BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Yep… You would think that considering the books I pen I would eschew getting myself involved in any more mysteries than are absolutely necessary. After all, making them up, plotting them out, and then attaching them to paper through the use of words should be enough for one guy, correct?

But no… Leave it to me to get myself involved in a murder investigation here at home.

So, let me explain the event leading up to this homicide for you:

I was making one of my daily trips to the library (yes, that would be a euphemism- library, can, throne room, crapper… take your pick.) Anyway, there I am, reading through the latest issue of Missouri Conservationist when over the top edge of the magazine I spy something. At first, I thought nothing of it, but that only lasted a second or two. You know how it is – you see something and it doesn’t quite register at first, but then after a heartbeat or so it smacks your right between the eyes… Well, that’s pretty much what happened. So, lowering the magazine, I took a longer look.

Lo and behold, there on the back corner of the bathtub, not quite covered by the shower curtain, are Barbie and Ken. Now, I’m definitely no prude- if you’ve read the Miranda Trilogy, you know that to be true- however, I have to admit that I blushed. You see, Barbie, in all her curvaceous glory, was grappled with the buff eunuch in a “girl-on-top missionary position”. It was obvious that they had been swimming in the bathtub at some point because Babs’ long, flowing, nylon hair showed signs of having dried without the benefit of combing or detangling. Ken, on the other hand, had little problem in that department, what with the helmet hair and all, but I digress. The point is, putting two and two together told me that after some frolicking in the sudsy surf, the two had apparently become amorous and, well, needed to do some business. Perfectly natural. Basic carnal urges and all that… So, all good…

At any rate, as I said, I blushed, then went back to reading about hummingbird feeders while making it a point to finish the article and all my business associated with the reading of said article a bit more quickly than usual. I mean, I seriously doubted that the two love birds really wanted a spectator, know what I mean? (BTW, due to Ken’s general lack of endowment, I didn’t bother to offer any contraception. I suspected it probably wasn’t needed.)

Okay, so now we fast forward to the next day. Here is where the crime scene comes into play…

As expected, I needed to once again visit the library. Just one of those other natural urges. This time I think I was planning to read the local school district newsletter so I would be up on any bond issues, or things I might need to know which would affect my child’s learning. I pretty much figured Babs and Ken would be done by now, so I was feeling pretty safe in selecting one of the longer articles to read. Of course, as we all know, the best laid plans of mice and Murvs, yadda yadda…

Upon entering the library, naturally my eyes were drawn to the porcelain beachfront where the two fashion dolls had been making out. Not because I am a closet voyeur or anything, I just wanted to be certain they were finished so that I could in fact indulge in reading the lengthy article without feeling rushed. What I saw this time was less a scene from a skin flick and more a horrific tableau from a slasher movie (or, one of my books even…)

Ken’s rigid body was laid out in the very same spot where Babs had been…ummm…uhhh…”mounting” him. However, like I said, it was his body. The poor plastic eunuch’s head was sitting several inches away, quite obviously separated from the rest of his buff plasticness, and it was staring dully at the ceiling.

Well… Being a curious author of suspense thrillers that usually involve some type of gory murder, I felt compelled to investigate further. Using the rolled up newsletter to carefully push back the shower curtain (I didn’t want to disturb evidence like fingerprints you see) I proceeded to check out the surroundings.

Much to my surprise, perched on the ledge of the tile back splash, was Barbie, resplendent in her sparkly blue- and extremely filled out- bathing suit. Her pretty little face, replete with a tasteful touch of eye shadow and pearlescent pink lipstick was tilted in the direction of the carnage. And, moreover, on those pearly pink lips she was wearing that painted on smug grin.

The investigation is proceeding, and so far Babs isn’t saying a word, but I’ve got one of those feelings… You know, the Rowan Gant Twilight Zone knocking on the back of my skull kind.

And, you know what it’s telling me?

Barbie is a Black Widow. Maybe they should have named her, oh, I don’t know… Miranda?

