BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I have a hobby.

No… Not the one where I dress up in my wife’s lingerie and sing “I’m So Pretty” while playing badminton with the mushroom tripping squirrels in the back yard.

Errr… Ummm… Forget I ever said that, okay?

But seriously, I do have a hobby. A couple of them, in fact, and if book sales don’t pick up soon the IRS is going to consider my profession a hobby as well. But, that a different story…

The particular hobby in question here, however, is Home Brewing. Yeah, the making of drinkable fermented beverages such as Beer, Wine, and Mead. For someone who enjoys cooking as much as I do, well, brewing seemed like a no-brainer in the hobby department. Now, the truth is I don’t get to engage in my hobbies as much as I once did. This whole writing, touring, promotional marketing of oneself thing takes up far more time than I ever imagined it would. But, I still brew up a batch of Beer or Mead when I have some downtime and I’m looking for a fun activity.

Before we go any further here, I suppose I should define Mead for Brainpan Leakage readers who don’t happen to know what it is… Mead is basically a wine. In its purest form it is nothing more than Honey, Water, and Yeast. Mix Honey and Water, boil, skim off impurities, cool, add Yeast, allow to ferment. From there things can get a bit interesting with variations on the old standby – these being Pyments (fermented with grape juice as an adjunct), Melomels (Meads containing fruit), and Metheglins (Meads containing spices and/or herbs)…

I have made all varieties of Meads over the years. I have even made Meads fortified with other alcohols, and named after characters in my books. Most notably, Miranda Mead.

Emblazoned upon the risque label, Miranda Mead carried with it a tagline which read: Guaranteed to hurt you…  Bad… (Yes, I know, It should be badLY. It’s a label, gimme a break…)

Beneath this was an explanation which went on to outline exactly why those of us involved in the bottling of this particular Mead thought such (which is, of course, why it was named after Miranda in the first place, what with the character being a homicidal dominatrix and all…)

Of course, those eagle eyed among you probably noticed the words “Felicity O’Brien Sweet Dessert Mead.” Well, yes, that was the base for the Miranda Mead, what with their intimate connection and all. We won’t go into that here since some of you blog readers may not have read that far in the series just yet. So, the long and short of it is, yes, I created a recipe for a special Sweet Mead which was named after Felicity. Its label even contained the O’Brien Coat of Arms.

At this point I should add an important disclaimer so that I don’t end up getting a mess of email about this – None of this Mead is for sale or commercially available. It is home brewed for personal use, so please DO NOT even ask. It ain’t gonna happen. Hell, my brother-in-law is an ATF agent, so breaking that particular set of laws would be a doubly stupid move on my part now wouldn’t it?

So… Now that you are armed with the above information, I have a confession to make… No, not the thing with the lingerie… What I need to admit here is that I really cannot stand Mead. Seriously. It just isn’t my thing. There are a few meads I have had that are drinkable – Miranda Mead being one of them, Moniak another, and a Hot Ginger Mead made by a friend of mine the third. But if given the choice I’d reach for a beer instead. This is not to say that there is anything wrong with mead. It’s just not my thing.

So, I am sure you are wondering why I would bother to brew something I don’t particularly like. Well, that’s simple. I make it so that I have it on hand for my friends because several of them really do like it.

A lot.

In fact, I have one friend in particular who will crawl naked across shards of broken glass, layered on top of hot coals in an unmapped mine field while being chased by starving Basset Hounds just so he can kiss E Kay’s arse to get some… (Some Mead, that is… Not some… Well… You know…)

Yeah… You heard me. He sucks up to E K who wouldn’t even know where to start in the process of making Mead. Remember the Tuna Helper incident? She may be the Queen Bitch of the Whole F*cking Universe, but she knows better than to mess around in the kitchen. She has a lackey for that sort of thing, namely moi.

Still, that simple fact doesn’t stop Mike… Just the other day we were having a BBQ and there he sat on our back deck nursing what dregs were left of a bottle of Felicity O’Brien Mead. Just for the record, he has almost single handedly wiped out the entire batch, which means it is time for me to make more. Not that I mind in the least. I’m ecstatic that he likes it so much… But I digress… (So what’s new about that?)

You see, he had no more finished the last swig from the bottle than he looked up at E K and said, “I really can’t believe that you are XX years old.”

“What?” E K asked, blue fire kindling in her eyes at the very idea that someone might be implying she is a liar.

“You don’t look a day over 40,” Mike returned.

“Dude, you’re in trouble now. She’s only 27,” I told him. Unfortunately, my bid to trip him up fell on deaf ears.

“42, tops,” he continued, totally unfazed.

E K, not sure what to make of this, went inside and stood in front of the liquor cabinet angrily tapping her foot until someone had the presence of mind to crawl into the kitchen, mix a drink, and present it to her with much ceremony and the appropriate level of deference to her status as Eebil Queen. Satisfied for the moment, she returned to the deck with her Vodka-Tonic in hand.

“37,” Mike announced before she’d even stopped moving. “You’re just gorgeous. You don’t look a day over 37.”

