At 10 pm, top ramen for the second time in one day did not sound appealing. I had too many tools and lumber out... scattered around... to close up shop. That would have been a head ache.
Using my Boy Scout survival skills I decide to cook up something here... at the shop.
The shop is all set up for what I call "urban indoor camping"... a phrase I coined to describe and make the situation I find myself in ...more tolerable.
I have it all.
A frig and pantry full of 'food', a microwave, a toaster oven, a crockpot... and a deluxe hot plate that Heidi gave me. These items are in my shop's inventory just like the tablesaw, lumber rack and camp cot.
I am able to heat stuff enough to get it smelling like food... even if it may not visually resemble it. Attempts at 'tasty' food is something I abandoned years ago. There are too many radiation treatments and chemotherapy sessions in my past.
I decide to explore the far reaches of my freezer.
This soon becomes more like an archeological expedition in Antartica. Mittens, a parka and spiked boots, and one of those pick ax walking sticks are needed to navigate in my freezer.
Some other time I'll detail and record for posterity... and science the things I found. Since hunger was what propelled me, as soon as I located a package of Armour Jumbo hot dogs I was ready to retrace my steps back out to a milder climate.
Once the frost was hacked off, the true worth of my find as historic evidence, came to light. The package the hot dogs were in, bore witness to their age.
This was something of an Indiana Jones type discovery... or at least was a form of "cold case" detective work. Literally.
In big letters, beneath a layer of frost on the promotional pack it said "Pick a Star!"
I placed my warm hand over the frost to thaw out the faces of 3 baseball players.
Ken Griffey Jr., Roger Clemens and Sammy Sosa. ... Geez, how old is this package?
I don't follow major league baseball anymore. I stopped paying attention the year of the player's strike. What? 1994? That was also the year the wife and kids packed up and left. Not a good year.
Do these three guys even play nowadays or have they retired? I mean... sure I know their names. They were major league superstars. And two of them have the stink of steroid scandal.
They aren't 'ancient' history.
But we are talking about a food product here... My potential dinner... I'm hungry... Age is a good thing for wine, I've heard. Cheese also.
But frozen hot dogs?
Scraping away more ice and frost I discover very useful information. Evidence, even... to help me do additional research. Near the "pick a star" is an 800 number to call. More thawing and I find that I can "listen to the players sing the Armour jingle." ...
"Hot dogs! Armour Hot dogs! What kind of kids eat Armour hot dogs? Fat kids, Skinny kids, kids who (???) a lot. Tough kids, (wimpy?) kids. Even kids with chicken pox, love hot dogs. Armour hot dogs! The dogs kids love to bite!"
It's scary, but I pulled that out of some old, dusty brain cells.
It says on the next line I can... "VOTE your favorite."
What... like which one sings the best?
Holy Crap! I can "WIN authentic autographed memorabilia!"
I grab my cellphone and call. Who cares that it's after 11 pm. The small print on the package has an address of ConAgra foods in Downers Grove, Illinois. Let's see... maybe two or three hours difference. One a.m. or 2:00 a.m. ...I'm sure someone is there to answer my call. I can have an aging ball player sing to me? ... or ...at least I can explain my predicament?
Gee, which star should I talk to? ... Sammy Sosa? ... No..., no one could even understand him in some of the old interviews I heard. ... "Base-a-ball, been Berry Good to me!" is not what I want to listen to this time of night. Bet he even sings with a bad accent...
Roger Clemens? No. If he were napping right now and my phone call woke him, ...he might go into a "roid rage' and my image of him would 'diminish'. I might start choking up... and say something like... "Roger! Say it ain't so!" ...Or, he might yell the Armour jingle into the phone and I'd be holding mine at arm's length, rubbing my sore ear. I might miss the chance to ask him about the gamble of eating freezer burned hot dogs. Or how to best fix them. I can't even picture Roger Clemens wearing an apron in a kitchen, anyway. Delicately turning over 'red hots' so they are "... just right".
