BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I’m old enough to remember Young.

Robert Young, that is…

Father Knows Best…

Marcus Welby, MD…

Ring a bell?

Well, I’m sure it does with most of you. If it doesn’t, then just pretend. It doesn’t matter all that much  since I’m going to explain the connection anyway.

You see, in addition to Doc Welby and the like, Robert Young also did the Sanka™ commercials. Decaffeinated Coffee – Oh boy…

Now, as an aside here, I have to say that Decaffeinated coffee is an extremely vile thing. It’s also an oxymoron of mammoth proportions. It’s akin to de-opiated heroin, or non-toxic rat poison. It just doesn’t make sense… But, you know, digressing and all…

So, the commercials would always start with someone going off the deep end.  Something on the order of the following: Mary would be slicing veggies for the cucumber & watercress finger sandwiches she was going to serve to her bridge club with afternoon coffee – because back then all women stayed home, vacuumed the floor and washed the windows while wearing cotton dresses and high heels, and then had plenty of time for a visit to the beauty salon and do the grocery shopping. Then they would have afternoon bridge club with the other similarly attired moms from the neighborhood. It was a different sort of time…  A time when dress wearing moms sold Tupperware in their living rooms and men wore polyester leisure suits. Anywho… Mary would break a nail, or spill some milk, or slice the cucumber too thick, or something equally as minor, whereupon she would start screaming, run through the house, and stab all of the other Afternoon Bridge Party MILFs to death with the butcher knife she had been using for the sandwiches.

Okay, so maybe not THAT drastic… But, there would generally be some sort of overreaction to a minor issue. And, that reaction was always Robert “Doc Welby” Young’s cue to step forward from the background. In a concerned, trusted, fatherly tone he would say, “Mary… Why so tense?”

I know. Perfect opening for a soft porn flick, eh? Well, except that porn usually has less plot than a Sanka™ commercial…

Moving right along… At this point, Mary would unload on the guy who played a doctor on TV. He would listen, nod, then diagnose “Mary” with caffeine overload and immediately prescribe Sanka™ instead of regular coffee. Of course, as usually happens in the perfect world of commercials, Mary was instantly cured, turning once again into a happy, airheaded, suburban MILF in pink pumps, with perfect hair, a clean house, and a serving tray specially designed to display Sanka™ – cans AND jars – for everyone to see.

It was all very Stepford Wives-ish if you ask me.

Of course, there were other versions… “Joe… Why so tense?”… “Enrico… Why so tense?” …. “Aunt Bee… Why so tense?”… You get the idea. My version was a lot more fun though.

And so, why am I even bringing up Sanka™?

Easy. Because even though E K can’t stand coffee, I told her the other day she needed some.

Sanka™ that is, not regular coffee. E K on two Coca-Colas a day is bad enough. Sure don’t want any more caffeine in the mix.

At any rate, the reason I did so is that we were talking about dinner arrangements we were making with some friends. She mentioned that it had to be on a weekend because one of said friends didn’t like going out on weeknights. The conversation that ensued went something like this –

Me: Good, I don’t either.

EK: Why? It’s not like you have to be anywhere the next day. You work from home. It’s not like you have to go to the Bad Place.

Me: Because weekdays are my quiet time.

EK: How so?

Me: You and the o-spring are gone and I have my house to myself.

EK: So?

Me: Why would I want to go out and deal with people on my quiet days?

EK: So you’re really saying you just don’t like going out.

Me: Have a Sanka™. I’m just kidding.

EK: (SiGh) You’re ALWAYS kidding these days.

Me: Because I’m happy. I don’t have to go to the Bad Place anymore.

The first thing that really struck me is that she didn’t immediately beat me to death for calling it “my house.” I’m sure punishment will ensue at some point.

The second thing that struck me was the truth behind what I’d said. I’ve been relatively happy for a handful of years now, and a good portion of why is the fact that I don’t have to go to the Bad Place anymore.

Allow me to explain…

More to come…

Murv

To Be Continued in:  The Bad Place…

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!