For Catholics and maybe some other Christians, it is the Lenten season, the season of sacrifice. I think it might be some kind of big sin to eat meat at this time of year -- or maybe it's on Fridays during this time of year that eating meat is a sin. I'm not up on the latest list of really big sins, other than that killing thing ... and that adultery thing (where women can invoke the "Bobbit Rule" without fear of legal retribution).
Needless to say, there is a lot of fish being eaten this time of year. The staple my mother relied upon was Mrs. Paul's Fish Sticks.
Fish, though, has gotten a bad rap over the years, what with mercury contamination and all. That problem is supposedly under control.
But last year, it was discovered that blue gills in a lake near Dallas were being dosed with Prozac. No worries. The dosage is less than therapeutic.
I've never been into eating fish. I do get swordfish or something like that if I must be polite, but ... I'd rather just say no. Now, I have other reasons I can cite.
Wild male white perch in western Lake Erie and the Detroit River, especially near wastewater treatment plants have been diagnosed as being "gonadal intersex" because of feminization of the testes on account of exposure to estrogens. Like Prozac, waste water treatment doesn't get rid of estrogens that are eliminated by ... ummm, women, particularly those using estrogen-based birth control.
It was reported a couple weeks ago that estrogen in the St. Lawrence River is turning male fish into females. Researchers say that humans who eat a lot of fish from around there could suffer some ... consequences.
Who needs sex change operations? The VFW down the street has a Lake Erie Perch Fry every Friday -- all you can eat.
It seems that there is some concern about the frivolity of cases such as the McDonald's coffee spill case in which a woman spilled a cup of McDonald's coffee back in February, 1992, as she was trying to remove the top with the cup between her knees while a passenger in her grandson's car.
Here's the McDonald's case in a nutshell. First of all, the lady suffered third-degree burns (full thickness burns which required debridement and then skin grafts) on her inner thighs, crotch, and butt, which required her to be hospitalized 8 days.
McDonald's produced corporate records revealing almost 1000 burn claims, some third-degree burns similar to this lady's, between 1982 and 1992, which proved that McDonald's was aware of the extent and nature of the danger. McDonald's actively enforced policy was to keep its coffee at 185 degrees F., plus or minus 5 degrees, to maintain optimum taste, when other establishments serve coffee at much lower temperatures. Coffee at home is generally 135 - 140 degrees.
The quality assurance manager of McDonald's testified that a burn hazard exists when any food is served at above 140 degrees and that coffee at 185 degrees is not fit for human consumption because it would burn the mouth and throat at those temperatures. Liquids at 180 degrees will cause full thickness skin burns in 2 to 7 seconds.
Jurors said that a McDonald's executive who testified didn't help McDonald's in the case when he testified that he knew McDonald's coffee caused third-degree burns at that temperature and that even though people wouldn't think that was possible, McDonald's decided not to warn customers. He also said that McDonald's had no intention of changing the policies about serving coffee because "there were more serious dangers in restaurants."
The jury awarded $200,000 in compensatory damages, reducing that to $160,000 because they felt the lady was 20% at fault, and $2.7 million in punitive damages (two days of coffee profits). The judge reduced the punitve damages to $480,000. The parties settled the case for an undisclosed amount after that.
Before trial, the woman wanted $20,000 to settle the matter. McDonald's declined to settle.
The day after the verdict, McDonald's coffee temperature was reduced to 155 degrees in the pots, nearly eliminating the burn hazard from McDonald's gourmet coffee.
I am writing to the Justice Department and asking the government to approve any sale of AT&T to any company. If Cingular wants to buy the company, that's great. Do it now, and get it over with.
There are a few conditions that must absolutely be part of any approval of the sale. All copies of the tape of that commercial being run by AT&T with the half faces being put together and constantly changing while singing must be destroyed. And the ad agency which produced that commercial that is slowly driving me insane must be put out of business.
And the person at the ad agency who thought up that mind bender was obviously on LSD or 'shrooms and must be put in a locked room ... alone ... with a TV ... with a remote control that doesn't work ... playing that commercial ... in between screenings of the Michael Jackson "Black or White" video ... indefinitely.
I watched with some degree of discomfort and much fascination on one of those 60 Minutes clone shows the story of a 47-year-old man, twice married, who always knew he was a woman and had "sexual reassignment" surgery, which I have a hard time comprehending. I think that Tom Wyatt of the Rockhampton City Council said it better than most when he pointed out that "...when you talk about taking those testes off ..., they not only destroy the testes, they destroy the substructure as well ..."
So, here we have a man who is now a ... well, umm, like ... not a man. He is, living with his her a friend named Sandy, who also was a man and is now like ... umm, not a man anymore. And I don't know like if they are umm, like lesbians real close friends or not because in the show he she didn't say, that was not mentioned by anybody.
As usual, I got no outline for this little blog post, like a friend said I should have ... organized like, I guess.
So, the point is, where does this guy individual fit into the scheme of things if this marriage amendment gets passed by two-thirds vote of both houses of Congress and three-quarters of the states?
The amendment reads:
Marriage in the United States shall consist only of the union of a man and a woman.
Neither this constitution or the constitution of any state, nor state or federal law, shall be construed to require that marital status or the legal incidents thereof be conferred upon unmarried couples or groups.
Can he someone who has had this surgery get married? And to whom?
Please discuss amongst yourselves.
And please stop by Blog Madness 2003 where Jackson, who was up in the early morning hours this morning trying to talk a drug addict through a difficult time of withdrawal, is in the finals of the winners bracket of the Love Region. Vote for his entry, if you think it merits a vote.