Uh, I better go with Ken Griffey Jr. ... A reported nice guy in his day. I bet he can tell me if these hot dogs are safe despite their age ...AFTER he sings to me, of course. Maybe he can offer some serving suggestions, also.
My palms are sweaty as I dial. 1-800-555-6556...
..."We are sorry, but this program HAS ended and no further calls are being taken. Thank you for calling."
I'm crushed. I realize I'm on my own, going to have to take matters into my own hands. I cut open the pack and toss 2 dogs on a paper plate and shove it into the microwave. While waiting I read other info on the package.
Ingredients:
-Mechanically separated chicken. (What, they don't have cowboy-type guys... riding thru the chicken herd... "heading off " some of them toward a corral for branding? They use a robot?)
-Pork.
-Water.
-Corn syrup. (Really?)
-Salt.
-Potato starch.
-Contains 2%... or less of beef. (Gee, how much less? 1 percent?)
-Dextrose.
-Flavorings. (oh, that's good. Maybe I won't notice the freezer burn flavor.)
-Mechanically separated turkey. (Again, with the robot... Also, being this far down on the list, just how little turkey is in it?)
-Oleoresin of paprika. (What?)
-Sodium nitrite.
-Sodium phosphate. (That's good. I was feeling a bit low on these two.)
-Vitamin C - ascorbic acid. (Good ol' Uncle Sam and his USDA always watching out for my nutritional needs.)
[Ding!] Hmm... (one last bit of detective-like observation, sans the rubber gloves)... looks ok... smells ok...
I'll hide the dogs with mustard, relish and catsup. Tastes like most every other thing I eat. Let's see... Rolaids for later... I'm all set.
I wonder how Ken Griffey likes his hot dog. Guess I'll never get the chance to ask.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
...wings and G.A.S.
Today, I walk into a Modesto Save Mart, a big chain grocer here in central California. The aroma of golden fried chicken ... and fresh baked bread wafts by. It is planned that way. Retailers use every one of your senses to 'hook' you, once you walk in.
***
It's afternoon and I haven't felt like eating yet today.
The first half of some days is a battle of decision making, for me.
Nausea, often decides that I'm not interested in eating.
But I need something in my stomach first thing, to take the meds... or I will get a "gut ache" and/or will sometimes "toss my crackers".
The meds end up in the sink or where ever I'm aiming at the moment. (Note: "crackers" means soda crackers which I tend to eat a lot of.)
Occasionally, when it's bad, I take an OTC medicine to reduce nausea. It's like a cough syrup.
I could buy a couple of fast food breakfasts with the money spent on this particular med. A bottle will last me 2 or 3 mornings, depending on the feeling...
Why is it that my mornings have so many health and financial decisions right off the bat? Before I'm even clear headed? I can choose to :
a. eat some food... while feeling nausea, in order to take meds... and possibly 'toss the crackers' and my meds?
OR:
b. take OTC meds to suspend the nausea... and eventually eat some crackers... so I can take the meds... to start my day...?
Seems that wasting/using pennies worth of food and meds before I even lace my boots is just part of the routine some mornings.
I'd have been a terrible pregnant woman... I probably sound like a cranky pregnant woman right now. ... Please don't show this to a pregnant woman, I'm already in enough trouble... Forget you read this...
Some days I feel 'normal'... I think I remember what that is...
(Don't suggest I see a doctor. He... no ... THEY know all about it. I've seen more doctors more often than I've seen my own family. Some of it is just common sense i.e. 'food before meds'... We all know what it is... or ...that it's all part of my life's grand adventure.)
Normally, I'm fine. Some days it's just the "gut ache", ...but not as bad as what I call a... "green apple stomach ache".
***
This "green apple stomach ache" revelation came to me early in life, while growing up a short bike ride from two apple orchards. Unfortunately, the "enlightenment" that a revelation should bestow on the recipient, came very slowly.
As renegade mountain boys, our master "raiding" plan, conceived as 9 or 10 year olds, worked nearly every time. Right down to the miserable aftermath. We thought we had life and it's rewards for cunning and perseverance all figured out. We were, in reality, slow learners.
