Now in its sixth and final week, the Great Kona Kook Off is really heating up (pardon the pun). Local chef Nancy has created some great meals, capitalizing on her years of experience in one of the finest eateries in Kona, and is now honing her presentation skills to a keen edge. Both an entrepeneur and chef, she doesn’t always have the time she would like to perfect her cooking skills, but never fails to impress the judges. Her Chicken Kiev served over mushroom/rice pilaf and sided with Brussels sprouts grilled to golden brown in olive oil and spices was a favorite of all the judges. It didn’t hurt that it was complemented by a lovely spinach and beet salad, sprinkled with bits of feta and tossed in a balsamic vinaigrette dressing.
Newcomer to the Kona scene, Jessica does not have Nancy’s credentials, but has shown great promise and has pulled off some real surprises for a chef of her tender years and limited experience. Bartender by day (or more accurately, by night), she cooks only on the weekends, but continues to surprise the judges. At first considered a long shot to win the competition, she is now considered by some to be the frontrunner. This judge particularly remembers divinely prepared pork medallions in a sultry Béarnaise sauce, with roasted red potatoes, lightly seasoned with rosemary, and to-die-for steamed asparagus tips, complimented with a dollop of hollandaise. The fresh made-apple tort, with vanilla ice cream and chocolate drizzle, made for an excellent finish.
This final week, however, has seen some real excitement. Late in the game, but with the blessing of the other contestants, the judges decided to allow one wildcard entry into the competition. Full-time economist/lecturer and part-time chef Chuck took on the challenge with gusto. With only one chance to make an impression, Chuck pulled out all the stops, went all out, full on, gung ho, balls to the wall; or in other words decided to give it all he had, do his damndest, make the maximum effort, give it his best shot, even make the old college try. The judges were impressed.
The appetizer was broiled scallops with a cherry and nut glaze. Rumor has it, it took hours to pit the fresh cherries. The salad was a delightful mix of greens, cucumbers, tomatoes, and white beans tossed in a Dijon mustard and balsamic dressing. The entrée was lamb chops (too many) smothered in a heavenly sauce, the ingredients of which escape me, and surrounding a mix of brown rice and couscous. The meal was exquisite, as was the desert, a mixed fruit cobbler with oatmeal crust, which I had no room for until much, much later.
Not to be outdone, Chef Jessica came back strong in the final meal of the competition. With a herb cheese, tomato, and basil on toast appetizer, and a sliced daekon, zucchini and summer squash salad with honey Dijon dressing, she was definitely bringing it on. Her entrée of fresh opa (moonfish) served with spinach tossed orzo in a lemon cream sauce, was easily one of the competiton’s signature dishes. The lack of desert was hardly noticed as no one had the room anyway, except for this judge, who made do with a bit of leftover fruit cobbler from Chef Chuck’s earlier offering.
But the big question remains, “Who will win the completion?” The judges are still deliberating and we may not have the results for weeks, but this judge would not be surprised if the contest were declared to be a three-way tie. Not so much because all the meals were wonderful, which they were, and not so much because all the chefs are very talented, which they are; but mainly because this judge would like to continue eating on a regular basis, in the future.
01/09/12
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Donny Wilson
I met Donny Wilson (not his real name) when I was in the second grade. He was a transfer student from a place I don’t remember; and when Mrs. Walters (her real name) introduced him to the class, he didn’t say a word, he just smiled. It was an odd sort of smile, barely perceptible and sort of slanted, with one eye nearly closed. I thought at the time that Donny might be retarded (intellectually challenged in today’s vernacular, but that’s another story), yet somehow not. He was dirty and disheveled and obviously from “the wrong side of the tracks.” Actually, in Essex Junction, Vermont, a town where four major railroad tracks came together, everybody lived on one side of the tracks or other, so I guess half the town lived on “the wrong side.” Any way, Donny had the look of someone who didn’t know very much. Or, just possibly, the look of someone who knew too much.
Mrs. Walters and Donny’s subsequent teachers assumed the former. He was relegated to the back of the classroom, given very little attention, and allowed to do pretty much what he pleased as long as he didn’t disrupt the class. Of course, disrupting the class was pretty much Donny’s entire agenda. Allowed access to the school supplies room (which seemed really odd to me), he was constantly creating some bizarre project or other. I remember one such project which involved copious amounts of mucilage (this was before Elmer’s Glue was invented) and carbon paper. The project culminated with Donny being paraded to the front of the classroom, purple from head to toe, and covered with carbon paper, for a “show and tell” of what should never happen in the classroom. Donnie was then soundly whacked with a ruler several times on the palm of his left hand (the preferred method of discipline at our school, at least by Mrs. Walters), and dispatched to the principal’s office. In truth, Donny spent much of the second, third, and fourth grades sitting in a chair outside that office.
