humour

Oh strange food

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Food, Food, Fooood, wonderful food, wonderful food. Food. Food. Food. I love food. Making food. Ordering food. Going out for food. I don’t care how it comes. I’ve even had dreams about food like the time I was chased by a giant purple lobster. As a result, I am not afraid of food. I’ve had many strange experiences with food. But I’ve never spat out anything – how rude.

A while back, I was working for the Cosmo-Demonic-Telecommunication company when they sent me on a trip to Thailand. When you travel to Asian countries on business, the company hires a guide to show you around town. The first night we went out and had traditional Thai food. I can’t remember everything we ate, but I do remember rice cooked in pineapple and giant lobsters without claws. I also learnt that Thais do not use chopsticks.  I’m not sure why, but the next time you order Pad Thai … 

However, the next night, the guide asked if we wanted to try some more dangerous food. I was travelling in a group with five or six other dudes. When we got to the restaurant, the first thing I saw was a giant snake dangling from a hook. An employee was running a knife down its belly, guts slopping on the floor. But not to waste, he gathered the innards and threw them in a pail. Ok, this looks promising (not).

Inside, we gathered around a table. Menus, of course were useless. I’m not sure if they were written in Thai or Chinese. The restaurant was the latter, I think. The guide ordered for the table. We had ant eggs – giant white pill looking objects. Then we had snake (not sure if it was hanging buddy downstairs).  Not too bad – tasted like dry pork ribs. However, the weird thing was the wine glass of blood brought to the table. The guide got angry when the waiter brought the drink, but we said don’t worry. Down the hatch. Warm and thick like a metallic milk shake. Apparently good for men. I felt my bicep increase. The food wasn’t too bad, but I don’t think I’d eat it daily and I don’t think the locals did. 

My next interesting delicacy was in New Zealand. We were invited on to the Marae (a meeting place for social and religious celebrations), a great privilege. Every day, behind the meeting house, We had a wonderful “happy” hour. We were talking and drinking excellent wine when this dude brings out these spiny looking creatures, cuts one open and the guts fall in his hand. He threw it down his gullet as though he were kicking off a jandle at the front door.  Sea urchin or Tuhinga o mua in Māori.  He looked at me, you want some, brother? I sure do. It tasted like swallowing a giant hoark left over from a bad cold. But I’d defiantly do it again. Yep, I’d eat just about anything. Once. Scorpion pizza. Sheep eye-ball soup. However, my only rule is it can’t be moving. Dipping my spoon into a bowl of crawling baby snakes, just isn’t my cup of tea. 

Ok, I gotta run upstairs and cook some grub. I’m thinking pineapple pork ribs, rice and cucumber.

Handy Man – haha

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I was asked, are you handy? I just laughed. Oh my, no. I am the most “unhandy” person in the world. When I look around my house I think, man I should’ve hired a professional. When we bought our house, it was a fixer upper. The basement became a swimming pool every June, our rainy month. The carpet in the living room smelt like a cat litter box. The hot water tank was hours away from an explosion. Our entire backyard was exposed because the fence collapsed like a broken teenager on tic-tok. I said, no problem, we can fix it.

Ok time to fix – her -up. I tried to put a fence in and I’m so glad it’s in an area that no one can see. Five years later and it’s leaning more than that tower in Italy. At least in Pisa they have the excuse that it’s a natural process. The only thing natural about the fence I built is natural incompetence. Then I tried to tile the floor in our downstairs bathroom (luckily only used by me). It looks like a pitcher’s mound. Then there’s the bedroom door. We took it off to paint, but it wouldn’t go back on correctly. We couldn’t close the door for a year. Then one morning I looked at the door, walked over, replaced the missing screws and voilà the door closes. We now have privacy. So many other dysfunctional projects. I’m surprised the house is still standing. 

However, I am glad I know people who know what they are doing. I have a great neighbour. She’s so good at handy-person things. We are renovating our kitchen, and she’s done a fantastic job patching and painting the kitchen walls. I can only stand by with my jaw dropping and pour more wine. I have another handyman friend. He’s European, so all projects are done with care and precision (me – measure once and cut again and again and again). More than once, he’s come over and repaired my horrible mistakes. He did great job with our bathroom. Now he’s going to help put with our kitchen renovations. We exchange dog-sitting for reno- skills although my Czech pal is on the losing end.

Another section of our privacy was falling down, but this time exposed to the world. Luckily another neighbour came to the rescue. I did very little (thankfully) except call the “Bobcat” dude to come and drill holes for the posts. But only after hours of a manual auger attempt that required a bathtub of Absorbine Junior the next day … and following week. Our privacy intact, I am very grateful for the assistance.

