BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

THE PUF REPORT: Part 4 of 5

Some of you may have heard me mention that I often travel with an MRE in my luggage. An MRE being: Meal, Ready to Eat. Yeah, cooked to death, preservative ridden, irradiated, vacuum packed, shelf stable for 99 years, food sort of stuff. The very same scientifically balanced glop they feed our men and women in uniform. Some MRE’s are perfectly edible. Not 5 star dining, mind you, but edible nonetheless. Others are oddly horrible mystery foodstuff that doesn’t even vaguely resemble the description on the outside of the watertight packaging. But, you can still choke it down, and it is scientifically proven that you can not only live on it, but it isn’t likely to kill you either.

Those of you who have never heard me wax prophetic about MRE’s are probably wondering why I would bother carrying such in my luggage. Well, you see, it’s like this – When you get booked in at a festival, you never know what you’re going to get in the way of eats.

Yeah. I know it seems like a no-brainer, especially since it says right there in my contract that you have to feed me. However, I have been flown in to far away cities, picked up and hauled out to the middle of nowhere for a fest, only to have the organizers say, “What? You didn’t bring your own food?”

Of course, those are few and far between. Still, they have happened.  Right there with them are the fests where they feed toddler portions to grown adults because they don’t know how to plan meals. Three chicken nuggets and 5 french fries does not a meal make for a 47 year old fat guy like myself.

However, I think what may be worse, in fact I know it’s worse – and unfortunately these happen way too often – are the festivals where they serve you something virtually inedible. For instance:

I have been served raw eggs. Yes raw eggs. Not runny, not overeasy, not sunny side up. R… A… W… Raw.

I have been served spoiled pork chops. Spoiled as in gone bad folks. Salmonella and all that good stuff.

Rancid, rotting potatoes. I mean, come on… If I wanted my potatoes that far gone, I’d buy a bottle of Vodka, okay?

Unidentifiable mixtures of who knows what, cooked so far beyond tastelessness that they have moved into the direction of making you gag, so that even Oliver Twist wouldn’t ask for seconds.

And, in one instance, my wife and daughter (along with several other attendees) contracted food poisoning at a festival. Severe enough that paramedics were involved.

But, fortunately, there are other fests. We’ll call them, those fests. They are the festivals and conventions that live on the other end of the spectrum. They feed you so well that the best restaurant in the city can’t hold a candle to them. There are some stores that fall into this category as well, such as Violet Flame Gifts. We will call them, those stores… But, right now, we are talking about fests…

And, PUF is one of those fests…

You see, at PUF I have my Rachel. Some of you may even have read about my Rachel in one of my novels, namely Blood Moon. She was the character Aileegan.

Now, the thing is my Rachel is in Ally-bammer, and she’s  actually Doug’s Rachel. Doug is wayyyyy bigger’n me. Doug could break me in half with his little finger. Fortunately, however, Doug likes me (the feeling is mutual) and he lets me borrow Rachel.

No… Not for that you dirty minded monkeys… E K would kill me and stuff. In fact, I’m not sure if she’d kill me first, or just stomp on my corpse after Doug killed me, but the effect would pretty much be the same. I’d be all corpsified and gross.

You see, what Doug actually does is he loans Rachel to the VIP’s at PUF. That is to say, he and Rachel are at PUF every year, working their tails off. But, more specifically, Rachel is the one and only, lifetime designated, Chef to the guest authors. Sometimes Rachel runs the whole kitchen, sometimes not. But, you can always find her there. And moreover, she ALWAYS cooks breakfast and various other goodies for the VIP’s.

Take for instance this year. We arrived to find the following resting on the table of the common room in the cabin –

Raspberry Chocolate Chip Cookies

Some kind of pizza meatball things (I want MORE of these!)

These were just a bit of comfort food on which we could nosh if the mood struck.

Now, I would be horribly remiss if I didn’t mention something else we found. This, however, was from our good friend Tracy –

Carrot Cake

And, not only was it Carrot Cake, it was probably the best freakin’ carrot cake I have ever put in my mouth (Sorry, Mom)… The only problem with it was that it was so big we couldn’t finish it. But, let me tell you, I had carrot cake every day, and I even brought a piece home with me.