I was on my way out to Sandusky to talk to a witness who will testify in an upcoming trial and picked up a potential murder weapon. If you’ve been reading for a couple months, you might remember my diatribe about the concealed-carry law in Ohio. I’d link to it, but I’m too fucking lazy to look it up and who cares anyway.
People are going to be packing heat. I stopped off at a shop along State Route 250 to pick up my new weapon.
Unfortunately, Wanda Kanner has given new meaning to the phrase “carrying a concealed weapon.” I asked that the tattooed, five-o’clock-shadowed, long-haired dude behind the counter to put it in a bag. He shook his head, chuckling under his breath.
Bagel. Jalapeno. Heat, baby. No cream cheese. Split. Lightly toasted.
this is my comment response to a comment left on bill's "kristina" post. take your best shot.
"Of course, this a terrible story and the young mother should have won her case. But, it seems that for every case such as this, there are a dozen stories of frivolous litigants seeking to hamstring American industry and get rich quickly."
i can't tell you how much this comment irritates me. *****, you're an intelligent young man. i don't have statistics here -- i'm sure bill can do a better job than i can statistics-wise, at least better than "the dozen stories of frivolous litigants"/fake statistic bullshit you cite here. but here's my point. how far do you think "frivolous" litigation really goes in the court system? if your or my insurance company settles a "frivolous" claim without availing themselves of the court's system of naturally weeding out "frivolous" lawsuits (summary judgment), SHAME ON THEM for wasting our money! and for ENCOURAGING "frivolous" claims. i’d much prefer that the insurance company fight these “frivolous” claims to the end. and if “the end” means to a trial and possible jury award, i guess if it’s truly “frivolous,” the plaintiff gets nothing -- zip, zero, nada. the cost of going to trial for BOTH sides is immense, and plaintiffs must be completely convinced of the righteousness of their claims. it’s not easy. OF COURSE, some cases will slip through, and juries will make mistakes. oh well. it will INEVITABLY occur when you have a legal system like we do. or is that just one MORE of those constitutionally guaranteed values / foundations that your ilk finds superfluous albeit upon which this great nation was founded (and i happen to believe that THESE values – and i include freedom of speech and separation of church and state in this list -- are what REALLY make this country “great” ). just like when freedom of speech sometimes gives voice to the “crazies,” the legal system also makes mistakes. it doesn’t happen nearly as often as the insurance companies, medical system, and your beloved “american industry” would have you believe. you’re smart enough to be able to look more closely at a case that you’ve deemed “frivolous” where there’s been an award than the 25-word-or-less description you hear on fox news. or are you not? get your head out of your ass, *****. where was / IS your “american industry” on this contaminated formula issue? have they been “hamstrung” in their efforts to test the formula? no they have not. but these companies test ONLY for salmonella – i’m sure the cost / risk analysis has shown that testing for the other, extremely dangerous contaminants WHICH THEY KNOW ABOUT is not cost effective.
poor american industry. poor doctors and hospitals. POOR FUCKING INSURANCE COMPANIES. bullshit.
Last night, I was falling asleep, that part of the sleep process where the sense of hearing is more acute than normal and unconsciousness is imminent. Out of the darkness, I heard a familiar voice cry out, "Why do you need the tax i.d. number?"
As I saw it, I had two options, ignore the question and allow sleep to envelop me or answer the question. I chose the latter course. "I don't need the tax i.d. number," I said, trying to sound like I knew in which direction the conversation was headed.
"What?" Stacey asked.
"You said something about a tax i.d. number," I prompted her.
"You heard that?"
"Yes. Dreaming?"
"Yeah. Pitney-Bowes wants a tax i.d. number. Something about the Patriot Act requiring it for postage meters."
"Oh. Interesting dream. Did you give it to them?"
"I have to call when I get to work."
Nothing like bringing work home. I think it should go on the time sheet.
we like to get down to the west side market about once a month. the present building (built in 1912) sits on the same site of an open air market that's operated for about 200 years. it’s a really cool place. the produce is fresh and cheap. there are numerous butcher stands, ethnic food stands (mexican, asian, middle eastern, etc.). there’s fresh pasta, pierogis, bakery (ohmygod – the bakery stands!), cheese, spices, coffee. it is one of my favorite places in cleveland.
we’re usually looking for some fresh fruit and vegetables, some meat (jackson always asks us to pick him up some beef jerky, bill’s always looking for some andouille or a small tazo ham – he got a tiny ham this weekend), some home-made pasta, pierogis, and empanadas or enchiladas for my lunches. we like to leave with a great latte from the coffee stand and a breakfast sandwich from one of the middle-eastern stands (egg and cheese on a toasted pita).
but the best thing about the market is the people. the vendors are chinese, italian, hungarian, lebanese, polish, mexican. and more. the stands are family owned and operated, most having been in their families for generations. the customers are also of many ethnic backgrounds, all kinds of people, lots of yuppies included (don’t you friggin’ DARE call us yuppies!). it’s loud, crowded, and pungent. obviously. the fishmonger’s stall is particularly pungent. if you get to the market early saturday morning, many of the customers are obviously restaurant owners and chefs. they’ve ordered a lot of stuff from their favorite vendors during the week for saturday pickup. but they’re also there looking for ideas. checking out the produce, rewriting their “specials” for the weekend.
