Month: October 2014

Relieved

Remember those bloody bags? The contents? The sinister agent in my dream, Lee?

Well, Lee stopped by yesterday. I was awake this time. Although I admit I was napping when he came a tapping at our front door. I asked him in, hesitantly. He presented me with a box half-filled with frozen protein. I took an incredulous step backward.

The baleful stare of my dream was gone, replaced by a warm, neighborly smile. “Brought you some moose.”

So those weren’t people in the bags after all.

I lifted the flaps and looked inside. Pounds of breakfast sausage, ground meat, and steaks. “You brought us so much.”

“Nah. Processed four hundred pounds. Caribou’s coming next week. I’ll bring you some.”

Breakfast this morning:

Even the sound of game meat crackling in the pan is different than commercial pork or beef. The smell is beyond compare. One day you’re foraging, weeks later you’re being foraged. Life in the food chain. I prefer my place at the top.

Later, Lee stopped by again with his little granddaughter. She was pink head to toe. Superwoman! She didn’t have a bag but Happy Wife was the first of the night to treat her anyway. Chocolate covered kid’s protein bar. Left over from the bike tour this summer. Stingy? Oh, stop it; it’s all we had for goodness sake. The peculiarity of our location keeps trick-or-treaters away. I don’t think we’ve had a one in any of the five years we’ve lived here and I kinda doubt there will be very many out tonight at 28 degrees. And it’s breezy. Superwoman was shivering standing in our doorway. You think maaaybe her parents might have suggested the Bigfoot costume for its practicality over pink tights and a paper thin cape?

“I want PINK!”

“Okay okay, settle — we’ll get you a pink Bigfoot.”

Dog sitting today. Buddy. A fine beast overall but he’s kinda clingy. Why, not even a quiet moment of erudition can be enjoyed without him hovering, watching your eyes consume every sentence:

Mood (mine): Edgy.

Player

We dined last night at Haute Quarter grill. We being myself, Happy Wife, and a colleague/friend up from Seattle. By the way, when is it appropriate to stop referring to a professional acquaintance as a colleague and begin calling them a friend? Must certain requisite sentiments be exchanged, or certain favors given? Or is the transition gray; is friendship an emergent property that cannot be predicted but is unmistakable when eventually it appears? Do I sound like Carrie Bradshaw musing in a diary entry?

How bout I just make up a new word, a combination word, a portmanteau, “Friendleague.”

So our friendleague works for a major genetic diagnostic company in Seattle. She’s in Anchorage semi-frequently to drum up new business but also to stop in at the offices of existing customers to “touch base.” Her company paid for dinner. A gesture that in my opinion moves her swiftly closer to the friend column. I added her, along with her snail-mail address, to my Contacts because she had asked to be added to the list of victims recipients of our annual newsletter — The Nibblet. I promised the picture I took of her (actually HW snapped it) would not appear on this blog. A promise I will honor. However, I must say, and in fact did say as the three of us strode into the restaurant, that she and HW looked mighty fetching and as such would they mind if I sidled in between them, have each take an arm and become candy thereon, such that as we approached the door I might appear to the patrons within as a real “Player.”

To this they agreed.

I wish I had obtained a picture of the trio so you could judge for yourself. Regrettably, I did not.

My cocktail was expertly prepared by Tanya. Who deserves a shout out because she really is, qua bartender, expert at her craft, and is also always happy to share her suggestion for which wine to pair with your entree.

I went to straight to the hard stuff, as Players are wont to do:

The novel presses on. One word, one sentence, one slowly written paragraph at a time. I’m hopeless. I can’t seem to stop editing what I’ve already thought was done. But I know one thing for sure, regardless of what you’re writing it’s important to get your best writing down early, in the first few pages, that is if you’re going to have any chance of grabbing and holding a would-be reader’s interest. So I think this is time well spent on my part.

Oops, it’s after 10:00 am and Harry is reminding me it’s time to go to the park. “Yes your highness.”

Til next time…

The Constitution

Happy Wife is at our Nest in Seward with a friend this weekend. I was left with only two items on my Honey-Do list.

1) Prune Arctic Willow bushes in backyard.

2) Touch up paint in bathroom.

The most important thing about lists, a husband might lament, is not the items so enumerated, but the un-enumerated items.