A pre-raid checklist went something like this:
-First, check your bike for flats and loose nuts/bolts. ...Naw, we usually found out along the way that our equipment might not hold up.
-Ride down the long driveway towards the paved road.
- At speed, you must lock your brake, slide your tire and "spin a hooker", creating a big cloud of dust as you approach the pavement.
-Aim your front tire towards the day's adventure in the direction of one of the the orchards.
-Riding on pavement was a luxury when you live 13 miles out of town. City kids were wimps. But the paved road gave us a chance to earn some extra money picking up "return for deposit" glass soda bottles.
In the 1960s, drivers ... "adults" ...mind you... threw perfectly good glass empties out the windows of moving cars and trucks along the roads of America. Probably millions of dollars worth, ...or so we speculated, ...all over the world. Well, except where they sold soda in goat skins or clay pots. Those people dressed funny and didn't speak American. Our bike tires wouldn't make that kind of trip anyway. Some day, we'd make our fortune riding bikes, collecting soda bottles all over the U.S. and paying our own way. The purest form of the free spirited American Dream.
In my day, if we collected enough 3 cent bottles, it was worth a bike ride to the little markets in Mona Vista or Soulsbyville to buy 5 or 10 cent candy bars, sodas or comic books.
A couple of times I bought cigars.
Yeah, yeah... I heard it from Mrs. Poole too... I was "too young for cigars." Hey, I was eleven. I needed to hone my appreciation for a good cigar however, by puffing on old, fragile stogies wrapped in cellophane that when lit, smelled like... and must have tasted like old dog turds. I wouldn't know about the tasting part, though.
...back to the adventure...
-Ditch your bike in the tall grass... climb through the barbwire fence where the deer have squeezed through... and have already stretched the wire fencing ...and thereby eased the passage.
-Unhook what's left of your t-shirt from the fence.
-Check to see if any of the scratches you feel ...are bleeding.
-Wipe any blood on the t-shirt.
-Follow the deer trails to your favorite variety of apple.
-Enjoy the fruits of your efforts while watching out for those two big ol' hound dogs. The one named "Lummox" was particularly pesky. The other, whose name I forgot had a bum foot and was no real threat. Just noisey.
These forays started in June or July, when the apples were small ...and could last clear into October, if we wished. The earlier June/July raids were the one's most likely to create the distress I'd later call the "green apple stomach ache" or "G.A.S."
There's no real need to explain further how these episodes happened or the curse which goes with it. It is how I knew there was a God. A God who apparently has rules about stealing apples. The penalty for breaking one of the Ten Commandments.
At the time, I wasn't sure which commandment was being broken. We were merely sampling apples ...just like the deer, so we weren't stealing. We considered it our duty to be ready to tell Mr. Longeway which of his apples were best. If... he ever asked.
Covet? False witness? We'd need to get a dictionary and check those out the next time we were near a well-stocked bookshelf and felt the urge.
The ride home at the end of the day's adventure could be a miserable one. The afore mentioned ache was the worst. No one liked being so uncomfortable that we had to push our bikes, or worse, ditch them until later rather than ride.
Other times, we enjoyed the added propulsion to our ride, laughing and passing a different sort of GAS. We never mastered how to harness this form of energy to our advantage. Again, we were ten, eleven, ...fourteen, tops. We'd experience what the extra roughage, suddenly added to one's diet could be like. We never made the connection, though.
These apple sampling bike rides/raids lessened the older we got. So did my episodes of G.A.S. coincidently. By the time I was in high school, I had completely outgrown the childhood malady. Wisdom comes with age, I guess.
Mr. Longeway, realizing we knew our way around his orchards pretty well, offered us work. We could either pick apples or fell and cut up oak firewood for him and his wife. They were old, as parents go, but their son, Jim or "Jimbo" was our friend.
Mr. Longeway was born right there in that very house. Their house was a hundred years old and they still cooked on a woodstove. The creaky house smelled like wood smoke, cigarettes, coffee and maple syrup or pancakes or something like that.
We got to drive his old Ford tractor around the orchards. Through the creeks. Around his woodlot acreage. There was more driving than cutting wood or picking apples.
