Thursday, September 25, 2014

Dud Fudge Invention



I have never quite understood the whole concept of fudge since I already know what I’m going to get in a box of waxy chocolate so why mess with converting it into a BIGGER brick of chocolate cut-down to bite-sized pieces? I mean the stuff sells for $15 per pound or more and all it consists of is chocolate with a few added nuts, a train car of sugar, and some thickened yellowed Yak milk. That already sounds like my typical power lunch except I would eat it for breakfast if the only cooking involved was popping a tart in the toaster.

Typically if I am not speeding fast enough toward Diabetes I eat pralines when I need a sugar n’ nut gut injection, but I did not have a Confederate flag or any pecans in the cupboard and the ones in the restrooms won’t do. I did follow a squirrel around though and managed to dig up enough Walnuts so I could try a simple fudge recipe for fun.  Hey how hard can it be to melt up some choco goo and spread it to the corners of a buttered pan and try not to leave any recognizable fingerprints memorialized on top of the surface.

Sadly this vast candy task is apparently above my pay grade since first, everything is above my pay grade and second my fudge was a dusty dud. I know I put a bundled bag of granulated sugar in the beginning but who knew after ‘watts and watts’ of time wet cooking over a hot stove it would return to its original form except flattened and patted in a pan. Oh sure it tastes like chocolate with an occasional walnut thrown in to keep the vermin interested but who eats fudge harvested out of the business back-end of a vacuum bag?

Betty must be selling a crock because apparently when cooking to ‘soft ball’ stage she doesn’t mean literally cooking the caloric vat to regulation softball skin standards. All I know is now I have a gravel pan of marshmallow laced chocolate brown sugar that looks like something the Easter bunny dug out of the garden or that fat pink Valentine cherub kid found behind his ears. Too bad nobody has invented a sugary powder you can add to milk to make it chocolate flavored … Hmmm - I’m going to look into that!


  

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Holiday Color Combo



Though the weather has been turning cooler, the last time I checked it still said September on most calendars except for apparently the ones in ALL stores that sell the things. Can it be that my beady peeps are deceiving MEeps or is Halloweeny’s orange and black getting devil-horned in on by Christmasy red and green.  Like that weird spiced ice cream with pie chunks at Dairy Queen, this odd combo thing must be a seasonal fad because last year I saw the same color palette except it was all growing on my shriveled, month-old, rotting pumpkin.

Since both of us have never liked crunches or sticky situations, I am not sure how candy canes or I am going to handle the seasonal food and confections situation with all this new age celebratory melding. It takes a big brained elf with waxy lips, and popcorn balls in hand to be able to comprehend and consume ‘toasted pumpkin seeds’ and choco Chanukah gelt all in the same month of the year. I already knew that Frosty was keeping warm by dipping in the cider more often than proper but I never guessed that batty Drac had tuned his toothy straws toward the tannenbaum taste of holiday nog.

I’m all for doubling up colorful calendar red lettered days like Black Friday and White sales, as long as you leave my birthday out of it since I already have all the wrinkles and wisdom I can stand. You can also skip two-timing delivering the letters of any color from the greeting card people since at $5 a pop, they have obviously ALREADY doubled down on their prices, lack of creativity, and hackneyed double entendres. At least glossy cards can do double-duty over email in one sense by doubling my toilet paper stash – though they never seem as soft or absorbent as the bevy of monthly mailed bills do.

Since I typically give out cookies that taste like dog treats anyway, my fireplug and I are actually looking forward to the Wolfman visiting on Halloween dressed as a harried Keebler Elf this year. To get in the combo spirit and if the caribou union will allow it, maybe even ol’ St. Nick himself could slip in a few flying monkeys with the reindeer train this December. Of course only as long as everyone is well mannered, fling-free, and adequately diapered - since due to inflation, Santa’s oversized red bag doesn’t hold as much stuff as it used to. 