this saturday i think i had the most fun i’ve ever had at the market. we didn’t get yelled at by one vendor (not uncommon. don’t dawdle here – there are too many people to service), found everything – and way more – than we were planning to purchase. and at my pasta counter where i purchased my usual fresh fettucini, i ordered a pound of gnocchi to try. i’ve made gnocchi from scratch before (this is a story for another post. suffice it to say that i will never try this at home again). if we want gnocchi, we go to stino’s (stino da napoli is our favorite restaurant). i asked for my pound of plain potato gnocchi. to my left was a young man (i’d say late 20’s) all in leather, face piercings, and tattoos EVERYWHERE. on his ears. everywhere i could see. except for his face. he and his girlfriend were waiting their turn. he said to me “i’m gonna have to break up with this girl here – she won’t eat gnocchi.” we (the three of us) had quite the conversation about gnocchi, stino’s, cheesecake. i loved it. i hope we run into them at stino’s sometime – it’s their favorite restaurant, too.
this kind of stuff cracks me up, really tickles me. you guys who know me from this site KNOW me. what i look like is quite different. i’m a short, gimpy, blond, heavy, very mom-looking ALMOST 50-year old lady. people have described me as cute, lady-like (actually i think the word used was “regal.” snort.) i think i’m probably scrubbed, rosy apple cheeked, with a touch of interesting. i hope so. people are always freaked out when they hear me drop the f-bomb the first time. cracks me up.
but kids look like they want to take a bite out of my thigh sometimes. cuz i’m soooooooo mom-looking. don’t you dare say grandma-like. don’t you DARE. i will fucking cut you. i will.
wow. that really got off the track, huh? sorry. i ramble sometimes. anyway – it was a goooood day. go there if you get to cleveland. go there if you live in cleveland and haven’t been yet. i don’t know why you haven’t been, but do it now. maybe we’ll run into each other. you know what i look like now, right?
I’m a lawyer, and I’m proud of that. There are bad apples in every barrel, but I firmly believe that the law is a noble profession. I’m not bragging, but I don’t lose very many; however, this is the story of a case I did lose.
In 1987, a young mother came to me. Her infant child, nine months old, had suffered a devastating illness, one that strikes fear into the heart of every parent, bacterial meningitis, less than a week after her little daughter, Kristina, arrived at their happy home.
She described her frantic phone calls to her pediatrician’s office, describing the classic symptoms of fever, screeching cries when touched, and a refusal to drink her formula, which I thought should require a quick look-see at the pediatrician’s office; but the pediatrician’s office put her off, telling her to give her distressed infant Tylenol, try to get her to drink Pedialyte, and try not to stop handling her so much, advice this mother and her equally young and inexperienced husband, who had come home from his job as a laborer, tried to follow. Finally, worried that their daughter was becoming more and more ill and after a sleepless night, they took their first-born to the local emergency room the following morning. MRIs of her infant daughter’s head were shocking – most of the area inside her tiny skull was dark with cobwebs, and very few, of light-colored brain matter.
Nine years later, I got a call at my office from the child’s mother. She called to let me know that her daughter had passed away. Kristina died in her sleep at home, never having learned to walk, speak, eat, or do any of the normal things in life, and having given her mother much joy and happiness, but also much grief and frustration. This child had been loved.
Kristina’s parents were always grateful and supportive of me, which I felt that maybe I didn’t deserve, for I had failed to convince a jury that their devastation could have been avoided by a simple instruction to get the child to the E.R.
In the course of preparing this case for trial, in immersing myself in the science and medicine I needed to know and understand to converse fluently with experts in pediatrics, infectious diseases, neurology, physical and vocational rehabilitation, and economics, I learned that the bacteria that attacked Kristina was relatively unknown at that time and called Enterobacter sakazakii. I ran across a medical journal article in my research which described testing done on powdered baby formula and reported that a significant amount of the powdered infant formula on the market was contaminated with different forms of bacteria, which, in infants, could cause bacterial infection and, if left untreated, meningitis. I would have liked to have tested the formula that Kristina was fed both in the hospital and at home, but none was available at that late date, and, hence, no evidence that the baby formula was the cause.
I lost at trial against the pediatricians, but had spent much time researching the subject. I spoke to pre-school groups, pediatricians, and the parenting network (no blogs back in the day). A very well-respected pediatrician in the area took to heart the body of evidence I had accumulated about contaminated powdered formula and he recommended that powdered formula not be fed to babies under a year old and instituted that regimen in the hospitals with which he was affiliated. I think a lot of parents listened, but I will always regret not having been able to reach more parents of infants with this advice.
Over the past 15 years, some guidelines have been established; however, there is no requirement that powdered infant formula be sterile when produced, manufacturers claiming that it is impossible to accomplish. Tests for the bacteria that dissolved Kristina’s brain and the possibility of a somewhat normal life are not done. Most parents still remain uninformed about the dangers associated with powdered infant formula, especially so in third world countries, and particularly those in Africa, where HIV-positive mothers are instructed not to breast feed their children and instructed to use powdered formula as one substitute for breast milk.
This week, the World Health Organization and the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations issued a joint report of a meeting of experts concerning E. sakazakii and other bacteria found in powdered baby formula. My first reaction was gratitude that, finally, “officials” were taking this threat seriously. My second reaction, and this is the one I seem to be left with, was anger.
What the hell took you “experts” so long? How many babies have died, been irreparably damaged, or have suffered unknowable pain and distress in the many long years since this danger has been known? How many more children and their parents will suffer consequences before guarantees of sterility of the product can be made?