Now, getting back to Rachel… Here’s the thing… I’ll put our Rachel up against Rachel Ray any day of the week. Our Rachel will whoop her ass, I’m telling you. Not only can she out cook her, blindfolded and with both hands tied behind her back, she’s really cool too. None of that ridiculously inflated perkiness. Just regular perkiness. So, if the FoodNetwork wants to set up a “cook off death match”, we’re in.

Anywho, of all the festivals where I have been, even the fests that feed you well, PUF and Rachel, feed us like you wouldn’t believe – Apple Cream Cheese “Burritos” with Caramel Sauce, Fresh Cinnamon Rolls, Chorizo Frittata, Little Canadian Bacon Cuplike Thingies with Eggs, Cuban Pork Breakfast Sandwiches… And I could go on… And on… And on…

And, believe me, I am not even scratching the surface of the food that Rachel cooks for us, much less that of the communal feast which has a spread that goes on forever, and variety like you wouldn’t believe (now that the previously mentioned Lasagna Law is in force. See PUF REPORT Part 2 of 5 – Where’s Kat?) And, if that weren’t enough, this year an attendee made Kahlua cake especially for the VIP’s as well… Not just one Kahlua cake, mind you, but two – one of them was diatetic so that two of the VIP’s who are diabetic could enjoy it as well.

Yes… We eat very well… Awww, hell, we eat like friggin’ royalty. And, not only do we enjoy it, we appreciate it as well. If nothing else we know PUF will keep us fed and happy.

However… There was a darkness over our food experience this year. More specifically, over my personal food experience. You see, every year my Rachel makes for me – specifically for me – something called the Sacred Pie. It was mentioned in Blood Moon as well. It is this amazing melange of sausage, apples, cheese, and maple syrup, baked into a wonderful crust… and… wellbtthpppt… nmbbttpp…

Jubba mimmint…

Okay… Sorry about that. I was starting to drool… Anyway, back to the issue at hand. Rachel knows that I will actually hoard Sacred Pie. Often times she will make two. One for the cabin and one for me to take home. She does this because she is well aware that I will parcel out the second pie and have a slice for my lunch every day for the week following PUF.

I love my Rachel…

But, I’m supposed to be addressing the issue, so here it is. There was no pie this year. Rachel, with much sadness and trepidation, followed by disbelief and anger, informed me that someone had stolen the sausage from the refrigerator in the kitchen. Sausage she had purchased specifically for the purpose of making the Sacred Pie.

Yes… Stolen.

Vanished… Gone… Absconded with, and all that… Thou shalt not steal… Ill gotten sausage… Hot… Looking for a ground pork fence…

I was sad. I cried. I fell down on the floor and bawled like a baby.

I was absolutely devastated…

In fact, my reaction was so startling that E K experienced an uncharacteristic fit of compassion. Yeah, I know… Miraculous, eh? Of course, I think it is tempered by the fact that she still gets to be evil You see, not only did she comfort me, she promised to find and horribly torture for an extended period of time whoever was responsible for thieving the ground up pig leavin’s. Rachel, being Rachel, with a wicked gleam in her eye, offered to help E K with this task.

So what it comes down to is this – There’s a pork thief out there somewhere who is on the run. I’m not sure who it is, but I’ll be looking hard at anyone with grease stains on their shirt and a satisfied look in their eyes. Rest assured if I ever do catch up to this particular scum-sucking, lily-livered, low down wretched cur of a sausage stealer, there’ll be hell to pay.

And, I know for a fact it’ll be hell, because I’m just turnin’ ’em right on over to Rachel and E K, and they are a hell of a lot meaner than me… Not only that, Rachel has knives, grinders, and other scary kitchen utensils (shudder).

Ya’know… Now that I think about it, I might just have to skip the pie next year unless I provide the sausage myself…

More to come…

Murv

The next installment in THE PUF REPORT: Part 5 of 5 – She Loves Me… She Loves Me OUCH!

