja would give the other cats disbelieving and condescending looks of scorn: "Wow, what a pair of dumbasses." I could only concur with her assessment.
For more information on Chiavetta's:
company website:
http://www.chiavettas.com/index.php3
history of the company:
http://buffalofoods.net/blog/chiavettas-barbecue-legends/
Reply Forward
On the appointed day, a Chiavetta's truck will roll up, and a young man will efficiently set up a BBQ pit on your location and get the coals going. He will then spend the next couple of hours roasting half-chickens, drenching them with a giant paintbrush soaked in Chiavetta's famous marinade. The brush will not touch the raw chicken, but the marinade is showered on the chickens by the deft flicks of the cooker's wrist, the way a priest showers the congregation with holy water from an aspergillum (yes, I had to look up that word).
Meanwhile, the people wishing to raise money will have their Styrofoam clamshell containers ready, and volunteers will be standing by the boxes of coleslaw and potato salad that Chiavetta's provides, spoons in hand, ready to dish out sides. Chiavetta's also provides rolls, packaged butter pats, and sealed packages of utensils/salt/pepper packages.
A volunteer will toss the white roll and pat of butter into the clamshell after the chicken and the sides have been loaded. I have been such a volunteer, and once customers see the signs and smell the chicken, you can't keep up with the demand. Plop chicken, scoop sides, toss roll and butter, close clamshell, drop all into a plastic bag with the little package of plastic utensils and salt/pepper packets, hand chicken to customer, customer hands money to money taker. Lather, rinse, repeat, until all the chicken is gone.
I was once at a park selling chicken on a fine autumn day, and from an adjoining park, over a quarter of a mile away, a woman beelined to our location like a desert traveler homing in on an oasis. "I smelled Chiavetta's!" she exclaimed.
Once all the chicken is cooked, the young man will douse the coals, and pack up his cooking equipment. In a neat environmental miracle, no sign of the giant cooking pit is left once the Chiavetta's truck pulls away from your site. It's like they were never there, except the air remains redolent with the delicious smell of roasted chicken, and the volunteers' ears are assaulted with the weeping of customers who arrived too late to get any chicken.
Chiavetta's sells their wonderful marinade to a grateful public, and no Western NY household fridge is complete without a bottle. (For those of you out of state, it's available on Amazon.com.) I wanted to send a bottle to my cousin Ken in Japan, but the USPS won't allow you to ship liquids in the mail. So, the stricken people of Japan will have to continue to labor under the dual burden of recovering from the earthquake, and not eating Chiavetta's chicken.
Recently, Chiavetta's opened up a take out store in Lockport, in Niagara County, and have billboards advertising the location here in Buffalo, in Erie County. I'm told these billboards have led to increased salivation within Buffalo's city limits.
Anyway, I had to tell you that story to tell you this story.
I was running errands this afternoon, and everywhere I went, I saw signs in churchyards and schools: "Chiavetta's BBQ Fundraiser on Saturday." Naturally, I was filled with an intense longing for Chiavetta's chicken, a longing almost as strong as the lost soul feels for his Creator.
I had time to swing by the take out store, and it was my lucky day, because a brace of half-chickens had just come off the outdoor roasting pit. I took a half-chicken home, tantalized the whole way by the odor filling my car.
As I was eating my dinner, my 3 cats came to investigate, lured by the scent. I tore off 3 pieces from the drumstick, for while the meat is tender to the point of falling off the bone, it's still my least favorite part of the chicken. I set out the 3 pieces in bowls on the floor.
Ninja raced up, grabbed her piece, and scurried away with it, having learned in a hard school that running away from the larger and more aggressive Sybil is the only way to hang onto your share of rare table scraps.
Sybil and Skippy looked at their pieces of chicken, then turned to me with puzzled expressions. "It smells like chicken," I could almost hear them say, "but what's that weird vinegar smell?" Their shares remained untouched.
Ninja slinked back to the chicken twice more, hardly daring to believe her good fortune that the other 2 cats hadn't gobbled up their pieces. With each return visit, Ninja would give the other cats disbelieving and condescending looks of scorn: "Wow, what a pair of dumbasses." I could only concur with her assessment.
For more information on Chiavetta's:
company website:
http://www.chiavettas.com/index.php3
history of the company:
http://buffalofoods.net/blog/chiavettas-barbecue-legends/
Reply Forward
Monday, April 4, 2011
After Midnight, Mollie's Deer Cheat on Her
Our sister-in-law, Mollie, and her husband, Paul, are deservedly fortunate enough to live on 19 acres in the country. Every day, 4 deer daintily wander onto their property and graze in the twilight hours. They're a delight to the eyes and a balm to the spirit.
But Mollie's deer have a dark secret.
Last night, I had to drive out to Lockport after work. My car just got a new transmission, and in order to reset the transmission computer so it would pass inspection, the car had to be driven over 100 miles. I decided to see exactly how far it is to Mollie and Paul's, and also exactly how long it would take to drive there.