“Dude… A minute ago you said 42,” Johnathan jibed.

“Yeah, right,” E K replied, then took a sip of her drink.

You could hear the amusement in her voice, but at the same time you could see in her eyes that she was basking in the glow of his effusive Redhead worship. Still, those of us who know E K well were perfectly aware of the fact that she was trying to figure out what was handy that she could beat him with in case he slipped up and said the wrong thing.

I wandered down the stairs to the grill and flipped the Bratwursts, then closed the lid and made my way back up to the picnic table. It had been quiet for a few minutes now, but I had no more planted my rear on a seat than Mike looked up at E K and began to gesture.

“Look at her,” he announced. “I’m telling you this woman is absolutely gorgeous. She doesn’t look a day over 35.”

“Did anyone else notice that the number keeps going down?” Johnathan asked.

“Johnathan,” E K replied coolly. “Do you really want me to knock you down and stomp on you?”

“No ma’am,” he replied.

“I didn’t think so,” she observed, then turned her attention back to Mike. “You were saying?”

Mike became even more animated than his normal cartoonish self. “I was saying you’re just gorgeous. You don’t look a day over 32… No… Make that 30. Not a day over 30…”

Now, remember where we left off folks – 30… This will be important later in the story…

It was at this particular moment that I spied the empty bottle of Felicity Mead and realized what he was doing. As it happens, his wife, Anastasia, was on the same wavelength with me – what with us both being a little brainpan bent and all – and she spoke up before I had a chance.

“Mike,” she told him. “You’re sucking up to the wrong person. Kat didn’t make the Mead, Murv did.”

“I’m not after more Mead,” he objected.

“Yeah, right,” Anastasia replied. “Sure you aren’t.”

“Really,” he persisted.

E K took another sip of her drink and like the ice-cold, redheaded assassin woman she is, went in for the kill. You could see the giddiness in her eyes as she told him, “It’s all gone, Mike.”

“It’s all gone?” He asked.

She nodded then grinned her evil grin. “Yes. All gone.”

“Yeah, dude,” I added. “She doesn’t have anymore. You drank it all.”

He was quiet for a minute then countered with, “Well, that’s okay. I wasn’t trying to get more Mead anyway. I’m serious, just look at her. She really and truly doesn’t look a day over 40…”

To this day, Mike swears he wasn’t sucking up in order to get more Mead, but I’m a little suspect of that, given how the years seemed to melt away from the Evil One without the help of Botox or even Oil of Olay.

Not that she needs any years to melt away, trust me. And I’m definitely not just saying that so she won’t stomp on my head. It doesn’t matter, because she’ll find a reason to stomp on me anyway.

The thing is Mike was so close to the prize it was scary – There was actually another bottle of Mead in the house and if he’d ratcheted her age down to 25 or so she just might have given it to him.

More to come…

Murv

Part 2 of 2 Continued from: Heellllpp Meeee…

When we left off with that cliffhanger at the end of part 1 – BTW, don’t you just hate it when I do that? Well, don’t expect it to change anytime soon. (Bwuahahahaha!)

So, anyway, when we left off I had just skulked into the kitchen to investigate a commotion only to find the Evil Redhead decked out in her “torturin’ togs” and talking to a Popsicle stick. If none of that makes sense, go back and read part 1. If it still doesn’t make sense, join the club. I was having trouble wrapping my head around it too…

Now… Something else I need to fill you in on… During the latter part of June and early portion of July we had this absolutely INSANE problem with flies. They were everywhere. Inside, outside, around the side, in the back, out front, above, below… We just couldn’t figure it out. I mean, we keep the litter boxes clean, we take out the trash regularly, double bag stuff that might be conducive to fly breeding, etc, ad nauseum. There was no rhyme or reason for it. Still, they were everywhere…

And so, on with the story…

I drew up next to the imitation-leather-clad redhead who was holding a Popsicle stick, and peered carefully over her shoulder. After all, she seemed to be talking to an inanimate object and I didn’t want to startle her or anything. However, as I mentioned before, the stick wasn’t quite as empty as I had first thought. In point of fact, it had a sopping wet blowfly attached to the end with whatever fixative redheaded bug dominatrixes use for restraining their subs. However, this particular blowfly didn’t seem to be enjoying its encounter in the least… its hairy little legs were kicking and its wings were flexing as it tried in vain to escape the clutches of my evil wife.

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” E K demanded, her attention focused on the struggling insect. “Where are all of you little bastards coming from?”

The fly buzzed something unintelligible, to me at least, as it attempted to work itself free to no avail.

“The name, rank, and serial number bit isn’t going to fly,” E K mused aloud, then giggled an evil giggle at her own pun. “Remember, you did this to yourself…”

With that, she turned on the faucet and held the end of the Popsicle stick into the center of the stream of flowing water. After slowly counting to five she twisted the handle and the water stopped running. The fly sputtered and kicked.

“Ready to talk now, Dick?” E K demanded. “Where is your base of operations? How many of you are there? What are your attack plans? Answer me, dammit!”

