Ding! Time to eat those words

I knew a girl in grad school in Austin who once told me during the course of our conversation that she would never want a microwave oven.  I admire the contrarian and I can respect and often applaud opinions held contrary to current trends. 

However, it stuck me at the time as the kind of statement that one could regret.  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but for the rest of your life - going without a microwave oven could indeed be a regrettable vow.  I did not pursue the reasoning or feelings behind such an opinion, though I can surmise it had less to do with Luddite affiliations and more to do with her innate Calvinistic nature.  Where tea water has always been brought to a boil in a stove top kettle, and if one wants to melt cheese on one's sandwich, there is a way to do such a thing that is decent and in order, meet and proper so to do; and that way is to place the food into an oven of the conventional variety.  Microwaves just did not quite fit into the proper ethic of food preparation - in some people's opinion anyway.  It is kind of like cheating.

Well, of course that contrarian Calvinist later asked me to marry her, and after discussing and settling our differing views on appliances, I eventually did marry her.  Later, we two bought a home with a microwave oven built-in.  This current home had the original functioning microwave oven for 23 years, until one morning in early December we found it cold and dead.  The microwave was in fact so old, that the owner's manual did not even list an email address or website for product assistance, but rather provided an address to which an owner experiencing a problem could write to and post a letter.  How quaint.

I unbolted the cold carcass of the former quick and faithful food warmer and hauled it to the curb for Wednesday's bulky item pick up by the city.  Living for a few days with a empty space between the cabinetry and the range top was a physical reminder of the integral part the microwave oven plays in our daily life patterns.  Truly, with only the touch a few buttons, a multitude of task were accomplished.  The microwave oven had ingrained itself deeply into our lives.  With a quick bit of research on the internet, we narrowed our choices and moved to quickly replace that appliance.  The old unit was 13" deep, but no such model exists any more, so we have a 16" deep MW that juts out a bit.  The new profile makes all of us think the MW door has been left open, but then we realize it is just the allusion created by the bigger than accustomed new MW..

I measured twice, drilled a set of holes; then reread the installation instructions, and measured once again, only to drill another set of holes through the overhead cabinet.  With several hands supporting the unit, it was lifted into place and the second set of bolt holes actually flanged up to the location of the mounting holes in the top of the oven.  The familiar kitchen routines and timing have now been restored as they were.

I reminded my wife of her "never need or want a microwave oven" quote, and suggested that we test the newly installed MW oven model by having her eat those words - but of course, first we could put those old words into the new MW oven, and heat them quickly before she eats them.  Ah, those Calvinist have such a good sense of humor.

PS - I recall the old hit TV show from the 1960's & 70"s, Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In; where they would hand out on air the "Fickle Finger of Fate Award", a dubious honor for some ridiculous statement or achievement.  One night, the inventor of a new device, supposedly able to quickly cook food using microwaves while keeping the bowl cool, got the Fickle Finger of Fate Award, with the punch line being something like: "I suppose we can now cook an 8,000 pound chicken in only 20 minutes."  Who's laughing now?

Lost Love

A foggy & frigid Friday.  I met my wife for a mid-afternoon start on our Christmas shopping.  After our purchases we walked a few blocks to to get some grub at the pub; a bowl of stew, some fish & chips. I washed it all down with a Monty Python Holy Ale brew.  We vacated our table as the early crowd was filling up the place; I, back to the office to put a wrap on the week, while she drove directly home.

Some time later I walked in from the garage and found her sitting at the word processor in the breakfast nook with a Mona Lisa smile.  After a moment of studying her quizzical expression on her face, she asked, "Did you see what was on the table?"
 I answered, after a brief pause, with a very cautious, "ah, no."
"You need to go take a look".

There at her place on dining room table was a piece of stationery with words written in my own hand, and lying atop the hand written letter was an envelope address to Mrs. Susan Suneson, also recognizable as written in my hand.  The envelope had a foreign postage stamp affixed  in the upper right corner.

"Do you recognize that?  Do remember that letter?" came a mirthful voice from the kitchen.  I looked a bit closer and saw it was dated Feb. 1st, 2007.  The letterhead on the stationery was from the Westin Hotel, Warsaw, Poland.  Yes, I do remember sitting in my hotel room on a Winter's night in Warsaw, where I was to make a presentation on some of the Romanian geology and oil exploration prospects I had developed as a consultant for an international exploration company.  There, overlooking a drab, angular gray block, Soviet inspired skyline that evoked well the eve of a Polish Ground Hog's Day; I decide to write a few lines of poetry to my love and send it off in an old-fashioned envelope.  After all, one can only surf just so much Polish hotel TV before craving a few poetic vowels to go with all of the WC, CZ, SK combinations.  The next morning the staff at the front desk pleasantly assured me that they would post my letter to the USA.