I arrived after midnight, and immediately turned around to head home. On my way back to Buffalo, as I was driving up the country road perpendicular to Mollie's road, I spotted 4 ghostly shapes in a neighbor's yard. I pulled over to the shoulder, and 4 gracile necks raised up, and 4 pairs of liquid dark eyes gazed shamelessly at me.
Bold as brass they were, openly grazing on the neighbor's grass, not even attempting to hide their perfidious disloyalty at feeding in another yard. I powered down the window on the passenger side. "Shame on you!" I scolded them. Not even deigning to reply, they all flipped me the whitetail and bounded off into the trees.
That's the trouble with these modern whitetail deer. With their natural predators gone, they've evolved from the shy woodland denizens they once were into sassy, insolent, 4-legged vermin with no fealty whatsoever. Like the thoughtless teenaged beauty who cons her way through life on her good looks, the whitetail relies on the attractiveness of its dainty legs and large eyes to get away with trampling on the feelings of others.
Well, I'm on to you, faithless herd of ungulates. Don't expect me to fawn over your beauty any longer. I now know that as soon as my back is turned, you're off to greener pastures.
But Mollie's deer have a dark secret.
Last night, I had to drive out to Lockport after work. My car just got a new transmission, and in order to reset the transmission computer so it would pass inspection, the car had to be driven over 100 miles. I decided to see exactly how far it is to Mollie and Paul's, and also exactly how long it would take to drive there.
I arrived after midnight, and immediately turned around to head home. On my way back to Buffalo, as I was driving up the country road perpendicular to Mollie's road, I spotted 4 ghostly shapes in a neighbor's yard. I pulled over to the shoulder, and 4 gracile necks raised up, and 4 pairs of liquid dark eyes gazed shamelessly at me.
Bold as brass they were, openly grazing on the neighbor's grass, not even attempting to hide their perfidious disloyalty at feeding in another yard. I powered down the window on the passenger side. "Shame on you!" I scolded them. Not even deigning to reply, they all flipped me the whitetail and bounded off into the trees.
That's the trouble with these modern whitetail deer. With their natural predators gone, they've evolved from the shy woodland denizens they once were into sassy, insolent, 4-legged vermin with no fealty whatsoever. Like the thoughtless teenaged beauty who cons her way through life on her good looks, the whitetail relies on the attractiveness of its dainty legs and large eyes to get away with trampling on the feelings of others.
Well, I'm on to you, faithless herd of ungulates. Don't expect me to fawn over your beauty any longer. I now know that as soon as my back is turned, you're off to greener pastures.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Naked Neighbors, Derelict Delinquents, and Produce Porn
Well, our new neighbor, "X," who started off with such high promise, has displayed a ... dismaying character trait. No, no, not his boyfriend, "Y," who's a delightful young man. I'm talking about ... well, keep reading.
My nephew was out in the yard, grilling hot dogs in the 40-degree weather (hey, we're hard-core BBQ-ers here in Buffalo; if it's above freezing, we fill our propane tanks). He looked up at the sound of X's back door opening. X was letting his dogs out, and he wasn't wearing any clothes. Yup, absolutely starkers. You have to admire both his comfort with his own body and his resistance to cold weather.
Now, I'm of two minds on this. I'm a big girl, in more ways than one, and it's perfectly easy for me to turn my lawn chair so my back is to X if he continues to stroll his backyard in the nude. Or, if he's a particularly fine male specimen, to turn my chair to face him, in order to better admire God's handiwork. I could even make signs with scoring numbers on them, to hold up like they do at the Olympics. But there are 4 children under the age of 13 in the yards adjacent to X and Y's house, and I'm not sure I'm quite comfortable with that.
We figure this was just an aberration -- perhaps his previous yard was more private, or he didn't think anyone would be outside to see him in chilly weather, or it just slipped his mind that he didn't have any clothes on. But if it happens again, I think I'll make him a nice pot of homemade soup and bake some bread, and gently suggest to him that if he doesn't want to see my 50-year-old boobs, that he needs to cover up his junk when he goes outside. That's right. I can go to the nuclear option of flashing him. Gravity has not been kind, and I'm not afraid to blind anyone who gets in my way.
But the really alarming thing that happened was the reappearance of those horrible neighbor children who used to live in the parsonage house next door. "Z," the sociopath who regularly publically beat both his siblings and the neighbor children, and who regularly pilfered other children's toys and screamed obscenities, showed up with his siblings for a play date with one of the nieghbor children. It was a chilling sight. It was like watching that rabid coyote you had trapped and relocated months ago slink back into the neighborhood and snatch up your cat and rip out its entrails. Doesn't that kid have a new neighborhood to terrorize? Other children to fill with fear and loathing? Dammit, I thought we'd seen the back of him.
