Well Done

Sent Saturday, Feb 28, 2009.

This is me.

Annie has several sisters, all of whom I love dearly.  However, one of them has a most grievous fault.  Huh?  No, no, much worse than that.  She likes her steak “well done”.  Whenever we happen to be out to a restaurant with her, she will usually order a steak “well done”.  Invariably when the steak arrives she will not be pleased with it.  Too dried out.  Doesn’t taste right, or something.  She will then eat small chunks of it soaked in whatever on her plate might contain some moisture.  The main portion remains uneaten.  At the end of the meal, the waitress will ask if she would like it boxed to take home.  She never does.  Now I know what you are thinking.  No, I don’t take it home for my dog, because I’m not sure she would want to eat it either.

Now I have always enjoyed cooking.  I can remember as a wee little one, dragging a kitchen chair up to the stove so I could fry my own eggs.  To this day I do most of the cooking in our house.  I had even considered going into the culinary arts in my younger days, but a problem raised it’s ugly head.  While I like to cook, it occurred to me that I like to cook what I like to cook when I like to cook it.  I was afraid that this attitude might not work out so well in the restaurant business. Besides, I really can’t stand the heat.

I have decided one thing.  If I had become a chef, and owned a restaurant, and someone ordered a steak “well done” I had the perfect plan in mind. Upon receiving the order, I would go to the cooler and select a steak. I would then go the table and enquire as to who had ordered a steak “well done”.  On being informed, I would show the selected steak to the offender and ask if it was suitable. On receiving an affirmative reply, I would then slap the customer with the steak, hand the miscreant a ten dollar bill and directions to the nearest Burger King.

Not going into the restaurant business may have worked out for the best.

How I met your mother

This is a snippet of an email I received from Dad in response to something I had sent him.  It made me laugh so I decided to post it.

Dear Just, I am so confused. Well, no more than normal, what with your Mom and all. I’ll never forget the first time that I saw your Mother. It was back in March of 1970 at her Dad’s farm. I walked into the kitchen and saw her for the first time, and I thought, WOW. And then she started talking, and as she spoke a vague fog of confusion crept over me. I have never been able to shake that feeling to this very day.

Columbus Day

This was sent a couple days after Columbus Day. Once again, it’s just a snippet of the entire email.

Christopher Columbus? Big deal. When he left, he didn’t know where he was going, and when he got there he didn’t know where he was, and when he got back he didn’t know where he had been. Annie says that it sounds like men in general.

GO STEELERS!

Sent: Saturday, January 28, 2006 – Original email edited by me to only include story content

This is me. I don’t have a terrible towel. I do have a terrible mug however, but it doesn’t really work out all that well. You get excited and start waving it around, and coffee goes flying all over the place. Maybe some day. As Annie always tells me, “You have a birthday coming up.” And then she doesn’t get me what I wanted anyway. Even so, she’s nice to have around.

Spaghetti

Sent: Tuesday, June 15, 2004

While Sumaya (my wife) and I were still dating, Sumaya had prepared a spaghetti dinner in anticipation of my parents’ arrival for a weekend visit (along with Clint).

Growing up, Mom made spaghetti all of the time. It was either her favorite meal, or the thing she found the easiest to cook, I’m not sure which. Somehow, I never noticed that Dad never ate the spaghetti and cooked his own meals on spaghetti nights. I suppose even if I noticed, it just never clicked. Perhaps it is because my family never “sat down for dinner” per say. We didn’t eat standing up, but more often than not, Mom, Clint and myself would eat in the living room while watching tv and Dad would eat in the kitchen reading his Newsweek. Regardless, I never made the connection. Needless to say, when Sumaya asked me if my parents liked spaghetti, I thought back to all the times we had spaghetti. I remember them because I really didn’t like it that much and thought we had it far too often. So I assured her that they did indeed like spaghetti. Not only that, I had tasted Sumaya’s spaghetti with it’s delicious homemade meat sauce and I loved it, so my parents were sure to go bananas over it.

When it came time for dinner, we were all out and about and I offered that we could go back to our place and have spaghetti. Dad, not realizing that this meant the spaghetti was already prepared, spoke up and said he did not care for spaghetti and was fine with going to a restaurant. Sumaya gave me a look that was a combination of, “YOU said they liked spaghetti!” and “Aw… but I made all that spaghetti.” I probably just returned some sort of blank dumbfounded gaze and pointed the car to the nearest restaurant.

Clint, having been apprised of the spaghetti meal before hand, some time later told Mom what had happened. He probably thought of it because she was cooking spaghetti. Mom then told Dad what happened. The rest is as follows:

This is me. This is a letter that I sent to our dear Sumaya. She has graciously allowed me to send it out on the family email.