The makers of powdered baby formula have certainly known about this significant health risk for longer than I have known about it. Have these multi-national corporations voluntarily revised their manufacturing processes to allow for sterilization of powdered formula in the last 15 years? Will they do so? The answer is plain and simple: NO.
Why won’t the bastions of infant nutrition take the steps necessary? Because the “experts” recommend that caregivers of high-risk infants “should be regularly alerted that powdered infant formula is not a sterile product.” The “experts” recommend that caregivers use sterile liquid formula. The “experts” recommend that caregivers use boiling water to mix powdered formula (which has been found to be ineffective in destroying E. sakazakii in other studies, by the way).
The makers of powdered formula will listen to the “experts.” They will lay the blame on the caregivers, the young and inexperienced mothers, like Kristina’s mother.
And they will only be forced to be responsible by a lawyer, a lawyer who will lay the blame upon those who are responsible for destroying young lives and young families. Next time someone talks about tort reform, about limiting the amount of money that can be awarded by juries composed of individuals, who but for the grace of god might be in the same position, I suggest that you take a long, hard look at who benefits from tort reform, who benefits from limiting the amount of money that must be paid out, who benefits from eliminating or restricting awards of punitive damages designed to punish the wrongdoer for intentional or egregious disregard for the safety of people and designed to make the wrongdoer an example for others to change.
Who benefits?
I peruse the Toronto Star, which must not be confused with "Star," the weekly tabloid, which I take a look at in the check-out line at the grocery store if the self-scan robot check-out isn't open, and found an article that has three recipes to help make it through "this bleak month."
This bleak month -- February. I hadn't thought of that adjective. Not one person I know is enamored with the month of February. Go ahead -- do your own poll. "What's your favorite month?" Results: February -- 0%.
It's a fucked-up month. The weather sucks. Even in South Africa, it's windier than Chicago and hotter than hell. Around these parts, there are piles of gray-black ice all over, making for an extremely ugly landscape. The trees are bare. There are no flowers. It's cold. It's cloudy. If it's sunny, it's frigid. All the school snow days have been used up. And a lot of people don't know how to pronounce it.
Here's the deal.
We eliminate February and make all months 33 days long. Instead of the month of February, we will have a two-day holiday, celebrated immediately after January 33rd. In the U.S.A., the holiday will consist of Ground Hog Day and, as a concession to retailers and candy-makers (the maker of Peeps included), Valentine's Day. And in presidential election years, which are also leap years, President's Day will make it a three-day holiday. In other countries, name the days what you will.
There you have it -- the end of February. If you don't like the idea, you can bi
| Marriage is love. | |||||
that being said, i have some questions / comments:
1) how does two men or two women pledging their love and life together legally take anything away from me and my marriage anymore than britney (sp? if it's not correct, too damned bad), liza, the many "you wanna marry a millionaire," "joe millionaire," "bachelorette" contestants, etcetera, etcetera, blah, blah, blah? these people / concepts are so repugnant to what marriage means to most (god, i hope it's most) people -- straight or gay.
2) if an employer desires to grant gay spouses / partners the same benefits as straight spouses / partners, why does the republican / right-wing / fundamentalist government all of a sudden think it's their duty to interfere and legislate? seems to me, republicans have had their heads up their asses more often than not when it comes to telling business what to do.
3) it seems to me that this repressive position is another attempt to define marriage according to the bible. get over it, people, we are NOT a christian nation (i'm not talking numbers), we're constitutionally non-religious. be HAPPY about that. that -- and the fact that this issue is not about the wishes of the majority -- is what protects your right to worship as you desire. embrace that. be proud of that. and open your heart and mind to those whose views and beliefs are anathema to yours.
Voting in the fourth round of Blog Madness 2003 is going on. Jackson's entry, Scenes From the Other Side of the Tracks, #12 in the "Love Region," is up against an entry entitled "The Race War That Wasn't".
If you think the J-dogg is deserving, please throw him your vote.
Also, our friend over at No Shoes or Socks Required has an entry in the "Sports Region." And TW is climbing out of the elimination bracket with her entry, "And For This Evening ...." Check them out and vote.
Beef Bourguignon has been on Stacey's mind for the past couple weeks with the intent to make the dish. And all of you are thinking, "What the hell is happening? Is this becoming a cooking blog or what?" I don't think so, but evolution things change over time and you don't even realize it.
So, I was sent out to buy the wine required, burgundy, which may have something to do with the name of the dish, but I don't know French. And I don't know wines. I have partaken two partial glasses of wine in my entire lifetime, and both were yellowish in color. I apologize to wine lovers everywhere because I found the stuff unpalatable. This isn't to say that I haven't purchased wine as a gift, having asked those in the know what would be a nice take-along to a party or gift on some alcohol-appropriate occasion; but I didn't feel the need to consult friends about getting a burgundy required by a recipe.
The local grocery store, Giant Eagle, expanded when the town expanded; and when the obscenely humongous seven-figure homes started going in, the home office apparently ordered that the wine section expand to include some kind of private wine cellar in addition to the 14 rows of shelving holding every conceivable make and model of wine from all over the world. It would take years to go through the assortment. Gone are the days of Ernest & Julio Gallo and two local wineries supplying all the wine needs of the citizens of this town, which was located in the country among fields covered with grape vines.