… Continued from: I Cannot Tell A Lie…

I can still hear all of you grumbling about the way the last entry ended. Well, what did you expect? You should know me by now.

So, anyway, toss the bones, pull out the wet naps, and clean yourselves up. It’s time to continue the story. BTW, just put the bucket in the fridge. I like cold fried chicken and I’m going to need something for breakfast tomorrow.

Now, back to the Tupperware.

You see, E K is probably the least gullible person on the face of the planet. Really. I have noted before that it takes an entire covert task force, the involvement of major governments, and a whole fleet of black helicopters to even make a dent in her stoic armor. And, even with all of the above brought to bear on her she simply doesn’t fall for it. I think she might be psychic. I already know she’s psycho, but that’s a different story.

All I can tell you is that you simply cannot fool this woman. It’s probably the hair. She actually has a T-Shirt she wears that has written across it, “My Red Hair Gives Me Superpowers“. Given the past 22+ years with her, I sincerely believe that. Now, I really have to point out here that I wouldn’t have bothered to reiterate this fact if it wasn’t of absolute importance. In fact, the humor in this missive hinges entirely on this fact:

You just cannot fool the E K. The odds against your success in doing so are so astronomical that even making the attempt is an exercise in abject futility.

I’m serious folks.

Therefore, I’m sure you can understand that I was completely flabbergasted when I realized I was getting away with the lie.

What lie?

I already told you – the lie about the Tupperware.

Here’s the thing… In addition to being unnaturally impossible to fool, The Evil One is also a creature of habit. Not that she’s terribly predictable, mind you, because she isn’t… Not by any stretch. However, when she sets her mind to something she will institute a routine that is to be followed exactly, and until such time as she, and only she, decides said routine is going to change, you best follow the instructions you’ve been given by she who must be obeyed, lest you end up incurring her wrath. The problem with this is, she does not warn you about the changes, so you end up incurring her wrath at some point anyway, no matter what you do. Yes… She uses fear very effectively. You live your life knowing for a fact you are going to “get it”… You just never know when.

But, moving right along… One of E Kay’s structured habits is that she takes her lunch as opposed to spending money on fast food. Yeah, she’s pretty damn frugal like that. Of course, this also involves me being responsible for making her lunch, to her exacting specifications, then packing it, again to her exacting specifications, then having her “lunchbox” sitting in exactly the right spot, for her to pick up on her way out the door each morning.

Of course, on those days when she is feeling particularly cruel and unusual, she will simply stand next to the “lunchbox” tapping her dainty Mary-Jane clad foot while glaring at me with a look of disdain and expectation. This is the signal that I am to drop whatever I am doing and tote her “lunchbox” out to the vehicle for her. Failing to do so in a timely fashion generally results in severe bruising and even a few minor abrasions.

I would be remiss, of course, if I didn’t point out that the extent of the injuries is in direct correlation to whether or not she is feeling so evil as to pick up said lunchbox and beat me with it. That is why she has several lunchboxes with various designs. Unfortunately they just don’t make them like they used to, and these days they tend dent easier and have to be replaced often.

Of course, there is an entire reversed version of this routine every evening when she arrives home – I have to meet her at the door with her drink, then lay down on the floor so she can wipe her shoes, then when she eventually allows me back up on my knees, I take the lunchbox from her and scurry into the kitchen with it. Once there I have to place the ice packs into the freezer, cull out the recyclables from the garbage, etc, then get dinner on the table before she has a chance to beat me with a broom handle.

But, speaking of the lunch box, this is where the lie about the Tupperware comes in…

You see, E K is a big fan of water. She’s also a big fan of environmental stewardship. So, rather than use bottled water, she has a fancy pink reusable Rubbermaid water bottle, as well as a tall, yellow Tupperware cup with a snap on lid.

I honestly don’t know what it was that possessed me on the evening in question. Really, I don’t. All I know is that we had only recently returned home from taking the munchkin to a Girl Scout skating party. We were both standing in the kitchen, E K setting about the task of feeding the four legged felines, while I was across the room setting up the coffee pot for the next morning.