By the fifth grade it was decided by the administration that Donny’s presence in the classroom was not in the best interest of Donny or his classmates. It should be noted that this was many years before concepts like “mainstreaming” or “no child left behind” were ever discussed in the halls of Congress or even in the conference rooms of school boards. Consequently, an alternative educational program was devised for Donny. I’m sure it was promulgated as an “alternative, trade-based curriculum.” What it really was, was Donny spending each and every school day helping out the janitor. Granted, he became fairly accomplished with a mop and floor polisher, and the floors of our school never looked better, but I doubt if anyone really expected Donny to graduate to the ranks of a respected “educational facility custodian.”
Nonetheless, Donny spent the rest of his elementary and secondary school years as a janitor’s assistant. He never attended classes, didn’t participate in any school sports or activities, and didn’t even eat in the cafeteria with the other students: not that it seemed to bother Donny. To my recollection, he seldom if ever got into trouble after signing on with the custodial staff. He seemed to be, at least as far as I could tell, reasonably happy. I remember seeing him on several occasions in the presence of a pleasant, if not pretty, young lady who seemed to adore him. I believe they were eventually married. Interestingly, after completing his “senior year,” Donny graduated with the Essex Junction High School Class of 1964. He wore a cap and gown like everyone else, and received a diploma. I don’t know what the diploma said. I suspect it doesn’t matter.
What does matter, and the point of this story is what I discovered several years later at my 15-year high school reunion. I was told, and later verified, that Danny Wilson had attended college. He had, in fact, received an undergraduate degree in Education and later a master’s degree in Special Education. He was, at that time, the president of a small college in the Midwest. Donny Wilson, “retarded” janitor’s assistant, had become the president of an institution of higher education. Go figure.
01/23/11
Mrs. Walters and Donny’s subsequent teachers assumed the former. He was relegated to the back of the classroom, given very little attention, and allowed to do pretty much what he pleased as long as he didn’t disrupt the class. Of course, disrupting the class was pretty much Donny’s entire agenda. Allowed access to the school supplies room (which seemed really odd to me), he was constantly creating some bizarre project or other. I remember one such project which involved copious amounts of mucilage (this was before Elmer’s Glue was invented) and carbon paper. The project culminated with Donny being paraded to the front of the classroom, purple from head to toe, and covered with carbon paper, for a “show and tell” of what should never happen in the classroom. Donnie was then soundly whacked with a ruler several times on the palm of his left hand (the preferred method of discipline at our school, at least by Mrs. Walters), and dispatched to the principal’s office. In truth, Donny spent much of the second, third, and fourth grades sitting in a chair outside that office.
By the fifth grade it was decided by the administration that Donny’s presence in the classroom was not in the best interest of Donny or his classmates. It should be noted that this was many years before concepts like “mainstreaming” or “no child left behind” were ever discussed in the halls of Congress or even in the conference rooms of school boards. Consequently, an alternative educational program was devised for Donny. I’m sure it was promulgated as an “alternative, trade-based curriculum.” What it really was, was Donny spending each and every school day helping out the janitor. Granted, he became fairly accomplished with a mop and floor polisher, and the floors of our school never looked better, but I doubt if anyone really expected Donny to graduate to the ranks of a respected “educational facility custodian.”
Nonetheless, Donny spent the rest of his elementary and secondary school years as a janitor’s assistant. He never attended classes, didn’t participate in any school sports or activities, and didn’t even eat in the cafeteria with the other students: not that it seemed to bother Donny. To my recollection, he seldom if ever got into trouble after signing on with the custodial staff. He seemed to be, at least as far as I could tell, reasonably happy. I remember seeing him on several occasions in the presence of a pleasant, if not pretty, young lady who seemed to adore him. I believe they were eventually married. Interestingly, after completing his “senior year,” Donny graduated with the Essex Junction High School Class of 1964. He wore a cap and gown like everyone else, and received a diploma. I don’t know what the diploma said. I suspect it doesn’t matter.
What does matter, and the point of this story is what I discovered several years later at my 15-year high school reunion. I was told, and later verified, that Danny Wilson had attended college. He had, in fact, received an undergraduate degree in Education and later a master’s degree in Special Education. He was, at that time, the president of a small college in the Midwest. Donny Wilson, “retarded” janitor’s assistant, had become the president of an institution of higher education. Go figure.