I figured, though, that this was an easy mission to accomplish, kind of like what Bush thought about Iraq. Heck, I didn't even have to wade into the aisles of wine bottles. There was a rack right at the end of the first aisle, from where I would grab a bottle and head to the check-out, which had a bunch of bottles with labels that said "Fat bastard" on them. "Fat bastard" didn't make a burgundy wine, I guess; so, I waded in. After about a minute or so, I didn't even care about price. I was looking for the magic word -- BURGUNDY.
Nobody makes "BURGUNDY." I saw some "red table wine" and "merlot," plain red wines, blushing wines, "concord" and "cabernet sauvignon," which has the "ignon" ending, but not knowing French, I wasn't going to take a risk. There were wine words I had never heard of and languages I didn't recognize. One of the labels was written in Klingon. Who knew that a five-minute jaunt would turn into a full-blown field trip for which I would need a permission slip.
Then I found it. The Holy Grail. The label I.D'ed the stuff as "Burgundy." That's all I cared about at that point. The bottle, though, wasn't a real wine bottle, however, the classic narrow cylinder with a long, elegant neck. No, it was a moonshine jug that Granny Clampett in the "Beverly Hillbillies" carries from time to time. Whatever. I didn't care. It was burgundy with a big "B." Thank you, Carlo Rossi.
"Sandwich" is a dirty word now that everyone and their brother is on the Atkins Diet, but it has always been a food item that has been anathema to the J-Dogg's eating philosophy. He has never had a burger on a bun or a ham-and-cheese on rye. He has always eaten hot dogs with a fork; in fact, that's how we found out that he was left-handed when he was a year old. He did not eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or grilled cheese sandwiches.
Now that he has his draft card and has registered to vote, Stacey and I figured it was time to entertain ourselves. We devised the sandwich plan.
It started with cocktail weiners, those little inch or inch-and-a-half long hot dogs that Hebrew National puts out. We got a pop-open tube of breadstick dough and wrapped each little frankfurter in half a breadstick. We baked at 375 F. until golden brown. We served them with chili. He ate the cocktail weinies in the little buns.
Next, we decided to move on to hamburgers. Patty melts. We bought cocktail rye, those little square pieces of bread. You can get twelve little burgers out of a pound of ground round. Stacey sauteed onions and chopped them up and mixed the onions with the ground beef. Grill the little burgers until done -- it doesn't take long.
While Stacey is grilling the burgers, I, and I open myself up for criticism here, cut the cheese. It must fit on the little pieces of bread. It is my custom to throw the pieces that are left over after cutting the American cheese to the dogs. Sheba catches them no matter where I toss them. Scout, new at the game, allows the cheese to smack her in the head. Then I butter 24 of the little slices of cocktail rye.
Once the burgers are done and the other ingredients are ready, we assemble the patty melts on the grill -- bread butter side down, cheese, burger, cheese, and bread butter side up. Flip the sandwich over when browned on one side, which is easier said than done. They're done when the other side is browned.
We served these with chips. The J-Dogg ate them.
Next on the menu -- tiny fried bologna-and-cheese sandwiches. Thereafter, we will begin to increase the size of the hot dogs, burgers, and sandwiches. He'll never know what hit him.
pizza, n. -- A baked pie of Italian origin consisting of a shallow breadlike crust covered with seasoned tomato sauce, cheese, and often other toppings, such as sausage or olives. -- Dictionary.com
I understand the concept of "white" pizza. And I'll grant dispensation to those allergic to tomato sauce who might get a pizza without sauce.
Donato's Pizza, which started in Columbus, Ohio, and was taken over by McDonald's, and was recently sold back to the original owner, advertises its low-carb Atkins pizza.
The fucking pizza has no crust.
That's not pizza. That's a plate of food all mixed together (and food separation on a plate is of utmost importance to me), not a pizza. I don't understand! Has the whole world gone mad?
our blog was described (i’m not going to link to this dumbass little girl) as a kind of diary of our little “normal” lives. i’m not sure our local pta would be happy with the labeling of OUR family as normal. i don’t know why this kind of thing rankles me soooo much, but it does. i take it (i admit to a certain amount of defensiveness) as a slam. that we’re -- in her view -- provincial. boring. unimaginative.
so at the risk of being labeled “normal” again, here goes:
one of the most satisfying cooking jobs is sauteing onions. i heard some “yesssss’s!” and also some “wha’s?” there. let me explain – as if you could stop me.
caramelizing onions. it means slowly sauteing onions to the point where they release their natural sugars and take on a nice tan color.
i like to finely chop my onions with a mandoline while heating up the saute pan. a little bit of oil and a liberal amount of butter, and then the onions go into the pan. the butter sizzles a little – not too much if you’ve heated the pan just right – and spreads out into the oil with a satisfying little bit of bubbling. the onions go into the pan. more sizzling. a little bit of kosher salt and pepper. now the fun begins.
the first transformation of the onions is from opaque to “clear.” this happens within a couple of minutes. i love the feel and the sound of my wooden spoon in the pan. if you don’t love this, too, then you probably DON’T love cooking. my theory is that if you love cooking, it’s not just the results you enjoy. it’s the senses that are tickled with each adventure in the kitchen. not just smell and taste. cooking is a very tactile experience. [one of the big things that i lost when m.s. came into my life is my “knife skills.” i was pretty good. i miss that. that’s why i can’t live without the mandoline.] and aural. the onions sizzle and pop. not too much popping, or your heat is too high.
if you’re patient, the big payoff’s coming. the caramelization. when i watch tv chefs, i’m always amazed at how many of them in the hurry to get the dish finished cheat on this step. 9 times out of ten, they don’t do this right. they just brown the onions. caramelization happens much more slowly than “browning.” when you do it right, the onions are thorough cooked, completely limp and at your mercy in the pan. keep cooking (steady. steady.), and they give up. the onions start to LIGHTLY brown, giving up.
you’ve won. you’ve tasted caramelized onions. the best cooks of caramelized onions are cooks who run a grill. they’ve got the space and time to keep a pile of “grilled” onions going, cooking them to perfection to grace your burger, hot dog, meatloaf.
i’m sorry (NOT) if i’ve bored you silly with my tale of the completely mundane and trite caramelized onion. look at it as a metaphor for my “normal” life if it makes you feel better.