As I scooped fresh grounds into the filter basket I heard myself say, “So, Leggs… Where’s your yellow Tupperware cup?”

The thing is, I knew exactly where it was. After performing my earlier duties as drink caddy and doormat, I had washed said Tupperware cup, refilled it with filtered water, and placed it into the refrigerator so it would be ready the next morning.

Of course, her reply was, “It should be in my lunchbox.”

At this point it was almost as if I was having an out of body experience. Instead of cutting my losses and running, I heard myself say, “Nope. Not in there.”

I heard her shuffle around the center island then undo the Velcro tab on the miniature padded cooler. A moment later she muttered a “hmph.”

I should have kept my mouth shut, but apparently I still hadn’t re-entered my body. My voice was now saying, “Did you leave it at work or something?”

“No,” she replied, confusion evident in her voice. “I’m sure I put it back in my lunchbox.”

“Well, it wasn’t there when I cleaned it out this afternoon,” I replied.

The entire time my mouth was moving a little voice was screaming in the back of my skull, “Have you lost your mind! She’s going to kill you!“

But, I was committed – or, I obviously needed to be, because I continued. “Did you maybe leave it in your van?”

“No,” she replied, her audible consternation growing.

“You’re sure?” I asked, my mouth no longer governed by anything resembling good sense. “Because I haven’t seen it.”

“Dammit,” E K muttered. “But, it was right here… I’m sure I put it in my lunchbox.”

“Could you have left it at a customer’s site or something?” my voice asked, apparently driven by some kind of Kamikaze autopilot.

“No,” she snapped, and the tone of her voice was saying “don’t be an idiot, of course I didn’t“… Then she huffed and muttered “dammit” once again.

Now she stalked back around the center island and opened up the cabinet. After some clanking and knocking around she withdrew a smaller, orange Tupperware tumbler.

“This is too small,” she announced. “Don’t we have another one of the big cups?”

“Nope,” I replied. “Just the one you lost.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing myself say. I also couldn’t believe she was falling for it. It was at about this time it dawned on me that I was subconsciously keeping my back to her at all times. I continued methodically going about my task of prepping the coffee maker, loading the dishwasher, and whatever else I could find to do, so long as I didn’t turn to face The Evil One. If she couldn’t see my eyes, I was in good shape… For the moment, anyway…

E K let out an exasperated sigh and returned the orange tumbler to the cabinet with a hollow thump, then withdrew a different plastic cup. Slightly larger, but most certainly not of the proper configuration to fit between the special, curvy, blue-ice cold packs she uses in her lunchbox.

“Well,” she huffed, annoyance thick in her tone. “It’s not going to fit, but I guess I’ll just have to use one of these tomorrow. Are the lids in the drawer over there?”

“Yeah,” I replied, now stepping over to the refrigerator as she stomped her way to toward the drawer.

Swinging open the fridge I stared at the yellow Tupperware cup sitting magnificently upon the top shelf, just in front of the milk. I suddenly felt this horrible rending of the soul sort of sensation that always seems to accompany the process of your incorporeal form unceremoniously slamming back into your body. I blinked, then began laughing. Why was I laughing? To build up a surplus of endorphins, of course, because I had a pretty good idea what was coming next.

Still, my mouth hadn’t fully reconnected with my brain, therefore it was still running on the suicide mission profile. I stopped chuckling for a moment to take in a breath, then heard myself say, “Did you look in the fridge by any chance?”

After that, pretty much everything became a blur punctuated by bouts of extreme agony. The last thing I remember clearly was a lightning-like flash of red hair and  a whole lot of fire shooting out of a pair of blue eyes as a banshee like scream echoed in my ears, “It’s Not Nice To Fool Evil Kat!”

By the way, I’m writing this blog entry from my room at the hospital. The proctologist tells me he’s fairly optimistic about my surgery tomorrow morning to remove the size 7 pump from my… Well… You know. Unfortunately, he doesn’t think he can save the pump itself.

I guess I’m going to have to take E K shoe shopping when they release me.

More to come…

Murv