I cleared my throat and asked, “Ummm, honey… Uh… What are you doing?”

“Enhanced Interrogation,” she replied without breaking attention from the task at hand.

“You’re waterboarding flies?” I said. “What? Did you call Dick Cheney for pest extermination advice or something?”

“Hmmph!” she returned. “I called Dick Cheney all right, but not for advice. I told him to shut the hell up.”

“You’ve been spending too much time on Facebook*.”

“You set up my page for me as I recall.”

“Yeah… okay… You’ve got me there.”

“I’ve always got you.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“You really don’t have to remind me about that.”

“Obviously I do.”

“Yeah… Okay… So back to what you’re doing here… I take it your dislike of the former VP has something to do with why you are calling that fly Dick, and it’s not just some crass reference to male anatomy?”

“Oh my, aren’t we quick today,” she replied, sarcasm dripping from her words.

“I try.”

“Well it’s pretty obvious, don’t you think? Flies are almost as annoying as Dick Cheney. Not quite, but almost. So it just stands to reason.”

“Yeah… I suppose I can see your point there.”

“Even so, under the circumstances I think both meanings apply.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling you might say that.”

“Talk you little bastard!” she demanded of the waterlogged fly, returning her focus to the interrogation while shaking the Popsicle stick like she was resetting the level on an old mercury thermometer.

I watched her yelling threats at the insect for a moment then spoke up again. “So, this seems a bit complicated and involved. I mean, if this is about torturing flies, why don’t you just pull their wings off or something? You know, simple stuff like regular sociopaths do…”

“Because I’m not regular. I’m high octane.”

“Uh… Yeah.”

“Besides, I tried that,” she quipped. “They die too quickly and I don’t get any information out of them.”

“I see…” I nodded and took a few precautionary steps back from her. “So… Just out of curiosity… Mind if I ask why you are so intent on ruthlessly interrogating winged insects all of a sudden?”

“Because they’ve flown over the line. One of them attacked our daughter last night.”

“Attacked?”

“Yes. It kept dive bombing her.”

“Ahhhh,” I said with a nod yet again. “That would explain why I heard you screaming, “Get away from her, you bitch!‘”

“Hey, it’s one of my favorite lines from Aliens, and you know it,” she replied. “Besides, it fit the situation and I was channeling my inner Ellen Ripley. If I’d had a flamethrower the damn thing would have been toast, trust me.”

“I’m sure the folks at 20th Century Fox appreciate your loyalty to the franchise.”

She turned on the water and shoved the fly into the stream again while saying, “Don’t be sarcastic with me lackey or you’ll be next.”

“I hate to disappoint you but I’m not really afraid of a Popsicle stick.”

“You would be if you knew what I was going to do to you with it,” she countered. “But, that doesn’t matter anyway because I also have an 8 foot 2 by 12, an economy size tube of epoxy, and a garden hose.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah… I thought that might change your tune.”

“Okay, so what about the flies? I mean, is this whole interrogation thing actually working?”

“Of course it is.”

“So, you know where they are all hiding out?”

“Absolutely.”

I pointed to the Popsicle stick in her hand. “Okay… So… Umm… May I ask why you’re still waterboarding that one?”

“Because it amuses me.”

“Ahhh… I guess I should have already known that, huh?”

“Yes, you should have, lackey” she replied. “Just for that, drop and give me twenty.”

I conceded. “Yes, your evilness.”

However, before I could drop and give her twenty of whatever it is she wanted – she hadn’t told me what just yet – she whipped around and said, “No. Wait.” Then she handed me the dripping Popsicle stick, and added, “Here. Hold this.”

No sooner had I taken the fly adorned strip of wood from her than she quickly stalked out of the room without another word, and left the twenty still unnamed.

“Excuse me… ummm… your evilness,” I called after her. “Mind if I ask where you’re going?”

She poked her head back through the doorway and replied, “It’s time for operation NO PEST STOMP.”

The next time I saw the redhead she was in the back yard scooping clouds of buzzing Phaenicia Sericata into a butterfly net, then tossing it on the ground and doing a frantic flamenco dance on top of it. (And believe it or not, I didn’t even fabricate that particular part of this tale… She really did… And then to top it off she showed no remorse. In fact, she complained about getting fly guts on her shoes. Given PETA’s reaction to the President swatting a single fly I figure we’ll be hearing from them soon…)

But, in the end I guess I can’t complain too much. The fly problem seems to be under control these days, we’ve officially renamed the kitchen “Katmo”, and then there’s that nifty Sci-Fi movie power loader suit thing we have standing in the driveway.

Of course, something tells me Dick Cheney just isn’t going to shut the hell up no matter how many Facebook groups demand it, and that scares me a little. You see, I have to live under the same roof with E K, and if Dick keeps running off at the mouth and annoying her, she just might end up needing another surrogate to torture since we are now out of flies… What do you want to bet that surrogate will be yours truly?

And you know, I just checked… She still has that giant tube of epoxy…

More to come…

Murv

* Facebook Fan Page: “Telling Dick Cheney To Shut The Hell Up”