01/23/11
Elementary School
Though it was eons ago, I still, on occasion, think back on my days as an elementary school student. For some reason I fondly remember my very first day in the first grade. My teacher’s name was Miss Cunin. She was old, probably even over 30, but she was beautiful, and it was love at first sight. As far as I was concerned, Miss Cunin was an angel, and school promised to be heaven on earth. Even when, after recess, she accidentally closed my fingers in the schoolyard door, my love affair was undiminished. When she personally escorted me to the nurse’s office, I couldn’t help but cry with joy. When, misinterpreting my sobs, she gave me a tender hug, I nearly peed my pants. I can’t imagine a much better introduction to formal education than I experienced with Miss Cunin. I was learning, I was happy, and my grades were all “Excellent” (this was back in the day when students actually got grades, but that’s another story).
If first grade was heaven, second grade was pure purgatory. Mrs. Walters was really old, probably over 50, not particularly attractive, and weighed in at about 300 pounds (not that there is anything wrong with that). She didn’t like me at all. I probably shouldn’t have taken it personally: she didn’t much like anyone. She had no use for students in general and second grade students in particular. She had a great deal of use for rulers, but not as an instrument for measuring. Unruly students, which seemed to be all students all the time, would regularly receive a firm slap on the palm of the hand to “get their attention.” In her defense, it was always and only the palm of the left hand (considerate, unless you happened to be left-handed), and even though it stung like heck, it never did any permanent damage. I did wonder, though, why a person who so obviously didn’t like children and teaching would become a teacher in the first place. It must have been for the fabulous salaries that teachers received in those days (yeah, right).
I don’t remember much about third and fourth grade except for the day the fourth graders all got school physical exams. For better or worse this was soon after I discovered that girls were far less annoying and far more interesting than I had previously thought. The day began by dividing up the class into a boy’s changing room and a girl’s changing room. Changing, it turned out, meant stripping down to your underwear and wrapping yourself in a towel (unless you forgot to bring a towel, in which case it meant standing around in your underwear). Towels were rare as students lined up outside the nurse’s room door and, interestingly enough, it didn’t seem important any longer to segregate the boys from the girls. I vividly remember having very mixed emotions that day. I was, of course, embarrassed about being practically naked in front of my classmates, especially my girl classmates. Yet, being naturally curious, I was also fascinated by the impromptu lesson in female anatomy. And, I must admit, I was somewhat aroused by the abundance of nearly naked girls which surrounded me. I might even have bumped into one of those girls (specifically, Betty Densmore, an almost-girlfriend a few years later, but that’s another story) a few times as the line moved slowly forward: not nearly slowly enough.
In the fifth grade, I was “teacher’s pet.” My teacher, Mrs. Grannura (we referred to her as Mrs Granola, but never to her face), had worked, years before, with my father at a large chemical company. He recollected that they had competed for the same promotion, which he received, so he was somewhat perplexed as to why she seemed so taken with me. But taken she was, and in her class I could do no wrong. Don’t get me wrong: this was not a good thing. Good grades and preferential treatment in the classroom didn’t begin to make up for the ribbing and bullying I had to endure outside the classroom, not to mention how unpopular a “teacher’s pet” is with the ladies. I had certainly discovered girls by this time, but they were certainly not about to discover me. My teacher may have doted, but the guys pummeled me, and the gals pretended I was invisible. In retrospect, perhaps Dad shouldn’t have been quite so perplexed.
01/20/11
If first grade was heaven, second grade was pure purgatory. Mrs. Walters was really old, probably over 50, not particularly attractive, and weighed in at about 300 pounds (not that there is anything wrong with that). She didn’t like me at all. I probably shouldn’t have taken it personally: she didn’t much like anyone. She had no use for students in general and second grade students in particular. She had a great deal of use for rulers, but not as an instrument for measuring. Unruly students, which seemed to be all students all the time, would regularly receive a firm slap on the palm of the hand to “get their attention.” In her defense, it was always and only the palm of the left hand (considerate, unless you happened to be left-handed), and even though it stung like heck, it never did any permanent damage. I did wonder, though, why a person who so obviously didn’t like children and teaching would become a teacher in the first place. It must have been for the fabulous salaries that teachers received in those days (yeah, right).
I don’t remember much about third and fourth grade except for the day the fourth graders all got school physical exams. For better or worse this was soon after I discovered that girls were far less annoying and far more interesting than I had previously thought. The day began by dividing up the class into a boy’s changing room and a girl’s changing room. Changing, it turned out, meant stripping down to your underwear and wrapping yourself in a towel (unless you forgot to bring a towel, in which case it meant standing around in your underwear). Towels were rare as students lined up outside the nurse’s room door and, interestingly enough, it didn’t seem important any longer to segregate the boys from the girls. I vividly remember having very mixed emotions that day. I was, of course, embarrassed about being practically naked in front of my classmates, especially my girl classmates. Yet, being naturally curious, I was also fascinated by the impromptu lesson in female anatomy. And, I must admit, I was somewhat aroused by the abundance of nearly naked girls which surrounded me. I might even have bumped into one of those girls (specifically, Betty Densmore, an almost-girlfriend a few years later, but that’s another story) a few times as the line moved slowly forward: not nearly slowly enough.