Showers. Not April showers, but the cleansing kind, the relaxing kind, the invigorating kind, whichever is your desire.
We have lived in the same home for almost 18 years now. We've had this nice walk-in shower enclosure, big enough for two with molded seats on each side, for the whole time we've lived here, with sliding glass doors in a metal frame. You've see them. You may have one. I have been in and out of that shower at least once a day for all those years, many times twice a day, sometimes more.
Pavlov was wrong about that conditioning theory. Well, maybe dogs learn, but I never have. I've hit my head on the frame of the sliding glass door so many times I couldn't begin to count. If I could have harvested all the skin that got scraped off the top of my head, I would have kept the burn unit of Cleveland Metro General Hospital well stocked.
This morning was different, though -- not different in that I didn't hit my head. I did hit my head. Not the scraping kind of hit, the thwacking kind of hit. Don't ask me why. I slid open the door, turned and took a step. Usually I duck down a little. If I'm late in ducking, s-s-s-s-c-c-c-r-r-r-ape. But I didn't duck. Don't know why. First time for that. Thwack!
I looked down. Ball bearings -- ball bearings rolled on the shower floor. Six of them. I checked both of the doors. They slid effortlessly. No problem. I figure those weren't marbles that were rolling around loose in my head, but ball bearings. I feel so much better.
And don't forget to vote in Blog Madness 2003. Jackson's entry is number 12.
Blog Madness 2003, in which the competitors chose their best blog entry of 2003 and entered them in the competition, is being conducted. Jackson entered a piece entitled "Scenes From the Other Side of the Tracks," which is entry number 12 in the "Love Region."
He wrote it just after his 18th birthday. As many of you know, Jackal is a recovering drug addict, almost 2 years sober, who has gone through treatment and is now active in Alcoholics Anonymous, sponsoring several teenagers in that program. He has received calls at all hours from people in crisis. He took his pseudo-brother, Mark, in response to one call at 2 in the morning to help a kid in need recently. This is not unusual. He has been invited to speak as a part of treatment programs for teens many times.
I am not too proud to admit that I have learned a lot about compassion, dedication, perseverance, faith, and loyalty from Jackson and have a different view of addiction and recovery.
Read his entry in the contest. I know you will take something from it even if you don't vote for it.
Don't you think that the orange cones should have some special meaning to the guys over there on the side of the road -- like don't go past the cones into the road or you might get hit by a car if the driver isn't alert and know what a dumbass you are.
ok. here’s the deal. most people will completely ignore most of what i’m saying and diminish the message of what i’m saying here by calling me a prude. whatever. your problem – i wanna say it anyway.
i’m not afraid of boobs. i’m not a prude. i don’t sit around shocked at nudity and sex. nudity and sex are cool with me. i’m not appalled and offended at nudity in movies, non-prime-time television, plays, or at home.
i can even recall plenty of “wardrobe malfunctions” where my reaction was a giggle. at the oscars, golden globes, the view, etc. big deal. it happens.
that’s not what this was. this was an ambush by a tactless, tasteless, crass, bush-league idiot. i am disgusted. not offended. it was a goddamned jerry springer stunt. you’re not an “artist” or an entertainer just because you have breasts. or is that all you have to offer?
pop culture (i’m NOT gonna call it MUSIC) is hugely responsible for the frightening slide of common sense, courtesy, and values (ohnoyoudidntsayvalues) in this country. most of these people don’t have two brain cells working at one time.
here’s what spike lee had to say:
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in the wake of the abduction and murder of the 11-year-old girl in florida, i’d like to share something i heard or read a long time ago. it’s something to think about and talk about with your kids.
if someone is trying to abduct you, the best time to resist is NOW. do NOT think that there might be a better time. the odds that the abducter has a weapon are (i’m not sure what the actual odds are, this is all from a shady memory) 1 in 2. the odds that he’ll use it on you if you scream or resist are 1 in 2. the odds that he’ll actually injure you are 1 in 2. the odds that it will be a serious injury are 1 in 2. the odds that you’ll die from the injury are 1 in 8. that means that if you resist immediately, the odds that you’ll die from a weapon being used on you are 1 in 128. so run. scream. fight. because the odds that you’ll be killed, tortured, or raped by this person are 1 in 1.
think about it. talk to your kids about it. god, i hope this isn’t taken as some kind of blaming of this little girl or her family. i just want to share something with you that was kind of an eye opener to me. my heart is broken for this little girl and her family. god bless you.
Don't ever say "sure" when your wife asks you to see what's going on with the mad-cow-disease situation. There is some information that is just not worth knowing.
I am trying to get over the fact that for the last few years (and why go back more than that?), cattle have been fed "mammalian blood."
I am trying to get over the fact that for the last few years, cattle have been fed "plate waste." This is the official term for garbage.