Readers — Honey-Do list victims in particular — familiar with the 9th amendment to the U.S. constitution will already see where I’m going with this. For all others, a short reminder:

The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

My thinking is that way back when, under the cover of night, wives co-opted the language of this amendment and ratified it into the Household Constitution to serve their own treacherous purposes. Without the assent of husbands! Why, just one look at it and the resemblance leaps off the page:

The enumeration in the Honey-Do list, of certain chores, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others the wife wants done.

Basically says that just because I’ve listed two things I want you to make sure you get done while I’m away playing, dear, this does not mean there aren’t other outstanding chores you might want to consider doing as well.

Did you see what The Wives did there? How we, The Husbands, subjects to the household constitution (never mind that we didn’t give our assent), are nevertheless bound for life to complete chores — even those not explicitly listed. Sheesh. So much for spousal sovereignty.

A Real Gem

Our water heater is not what you think.

It used be you could walk into the basement or garage of any home and find a tall white cylinder, maybe twenty inches in diameter by five feet tall, filled with hot water. How did it work? Simple. There was a thermostatically controlled heat exchanger inside the cylinder in contact with the water to keep it at the desired temperature. One pipe brought cold water in, another delivered hot water out. The connectors had easily serviceable gaskets. Most units had a pressure relief valve and a drain hose in case it leaked. Gas or electric heaters were available. That’s pretty much it.

Now, have you ever heard of Rube Goldberg? No? Well, there, I linked it for you.

Old Rube had a number of talents but mostly he was known for his cartoons, in particular his depiction of Rube Goldberg Machines, which were:

complicated gadgets that perform simple tasks in indirect, convoluted ways

Today, if you remark about an object’s design by saying, “Oh, man, that is so Rube Goldbergian,” you mean exactly that, the thing’s design is unnecessarily complicated and convoluted to achieve its function.

Back to our water heater. You can see where I am going with this.

Right.

We have a box in our garage screwed to the wall. It’s roughly the size of Goliath’s lunchbox. It heats water. That’s it. That’s all it does.

And yet to look at it…

… and I’m only showing you part of this contraption! — you’d say, “Man, that is totally Rube Goldbergian.”

It only get worse inside the box.

Therein you’d find circuit boards and connectors and valves and electrodes and expanders and other mysterious parts and pieces all connected together in an arcane mess of machinery. To what end?

To heat water.

But wait, skeptic, hold thine tongue!

The water heater is modern! It’s efficient! — why, should you care to read it, there’s an entire brochure given over to boasting of the unit’s myriad operational efficiencies. And it’s environmentally friendly! And it’s smart! — water is heated “on demand!”

Yet still you may be wondering, at what cost, dear homeowner, does this whizbangery come?

$537.00

“To purchase it?!”

No. To maintain it. That’s what I paid yesterday. Three years ago I paid close to the same amount to have it serviced. In five years we’re into this thing for ~ $1000.00.

What’s a homeowner to do but lament. In Alaska, especially with winter nigh, you do not want to achieve your cost savings by skimping on the maintenance of the machine that makes water hot. Especially since our house is heated hydronically (sub floor heat).

At least the service man was competent. His parents had named him after Alaska’s gemstone. Unusual — I kept wanting to call him Jason — but like I said, he was competent.

But it was one of those service calls where the phases of dis-assembly were punctuated with knocks on the door,” Mr. Nibbe, may I speak with you a moment?”

His face was grim. Uh oh, he’s found something else wrong. He had said when he first arrived and assessed the leakage I told him about on the phone that only the thermal expansion doohickey would need to be replaced ($165, and look here, lucky for you I just happen to have one in my truck!), but now, in the course of removing the thingamajig that connects the doohickey…. “Well, I think you can clearly see, Mr. Nibbe, that this really should be replaced as well.”

Over the course of his service visit there were no less than two separate knocks on the door.

Multiple reassurances ensued that he was not trying to up-sell me on things I didn’t need. I believed him. Because I want to believe in the ethical goodness of mankind. Plus, this man, this “gem” of a man, looked to me like a cross between Jim Carey and Chevy Chase, and who among us would ever suspect either one of them of up-selling?

Although — although! — he did say that if I’d like, he could also replace the gas flame regulator which, although my unit was presently operating fine without it, in his expert opinion it was only a matter of time before it failed. “And when it does, Mr. Nibbe, your boiler will shut down,” he said ominously.

Part $245, plus 1/2 hour labor to install; he’d anticipatively brought one along. But wait, it only takes ten minutes to install? “Minimums, Mr. Nibbe, we have minimums.”