In the fifth grade, I was “teacher’s pet.” My teacher, Mrs. Grannura (we referred to her as Mrs Granola, but never to her face), had worked, years before, with my father at a large chemical company. He recollected that they had competed for the same promotion, which he received, so he was somewhat perplexed as to why she seemed so taken with me. But taken she was, and in her class I could do no wrong. Don’t get me wrong: this was not a good thing. Good grades and preferential treatment in the classroom didn’t begin to make up for the ribbing and bullying I had to endure outside the classroom, not to mention how unpopular a “teacher’s pet” is with the ladies. I had certainly discovered girls by this time, but they were certainly not about to discover me. My teacher may have doted, but the guys pummeled me, and the gals pretended I was invisible. In retrospect, perhaps Dad shouldn’t have been quite so perplexed.
01/20/11
I've Always Been Clever
I’ve always been clever. Never at the top of my class in school, I none-the-less, usually managed to find a place in the “A” room. Less clever lads were relegated to the “B” room. Okay, I was a “B” roomer in eighth grade, but I’m convinced it was because the principal didn’t like me. I suspect it was because my older brother, whom he liked a lot, convinced him I was a screwup. I doubt if it was because of the iodine, potato, and paper towel incident in the boys’ toilet (I’d rather not talk about it).
In any case, clever carried the day more often than not. In high school, where most of my teachers liked me, and the principal didn’t like anybody, I maintained a B+ average. It wasn’t due to a great work ethic or long hours of studying; and in fact, I seldom carried my books home from school. Of course that meant that I was available to carry the books of my less clever but more diligent and very cute neighbor, Betty Densmore (but that’s another story). I was able to get good grades because, even without a lot of effort, I would quickly get the idea. I did well on exams because, given enough time, I could usually figure out the correct answers. It didn’t hurt that multiple-choice exams were very popular in my school, and I had a system (it’s a carefully guarded secret system, but for a small fee…).
In college (more accurately colleges) I got by, almost exclusively on cleverness. I seldom studied, often didn’t even attend classes, and spent way too much time partying. I quickly discovered that college girls were way different from high school girls, or maybe I was just way different, being away from home for the first time. But in any case, at the end of my third semester, I was failing four out of five classes. Very cleverly, I dropped four out of five classes the day before final exams (you could do that back then) and maintained my B+ average for the year. The following year I cleverly got married, and my clever new wife (alas, not Betty Densmore) put an end to the partying.
After getting my degree in architecture, a field requiring a lot of cleverness, I got jobs with and got laid off from several different firms. Thereafter, I cleverly started my own firm, which met with some success. I like to think the success was due, in part, to my ability to solve vexing problems, plentiful when designing and building homes for fickle clients, with clever solutions. Later I branched out from architecture and construction to real estate. I considered it a very clever move to form a partnership with eight successful real estate professionals. I later wondered how clever it really was to form a partnership with eight successful real estate professional women. The partnership lasted several years, perhaps due less to clever and more to clever’s first cousin, cunning.
Retired now from architecture, construction, and real estate, well perhaps not so much retired as re-purposed, my new practice (with the emphasis on practice) is marketing and graphic design. In a field where cleverness is always needed, but seldom requested, and only occasionally rewarded, my cleverness is, likewise, only occasionally rewarded. On one such occasion, a clever design for a bottled water label won second place in an international competition. On other occasions, clever designs for coffee labels have won local competitions. If, these days, those occasions seem fewer and farther between, I remain optimistic.
After all, during my life I was clever enough not to marry Betty Densmore, and clever enough to not lose my children when my first wife, Jill, left me, for a woman. I was clever enough to have good health insurance, but wasn’t, sadly, clever enough to prevent my second wife, Linda, from dying of cancer. And if not clever enough to see the potential disaster of partnering with eight ambitious women in a real estate company, I was clever enough to see the potential of one of them, Nancy, to be my third wife, my soul mate and the true love of my life.
12/20/10
In any case, clever carried the day more often than not. In high school, where most of my teachers liked me, and the principal didn’t like anybody, I maintained a B+ average. It wasn’t due to a great work ethic or long hours of studying; and in fact, I seldom carried my books home from school. Of course that meant that I was available to carry the books of my less clever but more diligent and very cute neighbor, Betty Densmore (but that’s another story). I was able to get good grades because, even without a lot of effort, I would quickly get the idea. I did well on exams because, given enough time, I could usually figure out the correct answers. It didn’t hurt that multiple-choice exams were very popular in my school, and I had a system (it’s a carefully guarded secret system, but for a small fee…).
