BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Does anyone happen to have Bill Cosby’s phone number? I wouldn’t normally ask something like this, but it’s kind of important… Really… No kidding.

You see, we need an intervention and we need it right away.

The problem came to light a few months back. At first, I thought it was just an odd anomaly. Something that was coming about due to some strange juxtaposition of the planets, or maybe some urban myth blown way out of proportion. Unfortunately, I think that may have just been wishful thinking on my part, because it seems the problem has only become worse… Well, in my mind as well as E Kay’s too. And, you all know that if E K thinks it’s a problem then it must be a problem.

You see, ignoring the original incident (which we will get to in a minute AND as I was still considering it an aberration at the time) the other night after dinner I happened to have a taste for something dessert oriented. Now, this is not the usual for me. Even being a fat guy, I’m not really a sweets oriented type. So, I usually figure that if my brain suddenly tells me it wants something dessertish, then my body must be deficient in some wholesome nutrient found primarily in dessert. I dunno, maybe something like copious amounts of sugar, or gallons of high fructose corn syrup. At any rate, whatever it is I am missing can apparently be found in dessert, and therefore I do something about it.

Of course, since sweets really aren’t my thing I try to stick to something that isn’t cloyingly sugary, and that is something I enjoy – especially if it brings back fond childhood memories. This is why I try to keep a box or two of pudding in the cabinet. It’s not too sweet, it’s easy to fix – especially if it is instant pudding, and like Mister Cosby says, “Mmmmmmm Ummmmm Mmmmm, Jello Pudding!”

I mean, come on. Pudding is one of those foods that simply fills the bill no matter what (pun NOT intended). Why as a matter of fact, I remember one time back in my early 20’s when pudding pretty much saved my life.

I was single – hadn’t even met E K yet, in fact – and all by my lonesome. I had come home from work early because I was feeling like crap. As it turned out I had contracted some manner of killer, face eating, brain frying flu that makes H1N1 look like an overcooked pork chop… I mean, this stuff was “The Stand” kind of bad. Before long I found myself in the ravages of an extremely high fever that involved some delirium, chills, and sweats.  Just to let me know I was no longer in control, it roller-coastered up and down for better than 24 hours. When it finally broke, I found myself tangled up in the soggy sheets of my bed, where I had been the whole time – several hours of which I didn’t really remember. Fortunately, I had come home early on a Friday, so in my fevered state I had not missed work without calling in, however, I had in fact missed a good friend’s wedding. Fortunately, I wasn’t in the wedding party, but I hated to miss the event all the same – even if I would have been going stag. After all, bridesmaids and all that you know…

But, back to this already tangential tale… I was hungry and weak, but I dragged myself into the bathroom and grabbed a shower before heading to the kitchen.  I hadn’t been shopping so the fridge was on the emptyish side, and the cupboard wasn’t much better. So, I climbed into my beat up Ford Pinto and zipped up the street to the 7-11. But, instead of grabbing a microwave burrito and a Slurpee, as I came through the door I spied that which would make all things better again.

And so, in a matter of 10 minutes after returning home with my prize I had a big ass bowl of Jello Instant Pistaschio Pudding in front of me. And you know what? I ate the whole thing while watching some movie I’d already seen a dozen times before on one of the 38 cable stations we had back in the day. I don’t remember what it was I was watching, but I definitely remember the pudding… It was instant comfort food, and it made me feel better after the ordeal of the fever.

So, back to what I was saying originally… The other night I had a taste for something sweet, therefore I hauled myself off to the kitchen and whomped up a batch of chocolate pudding. Not my favorite flavor, but I figured if I was fixing pudding for myself I should do so for E K and the offspring too.

Several minutes after the whipping and the chilling, I arranged the three bowls on a tray then brought them into the dining room where the two of them were doing horrible things to my notebook computer with a mouse and an internet connection – the adware installed on that thing now is another story in and of itself…

Anyway, intent on surprising them I snuck in and placed bowls of the “puddingy” goodness in front of them.

E K yelped in delight, “Pudding!”

Of course, that was much the same as hearing, “Good Dog!” so I couldn’t help but wag my tail and hope that meant I would NOT be treated to my usual severe beating later in the evening when there were no witnesses.

However, the O-spring just stared at her bowl, then after a moment pushed it away and continued installing malware on my notebook computer.

“What’s wrong?” E K asked.

The O-spring shrugged and said, “I really don’t like pudding.”

You could hear a spoon drop. As a matter of fact, had you been in the room you actually would have heard two spoons clattering on the floor.

A child who doesn’t like pudding… Just unbelievable…

So, now do you see why I’m trying to get hold of Bill? If this doesn’t call for a Jello Pudding Intervention, I don’t know what does…

More to come…

Murv

I watched out my back window as the next door neighbor’s girlfriend hopped over the chain link fence as if it wasn’t there, then jogged up the back stairs – pretty much taking them three at a time. Since there are only three stairs to begin with she, for all intents and purposes, went from the ground up to the deck in one leap. She then zipped across my deck and began pounding on my back door.

Normally, in a case like this, one might imagine that there was a dire problem that needed addressing. Like perhaps a fire, or some other emergency. However, in this particular case I had a good idea there was little or nothing to worry about on the other side of the fence. What had attracted her to my door was going on right in front of my face.

I stood up then hooked around the center island and opened the door. Before I could even say hello my neighbor’s girlfriend pointed and said, “I want some of what she’s having.“

It was a cliche statement, yes, but then I’m not the one who made it. Besides, I couldn’t really blame her. After all, there was a highly animated cliche writhing all over my kitchen island even as she spoke.

