How much is that doggie in the window?

Dearest Blog Reader.

 

I hope that this finds you doing well. The fact that it finds you at all is a cautionary tale to us all. Always give your calendar makers plenty of resources because if they ever stop their task before completion, it will provide unending speculation amongst the masses who have traded their religious opiates for modernity. I am sorry for the bah humbug but I had been counting on this apocolypse. I maxed out the cards. I made other promises about extravagant gifts being in the mail. Now, the day of reckoning has arrived. By the way, your truffles are on the way. I would stay by the mailbox on Monday.

 

Thankfully, Christmas is nearly here. Bev, the master confectioner, and I, master thermomeister, have nearly completed our annual caramel making extravaganza; 2.5 gallons whipping cream, 10 lbs of surgar, 5 lbs of butter, and one gallon of corn syrup (that's right high fructose corn syrup). I believe that makes us one of the 10 most wanted in New York City. Mayor Bloomberg, paraphrasing the words of that great American Charlton Heston, you can take my caramel when you pry it out of my cold dead hand, or you could just say please. We still have a few left that we can share.

 

The Sharritt's have some sad news this Christmas season. Lucy, our dog of 13 years has disappeared. She was last seen Thursday morning as I left for work. I woke every couple hours Thursday night checking the door hoping that she had made her way home. She had been on a sinking trajectory for the past year. Her hips hurt her. She also suffered from worsening incontinence. I had been wondering about a couple of things as I witnessed her decline.

 

First, would she last until May? We decided to clip her hair every summer three years ago. The first trip to the groomer cost $50. That was a bit much I thought. As a result, I bought a $100 pair of clippers. I know that is a bit pricey, but she had extremely fine thick Golden retriever hair. I cut her hair two years ago. Rather, I tried to cut her hair two years ago. I quit after two hours of struggle leaving her with a style my family liked to call “the mange”. I got better this past May. She looked pretty good and kept cool. Also, my do it yourself accounting broke even; $100 pair of clippers = 2 $50 haircuts. This year I would break into the clear and prove certain mange taunting naysayers wrong. In May though, I knew that she was living on borrowed time. It was unlikely that she would be able to keep her next appointment with the barber of Fortville.

 

Second, and more important, was a question that I had since I was about twelve. Do dogs really go off to die alone? That is what my dad told me when Fritzi, a collie cross from my childhood, disappeared while I was at school in the fall. As I grew older and wiser to the ways of the world, I thought that my father may have taken matters into his own hands, eliminating tears and awkward explanations. It appears that the wivestale is true. Lucy was here Thursday morning and out of our life Thursday night. Dad you are off the hook.

 

Lucy came to us the fall of 1999. George W. had just been elected and not inaugurated. She was approximately 7 months old when she was abandoned at a pond on our farm. Her family of origin must have felt some guilt as evidenced by the blanket that they left for her.

 

I came across her during the evening of a hayride. Millie, a charpei cross, made her acquaintance. She trotted in front of the tractor as we made our way through the field. It was a bit unnerving. I left the tractor lights off because the customers liked it dark and Lucy was a minimalist who only needed to be a step or two in front of the tractor. She didn't get run over, but she kept me worried. We weren't in the market for a new dog. Millie was enough for us, and our farm family budget could be stretched too far with a second vet bill. All temptation was overcome. No petting was allowed. No notice was taken. However, two nights later at the next hayride, she was still there; still trotting in front of the tractor. Dog love took over and the Sharritt's became a two dog family.

 

It is impossible to recall all of the Lucy moments from the farm. She loved to trot down the road beside the tractor when I went to the wood lot to cut firewood. This caused problems when approached by oncoming traffic on our narrow country road. By and large, the fellow travelers showed great patience and a little ammusement at a dog who thought she owned the road.

 

She was a fierce hunter who teamed up with a couple of Jack Russel Terriers to nearly rid the farm of groundhogs during her heyday. After every kill, the spoils of war were brought to the house and shared by these three amigos. One day, I watched the kill and went back to work only to witness Lucy carrying the groundhog feast with one Jack Russel hanging off each end. Their short stature inadequate for the distance between Lucy's head and the ground.

 

To those she nipped, I apologize. She would let you come to the front door if you took the moment to pay homage to her authority by letting her sniff your hand. As sure as your fear prevented that act of supplication, she would nip at your hindend as you evaded her challenge. I apologize to everyone except the FedEx guy. You are just a big wussy.

 

She was the last farm dog for the Sharritt’s. I could never confine her. She had 200 acres to roam, and if she chose to wander across the road to Ingalls, I chose not to chasten her footloose excursions. If she is replaced, that replacement will suffer the indignities of heeling to an invisible fence.