More to come…

Murv

It doesn’t take Rowan Gant’s clairvoyant abilities to know that a good parcel of you are now thinking, “Eeeewwwwwwwww!” And, a whole raft of you who are thinking such are also involuntarily saying it aloud as well. Just like you would be if the title had been Chitterlings (that’s properly pronounced Chit’lins, mind you), brain sandwiches, or a whole host of other organ meat based delicacies.

Not much I can do about that except to say, don’t knock it until you try it. If you’ve tried it (any of the above, PROPERLY prepared) and you still didn’t care for it, well, at least you tried so I respect your opinion. (Even though it’s wrong.)

You see, I’m sure my love of such foods has something to do with my farm upbringing. Where I come from you don’t cut the prime rib and tenderloins out of a bull/cow, and then leave the rest for the turkey vultures. We used everything. Meaning, everything… Whether it was Chitlin’s, Brains, or an entire head boiled down to make Head Cheese. Didn’t matter. We used it.

We even rendered out all the fat to cook with and also to make lye soap.

Now, on the note of Head Cheese, I’ll admit to not being a big fan. I’ve had it on several occasions. It’s not bad, but also not my favorite thing in the world– probably because I still have memories of my grandmother boiling a hog’s head to make it. Not a pretty- nor particularly wonderful smelling – process, trust me.

But, back to Liver and Onions… This happens to be one of my favorite all-time meals. I’ve always loved it. Even as a child. I suppose part of that could be the fact that until I was an adult and ordered it in a big city restaurant I had always been served PROPERLY prepared Liver and Onions. Since that horrible incident I’ve been careful not to order it in the big city. Diners in small southern towns, well that’s a different story. But mostly I make it at home, preparing it exactly the way I learned to do it from my mother, grandmother, and grandfather…

Speaking of my grandfather, his name was Elvis. Yes Elvis, although his last name was Babb, not Presley. He wasn’t much of a singer, but he could play the harmonica like nobody’s business. I actually have a recording of him that I made a few months before he died. At that point he had emphysema, but he could still make that harp talk. (On that note, I also have the harmonica and it is displayed in our curio cabinet, but that was a different blog I wrote a year or so back)… But, let’s move on… Elvis Babb owned a diner in the small Kentucky town where I was born. While the diner was gone before I was really old enough to know better I do have memories of toddling around in it. But, more importantly I still watched my grandfather cook at home. I may have only been in my high single digits and low double digits – he crossed over when I was 11 or so – but I still learned a whole raft of things from him about cooking, probably because where I come from food is love. Food is comfort.

And, we all want love and comfort.

Now, one of the interesting things about preparing something properly is that sometimes – not always, but sometimes – a person who had the dish and hated it will try it again, done correctly, and love it. Such is the case with my wife. She hated Liver and Onions. I can remember the first time I fixed it (I do all the cooking in our house) back when we were first married some twent-cough-cough years ago. She had this horribly crestfallen look on her face and I could see that she was gearing herself up for choking it down so as to not hurt my feelings. After the first bite, however, her expression changed. Now, it is one of her favorites as well.

At any rate, prior to my father crossing over in 2003, I used to try timing my Liver and Onion dinners with his trips through Saint Louis. (He had a house here, but more or less lived in Kentucky and since he was retired, traveled extensively). I would time it that way because Dad loved Liver and Onions too. Even if he couldn’t make it to the house for the actual dinner, I made sure there was a “take out” container for him.

I just made Liver and Onions for supper Monday. As is customary – nay, IMPERATIVE – it was served with a big ass bowl of mashed potatoes and buttered green peas. Life was good.

Since Dad is no longer around, there were some leftovers. I just killed those off a few minutes ago… (Yeah, Liver and Onions for breakfast. I’m sure Edain would be appalled LOL! – note: Ask Edain McCoy about her impression of my morning eating habits and that joke will make sense.)

Honestly, I’d just as soon have Dad back and give the leftovers to him, but since that isn’t going to happen, I figured I should at least enjoy them in his place.

And I did.

More to come…

Murv