Counterintuitivity

    My mother didn't comment much about anything to do with cooking. It was mostly a necessary duty for her, not an indulgence.  But I recall her saying, as she made dumplings from the recipe on the Bisquick box, "Wouldn't you think that the pot should be covered for the first 10 minutes and then uncovered for the following 10 minutes instead of the other way around?"   To this day, I think of her words  every time I make dumplings.  No matter how frequently I've done so, which has to be scores and scores of times by now, I always have to check the box to see when to put the lid on and when to remove it.  I agree with her; it does seem the procedure should be reversed.
   A  month or so ago, I filled a prescription for eye drops at the drug store.  The pharmacist advised  me to keep the unopened bottle in the refrigerator.  Then, after I opened it and began to use it, the bottle should be kept at room temperature. This didn't sound right to me, so I asked her the reason for what seemed contrary to the advice for most products, pharmaceutical or otherwise. She wasn't sure why, but that is indeed what is written on the accompanying literature. Her best speculation was that testing was probably done that way.  She said I could keep the opened bottle in the refrigerator if I wanted to.
    I think the next time I make dumplings, I'll throw caution to the winds and reverse the lid placement procedure.  I'm not sure if I can treat the eye drops with such reckless abandon.  I've yet to begin their use.
   

The Express Dinner

   I didn't win PowerBall or any of the other contests or drawings I've been entered in. But today was different: an email from THE EXPRESS informed me I had won a prize at The Perfect Noodle.  The prize was a pound of home made noodles and 6 cannolis, also homemade.
   When my first 3 or 4 grandchildren were born, I remember paying a fee for birth announcements published in The Express, about $25 or so, as I recall.   However, by the time Theo was born, the editor and owner said there would be no fee, as they didn't get many birth announcements and they liked to publish them.  Then, when I sent in Madeleine's picture, I decided to subscribe to the paper, out of gratitude and maybe a little guilt.  Aliceanna's announcement was yet to come.
   Shortly after I  subscribed, I won a $25 gift certificate to The Olde Mercantile. The selected gift turned out to be a lovely floral decoration.  And now, a pound of fresh pasta.
   My life is so uneventful now that this was a major event.  I hied on over to The Noodle, and after a few problematic attempts to find a legitimate parking spot, entered the store.  I don't know if I ever was in there before, even when it was under other ownership.  (My college student used to be an avid consumer of the Michele's sub sandwich, though I thought they were horribly oily.)  Several Noodle employees were busy utilizing their skills.  I explained my reason for being there and chose linguine and 3 plain and 3 chocolate cannolis. Again, feeling the familiar combination of gratitude and guilt, I purchased a jar of sauce. I was told it would be the best sauce I'd ever had. Pretty much the same glowing review for the cannolis.  I was skeptical, not because I doubted her word but because I do not have a discriminating palate.  Besides, I don't really care for pasta, or sauce.  And contrary to what I might have expected of myself, given my affinity for desserts, I've never really liked cannolis.    
    Tonight for supper, we had linguini with the sauce, LA Fede, made in Italy.  I had been cautioned to cook the noodles for only 2 1/2 to 3 minutes.  I let them cook only slightly longer, but they still were definitely al dente, a contrast to my usual method of preparation.  The much vaunted sauce, costing more than twice the price of super market sauce tasted like------ sauce.  That didn't surprise me.  I can never remember what food tastes like anyway, so I have no basis for comparison.  I used only half a jar and refrigerated the rest, so we will be able to  conduct a taste test for any epicures who show up at our door.
     Years ago, when the Schaghticoke Fair participated in The Pepsi Challenge, I could always determine which was Coke and which was Pepsi, but that's the limit of my taste buds.
   

 

"No, no, no"

    People, including famous TV hosts, are such sheep in a way.  I know the Rule of 3 is a powerful governing force, but that shouldn't mean all conversation has to be punctuated with the words, "Yeah, yeah, yeah."   And, Kelly Ripa, this means you too.

Black Market Product?

   Some things I just don't understand. One of them is the widespread appeal to buy diabetic test strips.  The want  ads are everywhere, from the bulletin board at the grocery store to want ads in almost every newspaper.  It sounds like a black market item, but evidently not illegal since the ads to buy are so open.  Maybe more of a gray market?  Say the strips are expensive, but covered by Medicare for patients with diabetes. So those diabetics without coverage cannot afford them, and want to buy them cheaper than pharmacy prices.  But the diabetics who have coverage for the strips should be using them, one would think, rather than selling  them.  Do people fake having diabetes so they can get the strips and then sell them?  How much profit can there be in the sale of hot (or warm) diabetic test strips?
     I notice that those who sponsor the local online community garage sales will not allow baby formula to be sold on the site, the reason being that parents are issued a free government supply, but sell it instead of feeding it to their babies.  Hopefully, the babies are fed something which at least equals the benefits of the formula.  I don't know of a substitute for a diabetic test strip though.

Really, Fire Company?

I am holding a pot holder distributed by a local fire company.  It is printed with the words, "PREVENT FIRES   NEVER WALK AWAY FROM A STOVE WHILE COOKING."  

Friday Night

  We were invited to dinner and a movie in Schaghticoke this evening.  Dave was transported by Uber.  I thought I might drive over later, but I don't like shrimp scampi so I stayed home and ate half of a frozen Pepperidge Farm Coconut Cake instead.