And, it was not E K…

You see, as we have established on many an occasion, I like to cook. (That  subject change give you whiplash? No? Then try the next one…)

In the South, hospitality is something deeply ingrained into your being as you grow up. There are the standard manners like Please, Thank You, Yes Ma’am, Yes Sir, and the like. Adults are addressed as Mister or Miss followed by a first name. Unless of course they are so familiar as to become Aunt or Uncle, regardless of blood relation. But, as I said, those are just the manners… The thing here is the hospitality.

What I’m trying to say is this – if someone visits your home, at the very least offer them a drink. If they show up and help you do something, I don’t know, like say build a barn, or roof your house, you FEED them. No ifs, ands or buts… No butts either, unless of course it is a pork butt you have slowly BBQ’d on the smoker for about 6 hours, then pulled apart and served with a nice vinegar based hot sauce for those who want an added kick. Of course, ‘tater salad, slaw, and a slice or two of bread are a necessity as well… But, I digress even further…

Back to regional manners and the like…

And so, myself being from a more civilized section of our country, i.e. The South, whenever someone helps me out I repay them by not only helping them out when need be, but by feeding them…

It’s just the way things are done…

So, anyway, we have now made a couple of turns around the chicken coop and are back to the animated cliche.

A few weeks back I was needing to rip the old roof off my shed in the back yard. After all, the roof was better than 15 years old and had seen its share of hail and highly acidic walnut shell droppings from the squirrels. The tree rats had also endeavored to build nests here and there throughout, widening their ingress and egress with a good bit of gnawing. Therefore, in a word, the shed roof was shot.

Enter Rhonda and Dave. You may remember Rhonda from the Bail Money blog. She and Dave worship at the altar of The Evil Redhead… And, Rhonda texts me a whole bunch. So, anyway, Dave, Rhonda, The Chunkinator, and Johnathan came over to lend a hand. Truth is, while I was taking care of other crap, they pretty much did the job themselves.

So, what did I do? Well, I fed them of course…

The problem is, I had not been to the grocery and we were woefully short on supplies. However, the rule of thumb around our house is that if it isn’t nailed down and it stays still long enough, I can probably cook it. So, I set about rooting through the freezer and pantry. Within a few moments I had a pile of ingredients and a few kitchen utensils in front of me. While continuing to converse with the gang I ground, grated, crunched, cracked, seasoned, and mixed until I had myself a meatloaf formed up and wrapped in aluminum foil, ready to toss out on the grill to join the slab of ribs Rhonda and Dave had brought with them.

That’s it. Meatloaf. Just plain old, average everyday meatloaf made with whatever I had on hand. Nothing special. But hey, food is food and when it is time to feed hungry folks a good old fashioned kitchen sink meatloaf will fill stomachs, guaranteed.

It was after we sat down to dinner that things became a little When Harry Met Sally-ish…

I was gnawing on a piece of rib when I heard the first moan. I wasn’t quite sure what it was at first, but it didn’t really sound like anyone was in major distress, so I continued eating. Seconds later, it sounded again, but this time louder and even more guttural. It was followed by a nasally whine, a squeak, another moan, and then a loud clap as Rhonda leaned forward, slapped the surface of the island, then arched her back and began tossing her head around like she was in some kind of shampoo / conditioner commercial, all while whimpering and moaning.

I stopped eating, rib leavin’s all over my face, then looked over at Dave and said, “Dude… At the dinner table? I mean, come on… Can’t you two wait until you get home or at least out to your car?”

“I’m not even touching her!” he countered.

Sure enough, both of his hands were occupied with a hunk of ribs, and in point of fact, he was sitting several feet away from her near the end of the island.

Before I could say anything else, Rhonda began rocking back on the barstool and moaning at the ceiling as her eyes rolled back in her head. In a total Meg Ryan moment she repeatedly slapped her hand on the surface of the island, sending utensils skittering off onto the floor as she screamed, “Yes, Yes, Yes, YES! Meeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaattttt Loooooaaaaaaaaaaafffff!”

Seconds later she was writhing all over the kitchen and whimpering loudly.

I cast a glance around the room, thinking perhaps we were about to hear a live rendition of Paradise By The Dashboard Lights, but Michael Lee Aday was nowhere to be seen.

“She always have this reaction to meat loaf?” I asked Dave.

“Dunno,” he shrugged. “Never seen her eat it before.”

“Don’t… like…” Rhonda started, then screamed one of those screams like you hear in a bad porno movie, not that I’ve ever seen one, mind you. She whimpered for a moment, then breathlessly started again, “Don’t… Like… Meat… Loaf…”

“The singer or the food,” I asked. “Because I hate to tell you this but…”

I didn’t get to finish. She was already screaming and panting again. And besides, it was at just about this particular moment I saw my neighbor’s girlfriend vaulting over the chain link fence.

Unfortunately, relations in our neighborhood have been a bit strained ever since. You see, our impromptu visitor left in a fairly bad mood that evening, leaping back over the fence then shaking her fist at us before going inside, pretty much because Rhonda wouldn’t let anyone else have any of the meatloaf. In fact, she took the leftovers home with her. I think maybe she had it for dinner the following night too, because there were some very odd posts on her Facebook wall. I couldn’t make much sense out of them, other than the fact that they were some seriously pleasure oriented onomatopoeia.

Too bad it was an off the cuff, kitchen sink meatloaf. If I’d saved the recipe I’m pretty sure we would have been able to throw together another one then videotape Rhonda and sell copies on the Internet for a whole lotta money.

And there you have hospitality in its finest hour… Help me rip off a shed roof and not only do you get dinner, but a floor show as well. And, who knows what other bonus Dave found in his “pay envelope”…

Damn… Now that I think about it, maybe I need to figure out what I can whip up that will have the same effect on E K…

More to come…

Murv