Humor me here:
      Warsaw, Poland to Dallas, Texas USA = 5,743 miles
      Love Letter Dated 2/1/2007 - Received 12/9/2011 = 1,773 Days
      Rate of Travel: 3 Miles 458 Feet and 7.4 Inches per Day; or 679.1 Feet per Hour

Now what happened between the front desk and our mail box over these 4-plus years I can not say, nor I can I hardly speculate.  I must have wonder in the few weeks after my return in early 2007 what ever became of my letter; has the world so quickly moved to email, internet and social media that in most places on this planet, a hand written letter is no longer sacred or even much less accounted for? 

Never-the-less, I confess, it seems much more fun and mysterious and full-brimming with fancy to get a letter, once thought lost, delivered nearly 5 years later.  I dare say better than a text message: "How r u?"

Between the extra couple of hugs I received this evening, I have come to lament what must now be the nearly extinct sweet art of protracted composition and words lovingly sculpted to frame sentiment, hopes and fears and then sealed with a kiss.  Indeed, I do lament a generation that never feels a heart leap upon shuffling through the mail to find a letter addressed to them in a cherished script identifiable as unique to the composer.  All the more, how much is now lost among this generation to not grow old with a bundle of old love letters that easily kindle sparks, joys and tears from good times that should not be forgotten.  Progress is good, and as I blog here tonight, I have more praise than scorn for the internet and all - but a hand written letter has always been a treasure and I am reminded tonight of how sorry I am to feel that this intimate form of communication is all but passed.

In fact, I may now write out some Christmas Letters to long lost friends.  Something I have not done in 11 years.  Watch your mailbox as well as your in-box.

Turkey Travels

Old Hat. Round Trip = 1290 miles. 
How the miles do fly behind the windshield. 
Time flies like arrows - but fruit flies like bananas.

I tripped on up to Columbia, Missouri to pick up Grant for a 1 week Thanksgiving holiday.  He had tickets for the last home football game against Texas Tech and thought he would stay to attend the game on Saturday.  But then heard that the dorms would lock-down at 5 pm and the game would still be in progress and then the question was how would I meet him and pick up his dirty laundry to take back to Dallas? 
Plan B: Skip the game, wait for my arrival around 4:30.  Load dirty laundry and computer with Dad immediately upon arrival.  Get food. Get sleep.  Then get going to Dallas the next day.

While the crowds were still at the game, we found our way to Harpo's downtown where I hoped to get the Missouri cuisine craze "T-Ravs".  Game day menu at Harpo's did not include toasted ravioli (T-Ravs), so settled for BBQ chicken wings, though I feel my life is as of yet incomplete without ever having tasted a T-Rav.  The game was on TV at Harpo's so we could see the home team Tigers come back and win in the 4th quarter.  Also seen were lots of co-eds walking around with fuzzy tiger ear barrettes and some with tiger tails hanging out behind their tight gold and black sweaters.  I'm just saying.

The night's stay for us was in Jefferson City (30 miles out of Columbia), the state capitol, where I could save $60 on a motel room over rates in Columbia.  I am ALL about value.

Grant slept in the car through all of Arkansas and all of Oklahoma.  Not that the natives of those lesser states should take any offense - I'm just saying the boy was tired after staying up most of the night in the motel on his lap top.  Mom whipped together the requested quiche Lorraine once we all arrived home.  Grant's view, "It is good to be home".

The week on either side of Thanksgiving Day itself was filled with reconnecting with friends.  A visit to Garland High to check in on the Might Owl Orchestra, where his 2nd chair cello seat had been filled.  Then an afternoon of fire arms shooting, a night of bowling, a couple of afternoons with the Ultimate Frisbee gang and meals out with buddies at the old hangout spots like IHOP and Chik-fil-A.  We didn't see that much of him actually.  Though we had to work out a car loaning arrangement, as "Ol' Woodrow", the 1998 Oldsmobile 88 seemed to have the started motor go south the first day back.  I told him I'd get it fixed before Christmas.

I informed him of my plan to leave at 6 a.m. on Sunday after Thanksgiving for our return to Mizzou.  He spent most of the night rattling around getting his laundry done.  Once the clean laundry was loaded into the SUV that dark and early morning, he managed to sleep through most of Texas (74 miles) all of Oklahoma, all of Arkansas, and most all of Missouri.  He was awaken about 50 miles short of campus by a phone call from one of his friends who has a two-seater sports car and was at the St. Louis airport picking up 2 other friends (and their luggage) - only there was not enough room for 3 people + luggage for both Caroline and the Jersey Kid; Grant had to say "sorry man, I can't help. But good luck with that".  [I need to find out how that was handled - as I don't think there is an app for that]

It was a quick unload at the entrance to College Avenue Dorm, I said "finish strong" and left him with new coat, new shoes, re-supplied toiletries kit and new socks all procured on Dad's plastic.