Thursday, September 11, 2014

Fear of FALLing Pledge



I enjoy all the seasons though a mild and balanced Spring is my favorite with Summer running a close second since I can finally shed my brown flannel-flapped insulated drawers n’ boots in favor of  breezy green jungle undies over ashen glutes. Winter signals a slow hunkering down, more work, and risk of injury but it also brings the fellowship of the holiday season and a new year marker for yet another chance to live life more thoughtfully and try  ‘again’ next time to get it ALL right. But Fall is indeed the wolf in sheep’s clothing since beautiful lush, flowing foliage turns auburn and drawn overnight, wilts, and drops millions of reminders of the work ahead and the loss of once warm temps and long lazy days left behind.

Yes I fear the crispened cool air bearing down and the change of color that so many flock to see and  celebrate because it represents a half year of hideaway hibernation ahead. Though I know it is good for me in many ways, I don’t relish the relentless ‘exercise’ it takes to clean up all of those tree leavings, comings and goings. I can’t ignore the encapsulating blanket of leafy convergence upon the doors, cars, and LIFE so something has to be done with them or my wife, post office guy, and vandals WILL surely notice when they can’t get near the house to do their bidding. 

Oh sure I prepare by stocking up on all of the right tools to help blow, suck, and grind-up whatever I can but in the end, there are more piles of debris than there is pavement to pile it all on. Sometimes I lament my life because it seems so unfair that I have a monopoly on a truly coveted cruddy leaf commodity. Why should others only dream of the wealth that I have amassed - so this year I have a generous plan to make life ‘more fair’ and share my leafy-luxury with the 99% of my community who are less fortunate and haven’t yet FALLen for the benefits of true socialism.

Why should I be so selfish and uncaring to my fellow man when most people aren’t lucky enough to live on the cusp and breathe in the warm and welcoming mildewy-musk, of a giant forested mulch pit? My generous and overly sensitive nature shall no longer know the fear of falling toward the dark side (even under the cover of darkness) and staying self-centered and greedy like in my shady past. From now on I vow to do my best by bulking-up bags of leaves, sticks, and pine needles to gift to each of my neighbors, trick or treatsters, or charity solicitors and help all who must face Fall - longing, leafless, and in genuine need.


Thursday, September 4, 2014

Hot Auction Heaven



For recreation and divine perspiration my wife and I bid and spirit stuff from all types of auctions. It’s not that we need anything in particular but we enjoy perusing through other people’s junk and paying a premium for heaving their leavings. What better way to embrace my life’s short history than being crammed into a small space with an OLD bunch of hunched  sweaty coots rubbing up and competing against me for dusty, rusty, and musty stuff-ty.      
         
Being raised by wolves I guess I am compensating for the fact that I survived a ‘hairy’ repressed childhood where the value of most ‘things’ was gauged on how they tasted or how good they felt to sleep on. My folks never let me beg for leftovers at mealtimes or settle for broken chew toys when growing up in a hut, so now I’m forced to seek out and make up for those lost experiences as an adult. At least my heritage explains my Husky size, the constant panting after a walk to the refrigerator, and my persistent dog breath the dentist so often complains about when scoping out my blow hole.   

I fit in well with the auction scene – where else can a saddle-burr like me give somebody the finger and they simply raise the price rather than beat in my face or cuss me out. Fortunately most of my twitchy TICks come from my watch rather than the forest, but I do have to be mindful to avoid conspicuous emanations, gesticulations and random bump scratching during furious bidding. When the wife risks prosecution for leaving a minor unattended, I do all the major work myself like folding the bid-card into an airplane, so it’s obvious that until she returns I have no one to do my bidding. 

I’m dangerously distractible and easily mesmerized by expensive shiny objects, so most lowly estate auctions are a safe escape since there is little risk of finding anything chrome toned or pit-free except for a few buffed n’ bald heads. Generally at most auction gatherings the only thing more weathered and craggy than the junk they’re hawking is the stuffed seizure-geezers who glue themselves, and defend rabidly, centered front rows of orderly padded seats. When my number’s ultimately up I hope heaven is just like this, except instead of white shrouds and wings, the ‘auction enlightened’ will proudly ‘peacock’ their rough stubble, patinaed pitch forks, patched pants, and dirty denim vests … and oh yeah,  since I’m there it will be LOTS hotter if that’s possible!