I am trying to get over the fact that for the last few years, cattle have been fed "poultry litter." This is the official term for chicken shit.
The FDA is banning these items as cattle feed.
And all-beef hot dogs will definitely taste different now that brain, skull, eyes, and spinal cord of cattle 30 months or older, and a portion of the small intestine and tonsils from all cattle, regardless of their age or health, cannot be used in human food.
And I better add this tidbit from the FDA while on this subject. All of you who eat Stagg Chili with Beans, the kind with "Hearty Beef with a Kick of Green Chilies,” should be aware that you might come across plastic and other parts of a handheld calculator, which was added to the batch of chili to multiply your enjoyment of the flavor.
To you vegetarians out there: Shut up!
Profanity. What is it?
Hell, I don't know. But the rulers of the Pittsburgh schools apparently have a list. What's on it?
we were tired last night and in bed and asleep very early. shortly after 9, the phone rang. she asked for me. it was a lady who was considering sending her 16 year old to aspen achievement academy. aspen had given her my name as a parent reference.
i rambled not very cohesively for well over a half hour. and i gave her jackson’s web site link. i hope she looked at it. i’ve been thinking about the call all day and thought i might be able to speak more coherently here.
aspen achievement academy is a treatment facility for troubled teens. these troubles range from defiance and oppositional behavior all the way to severe addiction. honestly, i can only speak about what aspen meant to jackson (in MY view) as a drug addict.
the strangest thing about jackson (before aspen and sobriety) is that we had NO problems with defiance, disrespect, and general oppositional behavior. i’m not going to tell you that everything was great with him except for that pesky little drug problem and the $8,000 he pretty much stole from us to feed it.
jackson (as a human, emotional, functional machine) pretty much stopped working properly soon after i was diagnosed with m.s. he was 9. it seemed to me that in a big way he stopped learning, stopped making friends, stopped functioning in his real world. this continued, and the disconnects led to bigger and bigger problems in school, and ultimately, i believe, led him to the comfort of mind-altering substances.
except for the stealing and lying that accompanied the drug using, jackson was respectful and loving. i’m laughing (snorting) at that last sentence, too. if i said be home at 10, he was home at 10. if we said no, he said ok. weird, huh?
so when we finally found out what was going on, and made the decision to send him for treatment, he made a small attempt to be a pain in the ass; but jackson was jackson. he knew he needed help, he knew he wanted to be a better person, he knew it was up to him to use the opportunity. so, bottom line is that we were so far ahead of the game there.
so, for jackson, aspen was great. it gave him 7 weeks to sober up, 7 weeks to learn about himself, 7 weeks to see a glimpse of what he COULD be. aspen didn’t cure jackson. i don’t think aspen can cure anybody. aspen is about showing the kid a small piece of his own power to cure himself.
don’t get me wrong here. the kid cannot do it himself. if he comes home and right back to the life he WAS leading (same friends, same shit), it’s only a matter of time before he’s right back to where he started. i’ve told these parents who call me that it takes 100 percent commitment. every minute of the kid’s day must be supervised. if that means home schooling, and you can do it, you must do it. if you can’t, you have to find a place and person who will do this for you. i don’t know what this means. for us it was home schooling, with bill working out of the house, jackson accompanying him EVERYWHERE. or dropping him off at my office. not easy. but what are your choices, really?
jackson told us he wanted to go back to school, we found a school for him to attend; but two weeks before classes started, he told us that as much as he wanted to be with other kids and live the life of a normal kid, he realized he just couldn’t go to school. that for him it would be like spending 5 days a week in a bar. i’ve repeated this to people who’ve laughed derisively at the thought that a school is like an open bar. fine. ignore what he’s trying to say.
so my advice is this: send him. but be prepared for the real work to start when he comes home. if you don’t have the stomach for THAT, don’t waste your money.
every single kid that jackson kept in touch with went back to same old friends, etc. every single one relapsed.
yes, bill is kind of a picky eater. but not NEARLY what he was when we got married. ok, ok. i know. he was barely out of his teens, still a kid, but still.
when we first married, he would eat two vegetables. two. corn and plain, undressed lettuce. i’m not counting potatoes as a veggie. that’s cheating. so is counting applesauce. which is what he did. i don’t count applesauce as a vegetable. he eats a lot more vegetables now. in fact he tries everything. except mushrooms. that’s not an unusual thing to dislike, so i don’t bug him about that.
but that plain-bare-lettuce thing. what the hell was that? it drove me crazy. so on our honeymoon (if you count one night in lima, ohio, and the rest of the week at our little apartment in ada, ohio, as a honeymoon), he tried bleu cheese dressing on a salad. it was like bringing sight to a blind man!
i also remember the first time i made breaded beef cutlets. i had purchased the thinly sliced beef cutlet meat from the little local ada butcher. i’m talking maybe ½ inch thick – at most. i brought it home and he was like “oh boy! steak!” WHAT??? STEAK??? in MY family, steak was a HUGE 2-3 inch thick hunk of sirloin, marinated in vinegar, olive oil, italian spices, and barely allowed to warm up on the grill. THAT’S steak. so i said, “nooooo, you’ll see.” so i set to pounding, breading, and frying up the cutlets. the man (boy) was soooo upset the entire time i was “destroying his steaks.” and then he tasted them. i’m sure he ate 2 pounds of beef that day.
in the 30 years since then, he’s become quite a cook. he IS cheesecake man. he’s fearless in the kitchen. you’d think, therefore, that our kids would be more evolved than he was when he was young. nope. matt had a brief (unfortunately) fling with mushrooms when he first started dating mel. he actually called me one day to tell me that he tried mushrooms – and actually liked them. he said “you know what they’d be great on, mom? PIZZA! wouldn’t THAT be great?”