 

The thing that strikes me most about Lucy's passing is that it has triggered a flood of memories of the dogs in my life. Some were mine. Some were my parents. Some were my cousins. Some were  fictional; Fritzie, Goober, Mutley, Big Red, Charlie, Big Dan, Little Annie, Millie, Roscoe, Katie, Lucy, Hugo, Henry, and Ole Yellar.

 

I miss my dog.

 

Take care.

 

Roger

What are you going to do?

Dearest blog reader:  

I hope that this missive finds you doing well. I am fine. The cold virus is nearly all gone; the only remnants being a stray booger from time to time. I credit my quick turn around to clean living and some Thai food that I had in Bloomington with Ben, our eldest son. I am not what you would call an epicurean of international cuisine. I like my food Hoosier and hot: potatoes, pork, beef, something green. However, I am not a complete philistine. I will wander over to the pasta section of the menu and partake of the Italian delicacies offered. I am also fond of French side dishes with my good old American hamburger.

In spite of this international experience, Thai food remains a mystery. Specifically, the heat index remains a mystery. Last summer I ate Thai food in Champaign, Illinois. I took the 5 star heat. It was just too hot. I ate it all while drinking 5 gallons of water. I just wasn't comfortable sloshing around like that. Being a person who can learn from their mistakes, I took the 4 star; 20% less heat. It should be the difference between uncomfortable to having a well stimulated palate. However, in Bloomington, it appears that standards are a little different. This 4 star pork caused me pain. Of course, the Bloomington restaurant had an official certificate of authenticity for the Thai bureau of exports. Man it was hot.

I am afraid that I may have written this before. However, a quick perusal of past blogs does not reveal the following thought. At the risk of sounding redundant, I believe that I have found the explanation of the miracle of Pentecost. I believe that the apostles were hanging out after Passover. Prospects weren't good. They were bored and decided to go out to a little Thai place around the corner. The heat rating was a bit ambiguous. One thing led to another and the next thing you know, the Holy Spirit descended upon them like "tongues of fire". I just love it when everyday life makes the Bible more understandable.

I really came to write about a little dust up that has been played out in the local news media over the past week. Last week some young women apparently had their self esteem irreparably damaged in a basketball game. The final score was 107 to 2. It was a thorough domination by the women of Bloomington South apparently against the toddlers of Arlington. I first heard about it during a radio interview between the afternoon drive guy and a representative of the bastion of self esteem protection, the Indiana High School Athletic Association (ISHAA).  The radio guy was up in arms. What was the ISHAA going to do about the affrontery? Why wasn't the mercy rule activated? What there is no mercy rule? When are you going to institute a mercy rule? Since a mercy rule in the future will not provide redress now, how are you going to punish the administrators and coaches from Bloomington South?

I thought that was a little extreme; punish excellence. However, I figured my afternoon drive guy is a little soft headed, so I took it all with a grain of salt. You could imagine my surprise when the next morning my copy of the Indianapolis Star had 3 articles on the subject.; one saying that Twitter was a tweet with upset fans,  one by the political, commentating, hack suggesting that members of the Bloomington South administration should be fired for this affrontery and one that a local comedian, of national renown was going to visit the team to help rebuild their self esteem. It seems that I maybe I was the one with views outside of the mainstream on this subject.

When I first heard about the fans twitting about being upset, a very vivid memory popped into my head. I related the newspaper article to my daughter and she remembered the exact same sporting event. It was a 6th grade game against the dreaded self esteem pillaging Mt Veron Maurders. They had a staunch defense and we had weak ball handling skills. It was not pretty. The losers would bring the ball across the ten second line. The winners would steal it and run down and score. But you know what? It was not the girl's self esteem that was crushed but the parent's self esteem; parents who were living out their aspirations through their sixth grade girl's lives. I know this to be true because I had close intimate knowledge of one whose self esteem was misplaced.

Firing administrators because they did not do the right thing seems ludicrous. What was the right thing?  What would the soft headed suggest? Don't guard the not so good? Wouldn't that be a bit obvious? I am not sure that would have helped. The losers (and I use that term in the most loving way) scored their two points on free throws; one in the first half and one in the second half. So at best, the losers can hit 50% of their wide open shots. At that rate, the winners (I use that term in the most derisive way with a sneer on my lip and my voice dripping in sarcasm) would have to shoot 200 free throws and still the losers would have come up short. Maybe it we would have lowered the loser’s basket to 7 feet. That would have helped, but only if the winners would have agreed not guard the basket; because a winner would undoubtedly stand close to a lowered basket and heartlessly swat away loser shots.

It is obvious to me that the pundits thought something should be done and that something should be done by the winners not the whiners (once again said with loving admiration). Some how they should lose or at least make it close and make sure the losers don't know you are helping them out or their self esteem might be hurt.