In college (more accurately colleges) I got by, almost exclusively on cleverness. I seldom studied, often didn’t even attend classes, and spent way too much time partying. I quickly discovered that college girls were way different from high school girls, or maybe I was just way different, being away from home for the first time. But in any case, at the end of my third semester, I was failing four out of five classes. Very cleverly, I dropped four out of five classes the day before final exams (you could do that back then) and maintained my B+ average for the year. The following year I cleverly got married, and my clever new wife (alas, not Betty Densmore) put an end to the partying.
After getting my degree in architecture, a field requiring a lot of cleverness, I got jobs with and got laid off from several different firms. Thereafter, I cleverly started my own firm, which met with some success. I like to think the success was due, in part, to my ability to solve vexing problems, plentiful when designing and building homes for fickle clients, with clever solutions. Later I branched out from architecture and construction to real estate. I considered it a very clever move to form a partnership with eight successful real estate professionals. I later wondered how clever it really was to form a partnership with eight successful real estate professional women. The partnership lasted several years, perhaps due less to clever and more to clever’s first cousin, cunning.
Retired now from architecture, construction, and real estate, well perhaps not so much retired as re-purposed, my new practice (with the emphasis on practice) is marketing and graphic design. In a field where cleverness is always needed, but seldom requested, and only occasionally rewarded, my cleverness is, likewise, only occasionally rewarded. On one such occasion, a clever design for a bottled water label won second place in an international competition. On other occasions, clever designs for coffee labels have won local competitions. If, these days, those occasions seem fewer and farther between, I remain optimistic.
After all, during my life I was clever enough not to marry Betty Densmore, and clever enough to not lose my children when my first wife, Jill, left me, for a woman. I was clever enough to have good health insurance, but wasn’t, sadly, clever enough to prevent my second wife, Linda, from dying of cancer. And if not clever enough to see the potential disaster of partnering with eight ambitious women in a real estate company, I was clever enough to see the potential of one of them, Nancy, to be my third wife, my soul mate and the true love of my life.
12/20/10
Make Mine Wine
Make no mistake: I am not a connoisseur of fine wine. That is not to say I know nothing about wine. I know most wines are fermented from grapes, except for some specialty wines, which are not, including one wine I know of made in Hawaii, from pineapples. I live in Hawaii, and I like wine, and I like pineapples, so I was confident that I would like pineapple wine. I was wrong. As I remember, it had a pleasant fruity “nose,” but a less pleasant, reminiscent-of-turpentine “finish.”
I also know that wines are classified as red or white, depending on the color of the grapes from which they are fermented, except not necessarily, because red grapes can be, and often are, made into white wines. Red, of course, isn’t necessarily red red. It might also be Rose (pink to us nonconnoisseurs), or amber, or Burgundy, or Ox blood, or Sangria, or even gray. White, of course, isn’t ever white, as in white like milk. It isn’t even ever white, as in clear like water. It’s usually yellow, but may be orange, or straw, or vin Rose, or juane, or even gray.
I know that wine usually comes in bottles: Glass bottles, not plastic bottles, although I don’t know why not plastic bottles, as wine also comes in boxes, with plastic liners. I don’t think fine wine comes in boxes, although I once had a box of Zinfandel (named I believe after one’s inclination after consuming copious amounts thereof) that tasted really quite fine to me. I’m pretty sure wine doesn’t come in cans, but it should if for no other reason than allowing us Hawaii dwellers to bring wine to the beach. Bottles being disallowed on Hawaii public beaches, an icecold can of Chardonnay would be a perfect compliment to a snack of spam musubi.
Yes, Chardonnay is my wine of choice: always served very cold, preferably with lots of ice, and in an insulated plastic cup. Winery and vintage are optional; temperature is not. You might say that my preference confirms that I am less than a connoisseur, but I contend that wine is to be enjoyed, not judged, and I thoroughly enjoy a big glass of Chardonnay, icy cold, served in a cup guaranteed to keep it icy cold until the very last icy drop.
Fortunately, as much as I enjoy my Chardonnay, I never overindulge: not so much by conviction as physiology. One glass of wine and I’m cheerful. Two glasses and I’m conversational; some would say obnoxious, but I prefer conversational. Three glasses and I’m asleep. So unless I start to take my Chardonnay intravenously, three glasses will always be my limit. Granted three, or even two, glasses of wine might make it inadvisable to drive after a night out, but as I have no friends, to night out with or otherwise, it isn’t really a problem.
At one time I fancied myself a wine collector. Being a bit of a computer nerd, I created an elaborate database to track the qualities of the Chardonnay labels and vintages I might try over the years. I had several rating categories, with a 10-point scale for each category. I’ve since forgotten what the categories were, though I’m sure “nose” and “finish” were among them. It didn’t really matter, as whenever I would decide to rate a particular selection, I would fail to do so. Always with the best of intentions, I would drink one glass of the subject wine, only to determine that one glass was not sufficient to reach any conclusions. Therefore, I would drink another glass, reach several conclusions, and expound on them at length. Then, to confirm those conclusions before recording them, I would drink one more glass, and subsequently fall asleep. Inevitably, the next day, what with the hangover and the fuzzy recollections, I would never get around to documenting the research.