My solo return to Garland was an educational one; and I say that in a good way -and a not so good way.  Along I-44 in Lebanon, MO there is a well advertised "Factory Outlet" with "Discount Prices" for Chicago Cutlery and Case (made in America) pocket knives.  From my youngest days, a few life lessons were drilled into me;
Don't hitch hike,
Don't ride with strangers,
Don't go into abandoned mines and
Don't wear the same socks a second day. 
Also ingrained into my psyche as a small traveler in the back seat of the station wagon was the understanding that ANY private endeavor advertised along the highway was a "tourist trap!"  This include reptile farms (which strongly appealed to me), private property caves and the likes of other assorted amusements and retail venues.  Well, I not only stopped at the "Factory Outlet" with made in America "Fantastic Discounts", I actually bought a 10 piece butcher block set of Chicago cutlery, a couple of Victornox (Swiss Army) pocket knives and two kitchen utility knives.   Getting back on the interstate with a bag of knives, I had all of those earlier admonitions sounding off in my head; "Mark! Are you really all about value? - OR, did you just get sucked into a tourist trap, despite your careful upbringing?"



     My second bit of education that Monday return trip was a stop at Wilson's Creek National Battlefield, www.nps.gov/wicr/  southwest of Springfield, MO.  This kind of stop was the diametric moral opposite a tourist trap, if it is sanctioned by State or Federal Government, then it is to be considered a high moral calling to stop, see and learn history.  So for a mere $5, I toured the visitor's center and pretty much had the loop road around the battlefield to myself on that breezy 38 degree late November afternoon.  Wilson's Creek is the site were in 1861, Union General Nathaniel Lyon attacked a force of Confederate soldiers and allied Missouri State Guard troops twice the size of his Federal army.  It was a tactical victory for the Confederacy as the Union General was killed after being wounded 3 times, and Major Stugis withdrew the Union Army back to Springfield, having suffered 24% casualties from his army of about 10,000.  However, the surprise attack accomplished its purpose and drove the battered rebels and Mo State Guards out of Missouri, preserving this key state for Mr. Lincoln throughout the rest of the Civil War.  Always sobering to recall how thousands answered the call to defend the cause with their own blood and walk across ground once strewn with bodies and body parts. 

Once home, I just had to know.  Was Lebanon, MO a tourist trap or a retail bargain?  I priced checked at the local Wal-Mart; my Victornox pocket knives that I paid $16.49 for - available at home for $9.98.  That 10 piece butcher block set of kitchen knives - at Wal-Mart the same brand sells a 15 piece set for less than what I paid.  I should have listened to my Dad - "It's a Trap. It's a Tourist Trap!" 

Admiral Akbar warms the Millennium Falcon

at it approaches the Factory Outlet in Lebanon, Missouri

"It's a tourist trap!"

Now, I guess I have to go home a cut my wrists with Chicago cutlery in order to preserve the family honor.

With Thanks Left Over

 

Thanksgiving Feast is Prepared
Come to the Table

Once again our Thanksgiving Feast was a small affair, but that did not stop
us from giving hearty thanks for all of our blessings. I retrieved Grant from
the University of Missouri the previous Saturday, arriving home Sunday
saying it was good to be home. We did a bit of checking in the highways
and byways, alleys and avenues for a few souls to share our table, but
everyone we thought of already had plans. That is all well and fine - let
the preparations begin! 

Six days ahead of time, it was a list-making, double-checking, wham-bam,
T-day food-array, shop-o-rama extravaganza. The back story to this
year's grocery list (even the simple things in life can be laced with
complications you know): Do we stuff the bird? or just make it on the
range? What to do with cranberries? The basic, or is this the year for
Mama Stanberg's National Public Radio horseradish cranberry relish?
(Any votes for the cranberry gel that comes out of the can with concentric
rings imprinted on the red gelatinous cylinder?) Do we need fresh yeast or
can we risk flat rolls? And as always the most problematic Turkey Day
question of them all: If one makes tomato aspic for Thanksgiving and nobody
eats it, is it still a holiday tradition?

This was the menu:

• Turkey (10 lbs) for 3
• Green beans                                                                                                                           (Note: not green bean casserole, we observed everybody else in the store had the makings for said casserole with had the frozen green beans and a can of cream of mushroom soup)
• Cranberries (But what style?)
• Mashed Potatoes with Gravy
• Diced Sweet Potatoes with Ginger
• Suneson Family Cornmeal yeast Rolls
• Two Wines, Beaujolais & Riesling
• Dessert of Home made Pecan Pie and Pumpkin Pie

Now to fill in the back story. For the stuffing, we actually over did it, so
lots went into the roasted turkey and plenty was cooked on the stove top.
Once Grant got up, we asked about his preference for how the cranberry;
given the choices before him he allowed as to how he "was not eating any
more baloney at this circus" - which means he would plan on declining
anything but a small helping of cranberry relish, so we could make it what
ever way we desired. Done. This year it was to be Mama Stanberg's recipe.
My duties this year were that of turkey baster and bread chef. My yeast
rolls weren't giving me much of rise, looking about as flat as a 14th Century
cartographer's globe; but once rolled and ready to bake, they came out fine.
Another reason to give thanks.

Even for left over turkey enchiladas? Yes.

 

I told the cook that she looked like a Puritan at the Thanksgiving Table -
But I can't show you the picture of her after I told her that  ;-)



Strider stretched out after consuming large helpings of turkey skin and giblets