My Dear Sumaya,
I have just learned that you had prepared a feast of spaghetti for our visit last October. Had I known, you would have seen me seem to enjoy the fruits of your labor. I have not eaten spaghetti since 1973, or there abouts. No, no, you’re wrong. It isn’t because I’m a Methodist. Not at all. It all began in that warm wonderful summer. Whilst I never was fond of spaghetti, I would partake when that was what was served, and was none the worse for it. However, that all changed, and was never to be as it was ever again.

Annie’s step sister, Annie Rudock, a young lady of 15 years or so, had prepared the dinner for the family that most tragic of days. A large family with a large appetite. As you may well have guessed by now she fixed spaghetti. Now I claim no talent as to the preparation of the dish, but I am so told that several things were done improperly. She did not drain the grease from the hamburger before adding it to the dread mixture. And for some reason not known to me, the spaghetti noodles clumped together in a gooey mass. Now Annie’s family was not one to mince words, and poor Annie Rudock was soon let to know what a turmoil she had loosed on those assembled. The day being most cordial, we ate on the front porch. Annie’s Dad, Charlie, upon forking up a rather large clump of the offensive noodle said, and I quote, “What the hell is this?” He then drew back his strong right arm and as though throwing a tomahawk or some such thing, let fly the awful mess. The unfortunate sugar maple tree in the front yard bore the brunt of his wrath. The clump of spaghetti noodles stuck to this grand old denizen of the northland. The noodles being impervious to the elements, were in evidence all the summer long, and gave up the fight only in the dead of winter.

Now as you might imagine, Annie Rudock was in tears and quite beside herself by this time. Now even in my young years of 22 or so, I had already ruined myself by excessive kindness and generosity to the gentle sex. I was thus compelled to say words to this effect, “Oh, now Annie, it isn’t all that bad. It’s really quite good. I’ll have seconds if there is any left over.” Wiping tears from her eyes and with her face full of wonder, she said “Really?” Shortly after downing the second bowl full with apparent gusto, I said to my Annie, “We have to be going now.” She said, “but we just got here.” I said, “Now.”

About a mile or so distant from the farm and the staunch old sugar maple, I suggested that we pull off the road. Unlike the old maple, I quickly shed my punishment. I tried a year or so later to eat the dire stuff again, but rather cleverly claimed an unusual allergy to pasta, if eaten in more than the smallest amount. But for you I would have waded through a proper kettle of the substance. Sorry I messed up your lovely dinner. I would not have knowingly done that for the world.

Love you much and always,
Carl

Sumaya has of course forgiven Dad. Me, on the other hand, she reminds that I didn’t even know my dad doesn’t like spaghetti, how can I be sure of (insert any family related subject here). Whatever. I’m sure it was Newsweek that he used to read, even if I don’t know what it was he was eating.

Lessons of marriage

Sent: Sunday, February 10, 2002

This is me. After being married for 30 years, I have learned that there are times when it is best to pretend that you have nothing to say on a given subject. This is one of those times.

A visit from…

Sent: Saturday, October 6, 2001

This is me. Twas the night before a long day at work, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, well, maybe a mouse. And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my….well we won’t go there, had just settled our brains for a long autumns nap. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Actually, being over 50 now, and aches and pains being such as they are, I climbed out of bed rather slowly, pulled on my robe, hobbled down the stairs, out the front door, across the porch and on to the lawn, when what to my wondering eyes should appear, Clint’s little Jack Russell Terrorist giving battle to an annoyed possum.

Now the possum was not “playing possum” as you might suppose, but was making a good accounting of himself, giving as good as he took. However, wanting to shut the dog up and get back to sleep, I sided with the possum. About this time, Clint starts yelling various things at the dog, some of which was acceptable for mixed company. Now you need to understand that calling the dog a terrorist was not a typo. While he does not look middle eastern, his name is a dead give away. Ollie Bad Baba. Now while Clint is doing his “gentle coaxing”, I commenced to hollering “BAD BABA, BAD BABA, GO HOME BAD BABA”.

If the dog had tail enough to put between his legs, that he would undoubtedly have done so as he scampered up the hill to safety from the screaming loonie. I went to check on the possum, but he rather ungraciously left with out so much as a fare thee well for having called off the dog. While all this was happening, Early Boo gallantly stayed upstairs on the bed guarding Annie from any alarm. Annie somehow slept through the entire episode.