01/20/12
I also know that wines are classified as red or white, depending on the color of the grapes from which they are fermented, except not necessarily, because red grapes can be, and often are, made into white wines. Red, of course, isn’t necessarily red red. It might also be Rose (pink to us nonconnoisseurs), or amber, or Burgundy, or Ox blood, or Sangria, or even gray. White, of course, isn’t ever white, as in white like milk. It isn’t even ever white, as in clear like water. It’s usually yellow, but may be orange, or straw, or vin Rose, or juane, or even gray.
I know that wine usually comes in bottles: Glass bottles, not plastic bottles, although I don’t know why not plastic bottles, as wine also comes in boxes, with plastic liners. I don’t think fine wine comes in boxes, although I once had a box of Zinfandel (named I believe after one’s inclination after consuming copious amounts thereof) that tasted really quite fine to me. I’m pretty sure wine doesn’t come in cans, but it should if for no other reason than allowing us Hawaii dwellers to bring wine to the beach. Bottles being disallowed on Hawaii public beaches, an icecold can of Chardonnay would be a perfect compliment to a snack of spam musubi.
Yes, Chardonnay is my wine of choice: always served very cold, preferably with lots of ice, and in an insulated plastic cup. Winery and vintage are optional; temperature is not. You might say that my preference confirms that I am less than a connoisseur, but I contend that wine is to be enjoyed, not judged, and I thoroughly enjoy a big glass of Chardonnay, icy cold, served in a cup guaranteed to keep it icy cold until the very last icy drop.
Fortunately, as much as I enjoy my Chardonnay, I never overindulge: not so much by conviction as physiology. One glass of wine and I’m cheerful. Two glasses and I’m conversational; some would say obnoxious, but I prefer conversational. Three glasses and I’m asleep. So unless I start to take my Chardonnay intravenously, three glasses will always be my limit. Granted three, or even two, glasses of wine might make it inadvisable to drive after a night out, but as I have no friends, to night out with or otherwise, it isn’t really a problem.
At one time I fancied myself a wine collector. Being a bit of a computer nerd, I created an elaborate database to track the qualities of the Chardonnay labels and vintages I might try over the years. I had several rating categories, with a 10-point scale for each category. I’ve since forgotten what the categories were, though I’m sure “nose” and “finish” were among them. It didn’t really matter, as whenever I would decide to rate a particular selection, I would fail to do so. Always with the best of intentions, I would drink one glass of the subject wine, only to determine that one glass was not sufficient to reach any conclusions. Therefore, I would drink another glass, reach several conclusions, and expound on them at length. Then, to confirm those conclusions before recording them, I would drink one more glass, and subsequently fall asleep. Inevitably, the next day, what with the hangover and the fuzzy recollections, I would never get around to documenting the research.
01/20/12
On Being Faithful
I’ve always been faithful, okay, more or less, but certainly far more than less. A few months after getting married, my first wife and I returned to Auburn, Alabama, where I was then attending architecture school. A few days after arriving I got a call from an old girlfriend. Unwisely, I agreed to meet her for coffee at the local McDonald’s (not a burger place back then, more like today’s Starbuck’s). Even more unwisely, I agreed to let her drive me back to my apartment. It was a dingy little place behind the town garage, adjacent to the railroad tracks, in a neighborhood so seedy, even the homeless wouldn’t live there, but that’s another story. In any case, and regretfully, the short trip involved a short diversion, and a little making out. It was just the one time; and in fact when, a few weeks later, an old roommate invited me to share his new girlfriend (he was a bit weird), I respectfully declined.
Then much later, but still during my first marriage, there was that “one time at band camp.” Actually my friend and business partner Rob (not his real name) and I were attending a three-day builders’ conference. After two very tedious days of seminars and networking, Rob decided that we deserved a little relaxation. After a little finger walking through the Yellow Pages he discovered “Little Fingers Massage.” Dedicated to the “release of male tension,” he figured it would be just what we needed. I admit to being a bit confused, at least at first, when my masseuse arrived in the room sans clothing. However, the massage was a real massage, if a bit more stimulating than usual; and at the end of the hour, nothing illegal, at least in most states, had transpired. As advertised, I was, at the end of the hour, very relaxed. Near the end of my first marriage, there was one other incident. Again at a builders’ conference, again at the suggestion of Rob (was there a message here?): another, not illegal if not exactly customary, relaxing massage.