Well, that's all that's new on the mean streets of Buffalo. Except for the wet snow that was falling earlier, and is now turning to rain. It's mud season here in Western NY. My niece and I went to the Burpee website on Friday and gazed at pictures of tomatoes and peppers, weeping in longing for a planting season that seems so far away. This time of the year, only Burpee vegetable porn enables us to slog through another day until the weather gets warmer.
My nephew was out in the yard, grilling hot dogs in the 40-degree weather (hey, we're hard-core BBQ-ers here in Buffalo; if it's above freezing, we fill our propane tanks). He looked up at the sound of X's back door opening. X was letting his dogs out, and he wasn't wearing any clothes. Yup, absolutely starkers. You have to admire both his comfort with his own body and his resistance to cold weather.
Now, I'm of two minds on this. I'm a big girl, in more ways than one, and it's perfectly easy for me to turn my lawn chair so my back is to X if he continues to stroll his backyard in the nude. Or, if he's a particularly fine male specimen, to turn my chair to face him, in order to better admire God's handiwork. I could even make signs with scoring numbers on them, to hold up like they do at the Olympics. But there are 4 children under the age of 13 in the yards adjacent to X and Y's house, and I'm not sure I'm quite comfortable with that.
We figure this was just an aberration -- perhaps his previous yard was more private, or he didn't think anyone would be outside to see him in chilly weather, or it just slipped his mind that he didn't have any clothes on. But if it happens again, I think I'll make him a nice pot of homemade soup and bake some bread, and gently suggest to him that if he doesn't want to see my 50-year-old boobs, that he needs to cover up his junk when he goes outside. That's right. I can go to the nuclear option of flashing him. Gravity has not been kind, and I'm not afraid to blind anyone who gets in my way.
But the really alarming thing that happened was the reappearance of those horrible neighbor children who used to live in the parsonage house next door. "Z," the sociopath who regularly publically beat both his siblings and the neighbor children, and who regularly pilfered other children's toys and screamed obscenities, showed up with his siblings for a play date with one of the nieghbor children. It was a chilling sight. It was like watching that rabid coyote you had trapped and relocated months ago slink back into the neighborhood and snatch up your cat and rip out its entrails. Doesn't that kid have a new neighborhood to terrorize? Other children to fill with fear and loathing? Dammit, I thought we'd seen the back of him.
Well, that's all that's new on the mean streets of Buffalo. Except for the wet snow that was falling earlier, and is now turning to rain. It's mud season here in Western NY. My niece and I went to the Burpee website on Friday and gazed at pictures of tomatoes and peppers, weeping in longing for a planting season that seems so far away. This time of the year, only Burpee vegetable porn enables us to slog through another day until the weather gets warmer.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Do Red-Tail Hawks Hate Methodists?
So, there I am the other day, driving along Niagara Falls Blvd., a busy 4 to 6-lane commercial thoroughfare, when I get stopped by a red light. I look off to me right, where there's a Methodist church, its 2-story brick facade facing the highway, with the giant metal letters of its name affixed to the facade. And then I see this red-tail hawk repeatedly attacking the metal letters. It was really kind of graceful; he was hovering in the air, then swooping, then hovering again. It was an impressive aeronautical feat.
So, was there some prey animal hidden behind the letters? A weary pigeon, resting there? A nesting sparrow, trying to build a home? A mouse or squirrel who had laboriously climbed the bricks, hoping to find refuge behind the letter "M"?
Or, do red-tail hawks hate Methodists? Was this hawk a godless Commie pinko? Is the red-tailed hawk some sort of religious fanatic, who objects to the acronym TULIP* to explain Methodist theology? (BTW, does anyone else ever mix up the 5-part TULIP with the 5 pillars or Islam? Or is that just me, who has this image of a stolid Methodist housewife trying to deliver a covered dish of mac and cheese to Mecca?)
* http://www.reformedreader.org/t.u.l.i.p.htm
So, was there some prey animal hidden behind the letters? A weary pigeon, resting there? A nesting sparrow, trying to build a home? A mouse or squirrel who had laboriously climbed the bricks, hoping to find refuge behind the letter "M"?
Or, do red-tail hawks hate Methodists? Was this hawk a godless Commie pinko? Is the red-tailed hawk some sort of religious fanatic, who objects to the acronym TULIP* to explain Methodist theology? (BTW, does anyone else ever mix up the 5-part TULIP with the 5 pillars or Islam? Or is that just me, who has this image of a stolid Methodist housewife trying to deliver a covered dish of mac and cheese to Mecca?)
* http://www.reformedreader.org/t.u.l.i.p.htm
Friday, March 18, 2011
Forget Spiderman. I've Got a New Superhero
It's my cousin Ken. He's is a blood banking specialist, currently working in a hospital 50 miles from the stricken reactors in Japan. I found his account very moving in its understated eloquence. Read from the bottom up.
http://cbbstoday.org/nollet_fukushima.php
http://cbbstoday.org/nollet_fukushima.php
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