I admit it. I am a picky eater; and since getting married, I have expanded my preferences in vegetables to more than corn and plain lettuce. And her introduction of blue cheese to me on our honeymoon is one of the reasons Stacey and I have been married so long. Tonight, we were eating at Panera, which is a chain bake shop and restaurant, and Stacey ordered a bagel with cream cheese, which is, therefore, number one on the list of some things about food I can't explain:
1. Cream Cheese. I love making cheesecakes and eating cheesecake, but spreadable cheese, such as cream cheese or brie or that stuff that comes in little tubs or packages that can be spread on crackers, is not for human consumption, as far as I'm concerned.
2. Hash brown potatoes with ketchup. I eat French fries with ketchup, but even seeing someone putting ketchup on hash browns at breakfast makes me queasy. In fact, as far as I'm concerned, ketchup's sole purpose is a condiment for French fries. I hate ketchup on hot dogs and hamburgers, but can't explain why. Go figure. And if you put ketchup on eggs in my presence, it might be the last thing you do.
3. Peanut butter. It's a texture thing. I eat peanuts and cashew brittle and make great peanut butter cookies. I don't like touching it, either; but I will in an emergency, like if a little kid eats a spoonful and it blocks up his throat, I will stick my finger down his throat and pull the big gob of peanut butter out. I gagged, too, though.
4. Meat. Meat is not stuff that chefs and supermarkets pass off as meat, like liver or brain or other soft muscle of any species or any vegetable matter that is purported to be or taste like or resemble meat.
5. Hot dogs. This is an exception to Number 4, except that they can't be made from turkey or chicken or vegetable matter. Hot dogs are beef or pork and beef, but let's not describe them in more detail than that, but remember the ketchup thing.
6. Vinegar on French fries. I cannot even bring myself to try this abhorrent combination. And thinking about it makes my skin crawl.
7. Sour cream. Think about it. If someone with a wicked imagination and hatred for the human race told you to add a vial of bacteria to cream and eat it when it goes bad, would you do it? Would you pay for it? I was 12. I was in the hospital with a raging infection in my leg, which the doctors wanted to lop off, and which my mother told them to treat with those new-fangled types of penicillin with great success; and the nurse brought me some jello with white stuff dolloped on it. Sour fucking cream! Stacey tells me that it was probably NOT sour cream, but mayonnaise, which brings me to:
8. Mayonnaise Mayonnaise was invented for the ham sandwich, but is also okay in chicken salad and on a Whopper. Not on Jell-o.
9. Hard-boiled eggs This is a smell thing. And a texture thing. And don't try to pass off deviled eggs as anything but hard-boiled eggs. Vile.
I know there are more. Got any food things you can't explain?
The Justice Department, headed by that Attorney General John Ashcroft, indicated that the President would be vetoing a a law known as the SAFE Act, which is the Security and Freedom Ensured Act, sponsored by Senators Larry Craig (R-ID), Richard Durbin (D-IL), John Sununu (R-NH) and Russell Feingold (D-WI). Let's see, that's two Republicans and two Democrats. And both houses of Congress passed the bill. And both houses of Congress are controlled by the Republicans. But our President knows better.
What does the SAFE Act do? It modifies the Patriot Act.
In our system of justice, before the Patriot Act, in order to obtain a search warrant or arrest warrant, a law enforcement officer had to demonsrtate that there was probable or reasonable cause to believe evidence is located in a certain private place or that a person has committed a crime. Reasonable cause must be based on specific facts that can be pointed out, not generalized suspicions or gut feelings. When a search is done or an arrest is made with a warrant, generally, the person had to be given a copy of the warrant or a notice of the contents of the warrant.
The Patriot Act eliminated the probable cause requirement to obtain warrants for wire taps and information from other sources and eliminated the notice requirement if there was some thought that terrorism was an issue.
The SAFE Act restores one of the cornerstones of due process in the American justice system -- reasonable cause.
In obtaining certain personal records, it must be demonstrated that "there are specific and articulable facts giving reason to believe that the person to whom the records pertain is a foreign power or an agent of a foreign power" in order to obtain a warrant to get information.
The Act specifically states that a "library shall not be treated as a wire or electronic communication service provider" under the law.
The law will put a limit on the time that notice of a search warrant can be delayed of seven days with a seven day extension if the "court finds reasonable cause to believe, pursuant to a request by the Attorney General, the Deputy Attorney General, or an Associate Attorney General, that notice of the execution of the warrant will ... endanger the life or physical safety of an individual; ... result in flight from prosecution; or ... result in the destruction of, or tampering with, the evidence sought under the warrant."
The Attorney General will be required to report to Congress every 6 months about the warrants he has obtained, and the report is open to public scrutiny.
Congress decided that the Patriot Act's grant of power was too broad and subject to abuse, curbing the civil liberties of law abiding citizens and groups, casting a pall over certain freedoms, such as those cherished freedoms granted by the First Amendment.
As you know, a bill does not become a law until the President signs it. This is the bill that the President does not want to sign and wants to veto. And why should a President, one who swore to be bound by the Constitution and the laws of the USA, want to approve such a law that merely opens up his actions to scrutiny by the public, lifting the veil of secrecy under which he has heretofore operated?