My first marriage ended in divorce. I would like to think it had more to do with my first wife’s preference for the ladies and less to do with my minor indiscretions. During my second marriage, to a lovely women whose preference was for me, I indiscressed not once. I’m very glad that I was able to be completely faithful. After 10 years of a wonderful marriage, she passed away from cancer. I would not have wanted to have to deal with the guilt on top of the grief.
Now in my third marriage, going into its 19th year, I am proud to say that I have been almost completely faithful. I have to confess to one small indiscretion. It was recent, quite recent, but hardly worth mentioning. There was certainly nothing illegal, not even in some states. It was just kissing, a little touching maybe, but that was it. Believe me, nothing really happened and it meant nothing to me. Her name was Cameron. I believe her last name was Diaz.
Okay, it was just a dream. And yes, she is way too young for me, and it’s probably not appropriate to dream of such young starlets. But if dreaming of Cameron, or Gwyneth, or Uma, or Drew is inappropriate, there’s still Demi.
Then much later, but still during my first marriage, there was that “one time at band camp.” Actually my friend and business partner Rob (not his real name) and I were attending a three-day builders’ conference. After two very tedious days of seminars and networking, Rob decided that we deserved a little relaxation. After a little finger walking through the Yellow Pages he discovered “Little Fingers Massage.” Dedicated to the “release of male tension,” he figured it would be just what we needed. I admit to being a bit confused, at least at first, when my masseuse arrived in the room sans clothing. However, the massage was a real massage, if a bit more stimulating than usual; and at the end of the hour, nothing illegal, at least in most states, had transpired. As advertised, I was, at the end of the hour, very relaxed. Near the end of my first marriage, there was one other incident. Again at a builders’ conference, again at the suggestion of Rob (was there a message here?): another, not illegal if not exactly customary, relaxing massage.
My first marriage ended in divorce. I would like to think it had more to do with my first wife’s preference for the ladies and less to do with my minor indiscretions. During my second marriage, to a lovely women whose preference was for me, I indiscressed not once. I’m very glad that I was able to be completely faithful. After 10 years of a wonderful marriage, she passed away from cancer. I would not have wanted to have to deal with the guilt on top of the grief.
Now in my third marriage, going into its 19th year, I am proud to say that I have been almost completely faithful. I have to confess to one small indiscretion. It was recent, quite recent, but hardly worth mentioning. There was certainly nothing illegal, not even in some states. It was just kissing, a little touching maybe, but that was it. Believe me, nothing really happened and it meant nothing to me. Her name was Cameron. I believe her last name was Diaz.
Okay, it was just a dream. And yes, she is way too young for me, and it’s probably not appropriate to dream of such young starlets. But if dreaming of Cameron, or Gwyneth, or Uma, or Drew is inappropriate, there’s still Demi.
The New Fridge
Not too long ago, the time came to replace our old refrigerator. It wasn’t that our old refrigerator was no longer fridging; it was, more or less. It was, however, no longer icemaking, at least not the automatic way. You could still put water into those funky little plastic trays with several little compartments, if you had any funky little plastic trays with several little compartments, which I did, having found two in the very back of the bottom of the cabinet in the corner of the kitchen. They were nearly hidden behind the Lazy Susan , which really was lazy because it no longer Susaned, even a little bit. I easily extracted them by emptying the entire cabinet, lying on the kitchen floor, crawling sideways around Susan and stretching into the far, somewhat scary recess. You could then fill the funky little plastic trays with tap water (because you no longer purchased bottled water, because you had decided that tap water and food were better than bottled water and no food, but that’s another story), then place the funky little plastic trays in the freezer, spilling only about half the tap water, where, in due course, the tap water would freeze. You could then take the funky little trays from the freezer and, with a quick twist, get to see them completely disintegrate, because they were really old and really brittle.
So the time came to replace our refrigerator, which we did. It’s important to note that we were able to do so only because Jessica, our daughter, was and is an incredibly generous person; and Kevin, her boyfriend at the time, was but isn’t anymore, a manager at Lowes, and got a substantial manager’s discount. The new fridge is great. It’s big, it has all the bells and whistles, and it’s stainless steel. OK, it doesn’t actually have any bells or whistles, and it isn’t actually stainless steel. But it does have a working icemaker, a “lockable” cold water dispenser (I suppose to curb careless or indiscriminate drinking of water), and a 10-station adjustable, humidity controlled crisper drawer. And the door is painted with stainless steel colored metallic paint, so it looks just like stainless steel, sort of. Interestingly, it came with a removable protective plastic coating, very scratched-up, which the delivery guy suggested we keep on the fridge “for protection.” The logic of having the fridge be scratched-up so it wouldn’t get scratched-up, escaped me.