Yes, I have learnt after many years of attempted home improvement to call a professional. One may watch all the tv programs and youtube videos you want, but if the aptitude is not there you are screwed.  I have other qualities, like … well I dunno. I can write poetry, always a useful skill. 

Panel Wagon

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I was driving a very small car, fire engine red with white trim. It was so low to the ground, I felt as though my ass were dragging across the ground, derriere road rash. It wasn’t light out yet, gray light just forming on the horizon. I drove to the institution early so I could get a good parking spot. The lot got very full, very fast. I was in a rush, so I had to wash my hair in the back seat of my tiny car. Luckily the car came with a shower nozzle, the kind you find in a kitchen, thin flexible metallic hose with a black nozzle. You just press the button, and water scoots out. I’m glad I had the option. Clean hair is so important.

After I washed my hair, my friend came and tapped on the window. I couldn’t see her face because her shaggy dirty blonde hair covered her facial features. She wore a large beige cable knit sweater, reminding me of a rug with a zipper up the front. She was going to take my car and drive it to an unknown location. She got in and dropped me off at the institution door, but it was too early. I told her I’d wait until the doors opened, but she insisted and drove back to the parking lot. I said, you’ll never get a parking spot. She wasn’t worried.

When we got back, the lot was full. Another little car was driving into the space we vacated. Only little cars were permitted in the lot. So many little cars in one place, you’d think a clown convention was happening. We drove around and around but couldn’t find a spot.

My friend was getting frustrated. I asked her if she wanted to come for dinner. She was very appreciative.  She said sure. She’d come back and pick me up at four. I walked to the steel institution doors. They opened.

She arrived right on time at four. We drove to my house. I was living in another car, a station wagon with the same wood panels adorning so many basements in shag carpet time. My house had no wheels. It was parked in an abandoned lot with a large park flowing outside the back window. The wagon had a portable stove on the back.

I poured some wine. We drank and she admired my Swedish shelving. They’re Olof Palmes’.  We sat in the front seat drank wine and ate steak and potatoes and green beans. After dinner, we jumped over the front seats and sat in the back and listened to the radio. A song came on about a guy who was in love with his best friend’s girlfriend. I said I hadn’t heard the song in a long time. She said the guy was an asshole. Who does that?

We pulled the seats back and laid down in the wagon area, watching the trees and the grass sway in the park. We drank the rest of our wine. We talked until the park was only shadows. She said, it’s getting late. I have to work in the morning. After she went home, I got out and lit the wagon on fire. I walked down a dark road, wishing I hadn’t given her my car.

Burning Down the House

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The greatest  gift to give a teenager (so they say) is teaching them how to cook. The obvious benefit is an option from throwing bad food in a microwave.  Another is precious time away from a screen and spending gleeful hours with a potential filled young person. You can make a difference. Ok, so I got that off a parenting website, “Teenage Monsters.”

Anyway, my niece came over a while back and together we made carbonara and Caesar salad  with homemade bread. The only problem with the carbonara is while cooking the pancetta, it got very smoky in the house. Our fire alarm started screaming like a banshee. Now we have a security system, meaning when the alarm goes off, we usually get a call from the company and if they can’t reach us, hotline to emergency services.

Weirdly,  I didn’t get a call or notice on my phone.  We kept looking out the window while waving towels over the alarm – not sure if the fire department was called or not. All our doors and windows were open, even though it was below freezing.  Every fan blasting on max. Then we heard sirens blaring with lights a- flashing.  The big red trucks stopped in front of our house. Curtains open, nosy eyes, chins a-wagging with,  Hey look they have an alarm system, the idiots.

My niece ever the brave one,  ran for cover shouting: “Don’t tell them I’m here.”  “What?” I said. “They’re firemen, not cops. And you watch too much TV.”  Ok this has potential for learning lesson number two, but before I could take her outside she ran, tail between her legs,  flying  down the  basement stairs.

Left alone, I went outside in my slippers and wool socks and explained to the very understanding firemen:

“Sorry, we were making carbonara and cooking the bacon (not sure they’d know pancetta), but then boom too much smoke. I musta missed the call from our security company. I am really sorry.”

“You used bacon? Not they way I make it.  I use pancetta,” said the fireman, smirking.

“Yea, next time I’ll use pancetta. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Dinner was saved?” asked the fireman.

“Yep.”

“Then all is good. You’re safe and so is dinner. That’s all that matters.”

“Again, I’m so sorry.”

“Not a problem,” said the very understanding high-res man, “better a nice chat on the sidewalk then pulling bodies out.” (Ok he didn’t really say that, but)

I turned and walked  back into our pancetta lingering freezing cold house.  I checked my phone. The alarm company called but I didn’t hear the ring (curse you fruit company). I want to go over to the firehall and cook them dinner with my niece out of appreciation.