Potatos and paint cans

Sent: Thursday, July 19, 2001

This is me. This past Independence day put me to mind of a hot summer evening back in the late seventies. My old friend Tom called on a late Saturday afternoon. He had two questions. “Do you have any black powder?” “Well, yes, a couple of pounds. Why?” “Never mind”, he said. Second question, “Do you have any beer?” “Well, yes, a 12 pack or so.” “Good” he said. “Grab the powder, the beer, Annie and the kids and come on over, we’re making a party.”

Now I knew why the beer, but not why the black powder. Tom didn’t own any muzzle loading guns. But a friend in need, you know. On arriving at Tom’s house I soon learned the “why for” of the black powder. In the yard was an iron pipe of 2 1/2 inch diameter and a couple of feet long stuck in the ground at a slight angle from vertical. Also a good supply of 1 inch copper pipe cut to about 6 inches in length, and crimped over on one end, and a long string of fuse cord. A ten pound bag of potatoes rounded out the collection. It became instantly obvious. Now, who can tell me what Tom wanted the black powder for? Yes, you in the back row. Very good!!! Pipe bombs, exactly.

The waiting copper tubes were filled with powder, a short length of fuse cord cut and inserted into the powder,
and then the open end crimped over. The fuse was lit, the bomb dropped into the “mortar”, a potato was set on the end of the mortar and slapped with a board to drive it down into the pipe. The bomb exploded inside the pipe, driving the potato skyward and in the direction of a small pond some one hundred yards away. After several shots for range, we began to hit the pond with regularity. And of course, it became boring after a while.

But the evening’s excitement was not yet over. From out of the basement came Tom with a pipe of a bit over 4 inches in diameter, and about 3 feet long. This was set in the ground, but alas, there was nary a potato of size sufficient to fill the tube. Again, Tom to the rescue. From the basement he emerged yet again. This time with a quart can of paint. This can of paint was about the same age as we were, and no doubt possessed more common sense than the lot of us. With a few wraps of duct tape, the can of paint was the perfect size. The 1 inch copper pipe tubes were obviously not big enough for this job, and so again, Tom emerged from the basement. This time with a length of 2 1/2 inch exhaust pipe about 14 inches long. This accepted our remaining powder, which amounted to about 3/4 of a pound. The bomb and can of paint were dropped down the mortar. We ran some 50 feet away. There followed a tremendous roar. Flame shot out of the pipe some 15 feet in the air with a shower of sparks. The large cloud of smoke completely obscured our view of the paint can sailing into the sky.

I firmly believe that God will sometimes smile on a fool. Just as we finished congratulating ourselves on a fine show of pyrotechnics, we heard a loud “kaaa-puuunk”, followed by a slight tremor in the ground. Someone was heard to say, “wazzahellwazzat?” Wazzahellwazzat was the can of paint hitting the ground about 2 feet in front of me. It hit with such force that it was completely buried in the dry summer ground.

We will never know how high in the sky it flew. If it has traveled another 2 feet in lateral distance, this story would be different. The widow Annie would probably have married a rich and handsome bachelor. While he traversed the globe making his millions, she would be alone in her mansion. Every so often, she would wonder what might have been, if only……. A silent tear would run down her cheek. The boys would not have been old enough to remember their father. They would only know that he died a heroic death, pushing someone out of the way of mortal danger, only to be struck down in his prime. Or, if the can of paint had traveled the same lateral distance, but to the north instead of to the west, Tom would have had the unhappy task of explaining to his landlord how a can of paint just fell out of the sky onto the house, breaking through the roof, and through the ceiling, and through the floor, and splattering paint all over the basement as it exploded on the concrete floor.

“Those were the days my friends, we thought they’d never end, we’d sing and dance forever and a day. We’d live the life we’d choose, we’d fight and never lose. Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.”

Stains on dresses

Sent : Saturday, February 17, 2001

This is me. Annie came home from work the other day with some stains on her dress. NO, not that. It was from a squeeze tube of Mary Kay lip conditioner. Now, you need to know that I became addicted to chapstick when I was in the Army some 30 years ago. Annie said that this Mary Kay lip conditioner would do the same thing as the chapstick, only much better. I said, “It’s makeup”. She said, “It’s not makeup, it’s conditioner”. I said, “If it has Mary Kay on it, it’s makeup!” She said, “Try it”. I said, “No, I will not!” She said, “Oh come on, just try it once.” Again I said, “No, I will not!” She said, “Why?”. I said, “If I start using stuff from Mary Kay, next comes silk underwear, and then it’s just a short step from there to trying on a dress. I will not go down that road. I will not!”. As she walked out of the room, I hear her say either, “Amen”, or “men”. I’m not sure which, but it did have a decidedly unchristian sound to it. Women.