The new fridge also has a state-of-the-art, replaceable Refrigerator Ice & Water Filter made by PUR, a company whose name looks like “purr,” the sound, but I suspect is supposed to be pronounced like “pure,” the condition. I like the idea of having a water filter in our new fridge, and I’m sure filtered water is probably better for us than unfiltered water. In fact, the filter promises to “reduce 6 contaminates including lead and mercury.” I’m pretty sure municipal drinking water isn’t supposed to contain any lead or mercury, but it’s nice to know we’re covered, just in case. I was a bit concerned about how I would know when it was time to replace our replaceable filter until I discovered the “Water Filter Status” light. The little light bulb, usually green, turns yellow for awhile and then red when the filter needs replacing. Very handy, but how does the fridge really know if the filter really needs to be replaced? I doubt if it can measure the amount of lead or mercury or the other four unnamed contaminants in the filter at any given time. I doubt if it has a clock built in, or more aptly, a calendar, to measure the months of use. It might count the number of times ice was made or the number of times someone drank some indiscriminate water, or it might count the number of times the door has been opened since the filter was installed. It does have that little button that gets released and turns on the refrigerator light whenever the door opens, then turns it off again when the door closes (or so they claim: I for one have never crawled inside the fridge and closed the door to verify the claim).
Also, when the filter has been replaced, how does it know that it has? The fact is, it doesn’t know. Right under that aforementioned button that controls that aforementioned light, it says to “push switch 10 times in 5 seconds to reset indicator light to green” (or maybe it’s 5 times in 10 seconds). In any case, the fridge has no idea if the filter has been replaced or not, and I suspect no idea if it needs replacing or not. I’m pretty sure I don’t have lead or mercury in my water to start with or any of the other unnamed contaminants, so I’ve decided not to replace the filter, ever. However, when it turns from green to yellow to red, I will push the aforementioned button 10 times in five seconds, or maybe 5 times in 10 seconds, so my fridge and the world will believe I did.
So the time came to replace our refrigerator, which we did. It’s important to note that we were able to do so only because Jessica, our daughter, was and is an incredibly generous person; and Kevin, her boyfriend at the time, was but isn’t anymore, a manager at Lowes, and got a substantial manager’s discount. The new fridge is great. It’s big, it has all the bells and whistles, and it’s stainless steel. OK, it doesn’t actually have any bells or whistles, and it isn’t actually stainless steel. But it does have a working icemaker, a “lockable” cold water dispenser (I suppose to curb careless or indiscriminate drinking of water), and a 10-station adjustable, humidity controlled crisper drawer. And the door is painted with stainless steel colored metallic paint, so it looks just like stainless steel, sort of. Interestingly, it came with a removable protective plastic coating, very scratched-up, which the delivery guy suggested we keep on the fridge “for protection.” The logic of having the fridge be scratched-up so it wouldn’t get scratched-up, escaped me.
The new fridge also has a state-of-the-art, replaceable Refrigerator Ice & Water Filter made by PUR, a company whose name looks like “purr,” the sound, but I suspect is supposed to be pronounced like “pure,” the condition. I like the idea of having a water filter in our new fridge, and I’m sure filtered water is probably better for us than unfiltered water. In fact, the filter promises to “reduce 6 contaminates including lead and mercury.” I’m pretty sure municipal drinking water isn’t supposed to contain any lead or mercury, but it’s nice to know we’re covered, just in case. I was a bit concerned about how I would know when it was time to replace our replaceable filter until I discovered the “Water Filter Status” light. The little light bulb, usually green, turns yellow for awhile and then red when the filter needs replacing. Very handy, but how does the fridge really know if the filter really needs to be replaced? I doubt if it can measure the amount of lead or mercury or the other four unnamed contaminants in the filter at any given time. I doubt if it has a clock built in, or more aptly, a calendar, to measure the months of use. It might count the number of times ice was made or the number of times someone drank some indiscriminate water, or it might count the number of times the door has been opened since the filter was installed. It does have that little button that gets released and turns on the refrigerator light whenever the door opens, then turns it off again when the door closes (or so they claim: I for one have never crawled inside the fridge and closed the door to verify the claim).
Also, when the filter has been replaced, how does it know that it has? The fact is, it doesn’t know. Right under that aforementioned button that controls that aforementioned light, it says to “push switch 10 times in 5 seconds to reset indicator light to green” (or maybe it’s 5 times in 10 seconds). In any case, the fridge has no idea if the filter has been replaced or not, and I suspect no idea if it needs replacing or not. I’m pretty sure I don’t have lead or mercury in my water to start with or any of the other unnamed contaminants, so I’ve decided not to replace the filter, ever. However, when it turns from green to yellow to red, I will push the aforementioned button 10 times in five seconds, or maybe 5 times in 10 seconds, so my fridge and the world will believe I did.
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