A few weeks later, however,  I got a letter from the fire department. Your first alarm is free. After that five hundred bucks for the second call and then a thousand for the third. My first thought, Do I really need an alarm? Second thought, maybe we’ll order carbonara and I’ll teach my niece how to pay with my credit card. Oh wait, that’s a lesson she knows very well.

Apple Sucks

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“De phone, de phone has arrived.”  The fruit company announces. We leave early, thinking maybe grab some lunch and then a movie after I pick up my new phone. I bought it online the night before, so all I have to do is walk in and pick it up. I get to the fruit store and say, “I know I’m early, but can I grab my phone?” As I open the email and actually read the stupid thing, I notice at the bottom: “Please bring photo ID.” Well, shiver me timbers. I didn’t read the whole email, surprise, surprise. Now, in my defence it was about the twentieth email they sent me. “Shit,” I say to the nice fruit representative, “I have a photo of my ID on my old fruit phone.  Nope. Government ID only, sorry,” she says with a half-jerked smile. Yep gotta watch tiny retail people with a little bit of power and a rule. They will shit all over you and who wouldn’t when your wage doesn’t cover rent.

I phone my car passenger and explain the situation. I walk with the pace of an Olympian to the car.  Then Mr. Impatient gets a golden idea, “Well. I can probably drive home, grab my wallet and be back before my passenger even gets down the stairs to the underground parking.” You sad sorry moron. When will you learn? I get in the car, fly out of the garage and zoom down the causeway.  I get a call, “Hey where are you?” “Yea, sorry I’m halfway home. Meet me at the fruit store in twenty.”  The line dies. I can feel the  sardonic smirk down the highway between us. I get half-way home when I remember, I don’t have my keys, so I can’t get into the house without throwing the barbeque through the window.

I call back, but before I even speak, “You don’t have your keys, numbskull. You gave them to me this morning. Remember? I don’t want the pocket bulge you said. ” “That’s right, I say.” Passenger says,  “Ok, meet me in front of the drugstore. No better yet, meet me in in front of the bank.” “Ok,” I say, but am I really listening? I get to the drug store. I call. “Where are you?” “In front of the bank like I told you.” “Oh shit.” I scoot around the drug store and drive over to the bank. I see the passenger’s  head, shaking with disgust and then while sliding into the car, “Do you want me to drive? You seem a little tense.”

We drive home, get my wallet, and go back into the phone store. I gingerly put my Government ID on the counter. We wait. Dude tries to sell me shit I don’t need. Thanks. I walk out of the store new phone in pocket, bulging like square fruit in a round tree.

I go home. So many passwords to renew and new fruit wants to use my face for ID. Nah, Apple doesn’t suck – you do.

The Mall Walk

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Let me describe the weather. It’s brutally cold. So cold cat’s ears fall off. So cold that in thirty minutes your nose turns black if left naked. So cold our city hit number nine on the list of coldest places on the planet. Right up there with the frozen Northern tundra and Vostok Station, Antarctica. Polar bear and penguin weather. And what do you do on frigid days? You walk the mall, but  you must go early. Before the teen hoards wake up and hound their mothers to zip outside, risk frostbite while warming the mini-van and drive them to the mall.

We got there early. The stores weren’t even open and parking was only a twenty-five metre Olympic sprint to the main door. The mall does retain a special magic in early morning especially during the holidays. Lovely to look at the empty Santa workshop (without lines of snot dripping adolescent munchkins)  or enjoy Valentine hearts plastered everywhere like a kindergarten classroom. Even the security dudes don’t give you a second thought because they’re more interested in their morning cup of java.

Today however, I was shocked. After we walked around (5438 steps to be precise) I looked into the food court after ordering my ham and eggs and my jaw smacked the short-lived clean floor below me. Look! A retired dude. Oh my, a happy group of retired women.  Another group of grey haired men.  Look a retired couple. Oh shit that’s us. But we don’t look like the others hanging around the vaccinated eating area, right? I zip to a mirror. Hard to tell in toque and mask. Phew!

Then another slap to the head. Look it’s all the retired people who can’t afford to go to Phoenix or Palm Springs. We are included although even if we had the cash I’m not so sure we’d go with all the restrictions and the global virus disaster. Nope we are happy sitting here in minus thirty-seven freezing our asses off and bingeing Netflix. Who am I kidding? Time to grab the little dog and …

Now would I rather be walking among the California palms or skidding on ice patches? Would I rather be sipping a local California Chardonnay or sitting in front of my TV watching the allied attack on Italy? Would I rather be sucking air cold enough to freeze my lungs solid or constantly worried that I might not make it home. I don’t know but there’s always next year, right? (Didn’t I say this last year?) Hopefully the decision in twelve months will be, do I wear my mask because it’s retro cool?