So long ago, yet near in memory

   I was driving today from my house to the outside world.  I hadn't gotten very far when I saw something that tore at my heart.  It was the sight of a woman shoveling snow from her walkway.  Her name is Teresa and I believe she's nearing retirement age from her position as a school administrator.
     One of those clarified moments in time struck me, from the time of my high school years.  We, my sister and I and her best friend Sandy had returned from a rooter's bus trip to an away basketball game.  We had been in our kitchen late at night, talking and maybe drinking cocoa,  my parents already having gone to  bed. Sandy left for home.  Dorothy had probably walked her at least part way home, as that was their usual practice, which sometimes extended into a lengthy series of each then walking the other part way home until the mathematics of it overcame them and they would dissolve into hysterical laughter, even at unseemly late hours.  But this was December and there was snow on the ground and lightly falling.  Dorothy had returned and we were still up.  We were never in any hurry to go upstairs to bed.  Who needed sleep back then.
    In a short time, there was a rapping on the living room window, the one nearest the chair where my mother sat in the evenings.  We looked out and saw Sandy, who was excited and laughing. "I've got a baby sister," she yelled through the window.
    In my mind, I still see us as the girls we were then even though that newborn baby girl is now ending her career after a lifetime of work.  Well, bless my soul, what's wrong with me?
   

OJ Trial for the Common P{eople

    I watch all the award shows, but realize that lately I'm unfamiliar with the movies, because I very seldom go to the theater, and even the television shows, because most of them are on channels we don't get.
     So when I was given the opportunity to share my son's Netflix, I decided to watch  " Making A Murderer."  I started at the beginning and am now up to Episode 9.  It's not usually the genre I prefer, but for some reason, it's must-watch TV.  The courtroom sequences and the interactions between the defense and the prosecution  definitely  parallel those of the OJ trial.  The crimes dealt with are at least as brutal and arguably even more depraved than OJ's.
  However, there is one major difference and that is in the cast of characters, real life as they may be.  Within the OJ scenario, all the people were sleek, well-groomed, fashionably dressed, well-spoken,  beautiful.  In "Murderer" the people are real all right, and not to belittle our neighborhood, remarkably similar in appearance and manner to the folks sitting at the stools of  one of the local bars.
    The main issue in trying to assert the accused Steve Avery's  innocence, in the face of what looks like undeniable guilt, lies in the fact that he may have been framed---by the law enforcement agency no less.  Shades of the glove that didn't fit.  In this case, it's a car key. Even more damning is that Stevie had recently been released from prison after having served 18 years for a crime that he didn't commit, and that the police had not only illegally mishandled protocol and evidence but had falsified items and records as well.
    The people are mostly unattractive, as most of us are minus the trappings that money and fame can provide.  They  are the downtrodden folks, of the type championed by the late Eugene V. Debs, but nonetheless deserving of the same pursuit of justice as the more fortunate. I have wavered in my opinion of his guilt throughout the episodes.  First I thought he was guilty, then not, then probably so, probably not, maybe not, most likely guilty. I'm waiting until the final episode to try to make up my mind.  But now I read that, because of public attention,  there may be another entire series.  If he's guilty, he deserves to burn in hell for eternity, if not, he's still no hero.  I think we will never know for certain.
 

Second Chance

     It was the premiere of "Second Chance," and because it was on after the moribund "American Idol," I watched it, or almost all of it.  The plot is complicated:  a set of mutually dependent twins, he non-verbal except with her and she dying of cancer, are able to bring back to life, through scientific genius, a man whose genetic code will allow the female twin to survive her cancer.
    The person who fit the bill by providing, though unknowingly, the body, was a disgraced ex-sheriff who everyone thought had committed suicide, but who in fact had been murdered after seeing a pair of villains who had broken into his son's office on a nefarious mission.
    I was able to follow the complicated plot, but my mind kept balking at one of the details.  The ex-sheriff, as he was known, had been of necessity brought back to life  so he could sustain life in the cancer-stricken twin.  And this is where my mind stopped accepting the premise.  The murdered man was a time-worn man of 75 who had aged badly.  When he was rejuvenated, he was youthful, strong, and capable.  The thing is, when he encountered his family and other acquaintances, they did not recognize him.  So either he came back in a different physical configuration, or else his family had a very poor memory for past appearances, and hadn't had access to any pictures of what the old man looked like when he was younger.
    And that's what got me thinking.  If I were to magically appear as my 30-year-old self, would anyone in present-day life recognize me?  So far, I've been able to know it's my reflection in the mirror, though pictures are another story, and Face-time images worst of all.  No one even was clued by the old sheriff's voice, though cigarettes and whiskey had made it quite raspy.  Whereas, I've been told that my voice still sounds the same, so I guess if I ever am brought back to life, I won't be able to secretly spy on how my family and friends react to my absence.  That might have been interesting.
   
 

Regis and the Shark

  I guess you've got to go where the work is, but really, Regis, and Joy too, Tai Cheng?  Mr. Cheng's take on Tai Chi is going to allow people in their senior years to play golf, tennis and even water ski.  That's after they've lost those skills because of advanced age, but with some simple home exercises they regain their previous abilities.  And while the program is priced at about $500, it has been reduced to $80, and if you act now, the price is only $60, payable in 3 installments.
    And Michael Strahan is sucking up all the jobs, following in your footsteps, now going to host the summer Pyramid series.  I'll bet you would have been better at it.

Christmas Passed

Scars

This year, I hung our old Advent calendar,

A wooden framed tree with miniature ornaments, 

One for each day.

But it was forgotten and the little gold star

Didn't even get placed atop the tree.

I put it away.

This year, I burned my hand cooking Christmas dinner.

No one to tell and no one to notice.

It will go away.