***
Today, back at the Save Mart grocery store the smell of fried chicken forces me to wander by the deli. I feel like eating.
Behind the glass display are heaps and mounds of assorted fried pieces of the delicacy. I do believe I'll try some...
Twenty, maybe thirty chickens gave the last full measure of their devotion... for the privilege of being "center stage" and, if only briefly in the spotlight... in a stainless steel pan. Their sacrifice shows their love for making all mankind happy... or at least being sated for a couple hours. My eyes begin to tear up and I reach for my hanky. An emotional moment for me.
I want ...hmmm... WINGS! I want some wings... Look at them... And about 6 ought to do.
I see ... numbers...prices... and slowly it begins to sink in to my brain's pre or post trans-fat or hydrogenated oil clogged arteries...
Wha-WHAT? 90 cents?... for ONE? One lousy, scrawny chicken wing? NINETY CENTS?
I believe I'm in the mood for some top ramen...
***
It's afternoon and I haven't felt like eating yet today.
The first half of some days is a battle of decision making, for me.
Nausea, often decides that I'm not interested in eating.
But I need something in my stomach first thing, to take the meds... or I will get a "gut ache" and/or will sometimes "toss my crackers".
The meds end up in the sink or where ever I'm aiming at the moment. (Note: "crackers" means soda crackers which I tend to eat a lot of.)
Occasionally, when it's bad, I take an OTC medicine to reduce nausea. It's like a cough syrup.
I could buy a couple of fast food breakfasts with the money spent on this particular med. A bottle will last me 2 or 3 mornings, depending on the feeling...
Why is it that my mornings have so many health and financial decisions right off the bat? Before I'm even clear headed? I can choose to :
a. eat some food... while feeling nausea, in order to take meds... and possibly 'toss the crackers' and my meds?
OR:
b. take OTC meds to suspend the nausea... and eventually eat some crackers... so I can take the meds... to start my day...?
Seems that wasting/using pennies worth of food and meds before I even lace my boots is just part of the routine some mornings.
I'd have been a terrible pregnant woman... I probably sound like a cranky pregnant woman right now. ... Please don't show this to a pregnant woman, I'm already in enough trouble... Forget you read this...
Some days I feel 'normal'... I think I remember what that is...
(Don't suggest I see a doctor. He... no ... THEY know all about it. I've seen more doctors more often than I've seen my own family. Some of it is just common sense i.e. 'food before meds'... We all know what it is... or ...that it's all part of my life's grand adventure.)
Normally, I'm fine. Some days it's just the "gut ache", ...but not as bad as what I call a... "green apple stomach ache".
***
This "green apple stomach ache" revelation came to me early in life, while growing up a short bike ride from two apple orchards. Unfortunately, the "enlightenment" that a revelation should bestow on the recipient, came very slowly.
As renegade mountain boys, our master "raiding" plan, conceived as 9 or 10 year olds, worked nearly every time. Right down to the miserable aftermath. We thought we had life and it's rewards for cunning and perseverance all figured out. We were, in reality, slow learners.
A pre-raid checklist went something like this:
-First, check your bike for flats and loose nuts/bolts. ...Naw, we usually found out along the way that our equipment might not hold up.
-Ride down the long driveway towards the paved road.
- At speed, you must lock your brake, slide your tire and "spin a hooker", creating a big cloud of dust as you approach the pavement.
-Aim your front tire towards the day's adventure in the direction of one of the the orchards.
-Riding on pavement was a luxury when you live 13 miles out of town. City kids were wimps. But the paved road gave us a chance to earn some extra money picking up "return for deposit" glass soda bottles.
In the 1960s, drivers ... "adults" ...mind you... threw perfectly good glass empties out the windows of moving cars and trucks along the roads of America. Probably millions of dollars worth, ...or so we speculated, ...all over the world. Well, except where they sold soda in goat skins or clay pots. Those people dressed funny and didn't speak American. Our bike tires wouldn't make that kind of trip anyway. Some day, we'd make our fortune riding bikes, collecting soda bottles all over the U.S. and paying our own way. The purest form of the free spirited American Dream.