I take great solace in this plan. An NBA career is in my immediate future. If Kobe Bryant has to make sure my self esteem is intact, he would have to play me on his knees without pads and only shoot left handed while blindfolded with a mouthful of saltines while trying to whistle the National Anthem of Latvia backwards. I'll show him.

Sadly, the funniest thing in this whole thing is our knee jerk thoughtless attempts to restore the self esteem of the injured. That comedian I mentioned early is Mike Epps; a Hoosier born and bred. He is a stand up comedian of some renown. He has been in a couple of comedies. I don't know what they were. Sorry, Mike's self esteem. But Mike was going to visit the losers and boost their spirits. Now Mike is uniquely qualified to boost young women's self esteem. He was cited in a newspaper article in March where he threatened to "f*** up" his daughter on an answering machine. Hello Mr. Baldwin? Am I the only person in journalism (I use the term loosely) who remembers this?  Why wasn't Mr. Epps called on this stunt in the media. Thankfully his daughter's self esteem was intact enough to allow her to call the police and file a report. Don't believe me? Google Mike Epps daughter.

So you see, it's a mess. The winners are losers. The losers are losers. We have mistaken celebrity for character. And I still can't trust the heat rating in a Thai restaurant.

Take care.

Roger

Completely tasteless?

Dearest blog reader

I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine. I am well on my road to recovery.  I had been quite sick coming off of the Thanksgiving holiday season. The dreaded cold had attacked the back of my throat and eustation tubes. During the course of this plague, I lost all sense of smell and taste.  This sensory depravation lasted a week and taught me several lessons about my relationship with food.

The only blessing in the loss was that the last thing that I had tasted was pecan pie alamode with hot fudge. What a way to go out on top. It would have been very sad if my taste buds would have gone on strike after that morning's breakfast of straight oatmeal. That morning I had even eschewed cinnamon sugar that morning. Already feeling a bit weak from the oncoming snot storm, I could not work  the sugar cinnamon grinder.  Who would have guessed that freshness counts with the sugar cinnamon combo for your breakfast toast and oatmeal entrees?

Apparently, it does. The Domino corporation has convinced the consuming public that sugar tastes fresher when you grind it's  crystals just prior to consumption. For me, hope and justification springs eternal as I grab the grinder. Hoping that the grinding caloric burn is greater than the intake I justify the application of a teaspoon of sugar to make my oatmeal yummy.

So last Sunday while I was experiencing dessert nirvana and wondering if I should use the cherry or regular flavor NyQuil, the dastardly virus was insinuating itself between my taste buds and that place in my brain that says "yum, that's good. Why yes, i would love some more."

I knew something was wrong in the middle of the night when I couldn't taste the chlorine in our city water. I had gotten used to our water filter being inactive after 6 months of the warning light announcing that it was time to bring in a replacement. I had hoped that the light would eventually burn out and stop nagging me about this mundane household chore that I obviously had no time to bother myself with. It is just so difficult to find the dedicated staff to keep a household running these days. Downton Abbey has so inflated my expectations.

Being tasteless for an entire week, or rather missing the sense of taste for a week was enlightening. I have had a life long . . . Struggle would be too cliche and too strong a word choice. It has been a lifelong dance with weight. Actually, it is food that I dance with; the weight just hangs out over around the punch bowl. I love ice-cream and candy. Cookies are a favorite too. Chocolate chip is at the top of the list. Peanut butter chocolate no bake oatmeal cookies (cat crap cookies in the vernacular of Bev's family. Look at them on a cookie sheet) are a caloric force of nature with butter, sugar, peanut butter, and chocolate, all held together by that famous cholesterol fighter; quick oats.

A hundred human reasons, the interplay between genetics and emotions, make up the Gordian knot of our relationship with food. Last week I was reminded that the main reason for my dance with food is that it tastes good and I like good things. I put a piece of chocolate in my mouth and it tastes good. I eat what tastes good to me. I don't know why I had to re-realize this truth. It was one of the earliest lessons taught to my generation. Shoot, taste was used as a behavioral modifier. "I'm going to wash your mouth out with soap, young man." How many of you had to endure that threat or it's sisterly corollary?  It worked too. I just wrote shoot instead of H. E. double hockey sticks.

Like the prodigal's father, I spent the week looking down the road looking for the lost's return. After five days, my inner Eeyore was starting to surface. What if? What if everything tasted like cardboard for the rest of my life. I was starting to despair. Thankfully, the high tide of snot started to recede. First, I could almost taste the spicy chili; then the hint of parsley snuck through the chicken soup. Gradually, like the spring thaw, I have been restored; restored with a new sense the goodness of good food, and the feeling that I should treat every meal like it could be my last. I want to take time to savor it, linger over it and end every meal with the pinnacle of good taste;  Pecan pie alamode with hot fudge.

Take care

Roger