In my day, if we collected enough 3 cent bottles, it was worth a bike ride to the little markets in Mona Vista or Soulsbyville to buy 5 or 10 cent candy bars, sodas or comic books.
A couple of times I bought cigars.
Yeah, yeah... I heard it from Mrs. Poole too... I was "too young for cigars." Hey, I was eleven. I needed to hone my appreciation for a good cigar however, by puffing on old, fragile stogies wrapped in cellophane that when lit, smelled like... and must have tasted like old dog turds. I wouldn't know about the tasting part, though.
...back to the adventure...
-Ditch your bike in the tall grass... climb through the barbwire fence where the deer have squeezed through... and have already stretched the wire fencing ...and thereby eased the passage.
-Unhook what's left of your t-shirt from the fence.
-Check to see if any of the scratches you feel ...are bleeding.
-Wipe any blood on the t-shirt.
-Follow the deer trails to your favorite variety of apple.
-Enjoy the fruits of your efforts while watching out for those two big ol' hound dogs. The one named "Lummox" was particularly pesky. The other, whose name I forgot had a bum foot and was no real threat. Just noisey.
These forays started in June or July, when the apples were small ...and could last clear into October, if we wished. The earlier June/July raids were the one's most likely to create the distress I'd later call the "green apple stomach ache" or "G.A.S."
There's no real need to explain further how these episodes happened or the curse which goes with it. It is how I knew there was a God. A God who apparently has rules about stealing apples. The penalty for breaking one of the Ten Commandments.
At the time, I wasn't sure which commandment was being broken. We were merely sampling apples ...just like the deer, so we weren't stealing. We considered it our duty to be ready to tell Mr. Longeway which of his apples were best. If... he ever asked.
Covet? False witness? We'd need to get a dictionary and check those out the next time we were near a well-stocked bookshelf and felt the urge.
The ride home at the end of the day's adventure could be a miserable one. The afore mentioned ache was the worst. No one liked being so uncomfortable that we had to push our bikes, or worse, ditch them until later rather than ride.
Other times, we enjoyed the added propulsion to our ride, laughing and passing a different sort of GAS. We never mastered how to harness this form of energy to our advantage. Again, we were ten, eleven, ...fourteen, tops. We'd experience what the extra roughage, suddenly added to one's diet could be like. We never made the connection, though.
These apple sampling bike rides/raids lessened the older we got. So did my episodes of G.A.S. coincidently. By the time I was in high school, I had completely outgrown the childhood malady. Wisdom comes with age, I guess.
Mr. Longeway, realizing we knew our way around his orchards pretty well, offered us work. We could either pick apples or fell and cut up oak firewood for him and his wife. They were old, as parents go, but their son, Jim or "Jimbo" was our friend.
Mr. Longeway was born right there in that very house. Their house was a hundred years old and they still cooked on a woodstove. The creaky house smelled like wood smoke, cigarettes, coffee and maple syrup or pancakes or something like that.
We got to drive his old Ford tractor around the orchards. Through the creeks. Around his woodlot acreage. There was more driving than cutting wood or picking apples.
***
Today, back at the Save Mart grocery store the smell of fried chicken forces me to wander by the deli. I feel like eating.
Behind the glass display are heaps and mounds of assorted fried pieces of the delicacy. I do believe I'll try some...
Twenty, maybe thirty chickens gave the last full measure of their devotion... for the privilege of being "center stage" and, if only briefly in the spotlight... in a stainless steel pan. Their sacrifice shows their love for making all mankind happy... or at least being sated for a couple hours. My eyes begin to tear up and I reach for my hanky. An emotional moment for me.
I want ...hmmm... WINGS! I want some wings... Look at them... And about 6 ought to do.
I see ... numbers...prices... and slowly it begins to sink in to my brain's pre or post trans-fat or hydrogenated oil clogged arteries...
Wha-WHAT? 90 cents?... for ONE? One lousy, scrawny chicken wing? NINETY CENTS?
I believe I'm in the mood for some top ramen...
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