I declined. I put my family in peril and declined. That’s what it felt like, standing there, looking at him with that “Are you certain you don’t want me to install it, Mr. Nibbe?” look on his face.

Warm in the house this morning. I can step onto the tile floor in the kitchen in bare feet and not be chilled. Love that.

But just wait, the very first morning the floor isn’t toasty warm it’ll be -20 outside, and with my luck it’ll be Sunday. Emergency service call to install a flame regulator — time and a half. Oh boy!

I took down gemstone’s personal cell number. “Call me,” he said, “if anything problems should arise.” Muhahahaha…

Digital Smells

Q: What’s three thousand square feet and white all over?

Happy Wife brought the comfort last night, homemade chicken soup. And for me a grilled cheese sandwich — with thin sliced Claussen pickles, just what I’d asked for!

Go ahead, click it. Embiggen the savoriness.

Except you can’t really “see” savory, now can you?

Imagine a technology to digitize smells. A sort of scratch ‘n sniff for your computer.

Consider: You’re browsing the Internet one day and you happen upon a picture of chicken soup. You click it to make it larger. This downloads the digital image to your computer where it is then rendered in your browser, as happens now. But imagine if, in addition to the digital image, a digital smell associated with the image was downloaded as well, say a unique digital smell representing somebody’s chicken soup. Further, imagine your computer (or smart device) was equipped with an effuser, a hardware device capable of rendering digital smells, just like the screen on your computer (or phone) renders digital images. Now, instead of just seeing the picture of the chicken soup on the screen you literally smell the savoriness coming from the effuser as well. A kind of high tech Odorama. (For an old tech example see John Water’s film Polyester).

Now, as with any new technology, there will be abusers. Sure enough some dude’s gonna digitize his fart and associate it with a picture of a dozen roses or something. We’ll have to deal with that kind of nose porn. But we already have filters for viruses. I see no reason we can’t do the same for smells: “WARNING!, the attached .WHIF file smells awful!” Inevitably, though, some peoples’ devices will get infected. Some could be serious. Imagine: Every time you try to delete a bad .WHIF file it only makes the situation worse — before long your whole house smells a ripe baby diaper.

You can imagine that once Google gets a whif (haha) of this technology we’ll have smell searches. Or smells will be used to suggest shopping preferences: “People who liked this odor also liked…”

The possibilities are endless.

A: If you guessed the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man in Ghostbusters you were close. Correct answer was our backyard. Freak snowfall sneaked up on us last night.

Gams Of Corn

It’s true. The ears of corn are gone from stores.

Wait, are you wondering the same thing I am?

Why “ears” of corn? Why not hands of corn, or chins of corn. Buttocks of corn?

The ancients were indeed a mysterious people. And then came Google:

Ear” comes from the ancient word “ahs,” which meant “husk of corn.” In English, sometimes the ear also is referred to as a “cob” or a “pole.” The ear is the spiked part of the corn plant that contains kernels, the delicious yellow tidbits we love to nibble on in the summertime.

Ah hah — that explains it! Now I know what my New Englander friends were trying to tell me the winter of my visit — “Cahver yah ahs, Rahd, it’s cahld outside.”

So, what is a husband to do? Having been charged by Happy Wife with dinner prep for Tuesday evening, the store shelves bereft of Ahs of Corn, yet still desperately wanting to prepare her the grilled corn recipe from this one:

Speaking of delicious tidbits to nibble on in summertime. Had the ancients been introduced to Giada we would not now be referring to them as ears of corn. KnowWhatImean? <nyuk nyuk>

Anyway, where was I. Oh right…

I went to my grocer’s freezer section and purchased frozen Ahs of corn. Brilliant!

I’m serious. Giada’s grilled corn (w/Parmesan) recipe is the bomb . Or, as my great nephew would opine: Amaze Balls.

Behold my rendition: Giada’s grilled cream corn w/Parmesan, spice-rubbed, grilled Alaskan halibut, oven-crisped prosciutto and an arc of cucumber:

Plus California Cabernet, vintage ’12.

How’d I do?

(Reminder: certain images on this blog may be embiggened by clicking on them).

What else, what else…

Oh right, the weather.

Unseasonably warm. Not quite warm enough for this anymore…

(Whoa! Gams of corn. Am I right?).

…but pretty warm. Like upper 40s by day. Yesterday it reached 52. During our daily walk at the park yesterday Harry was briefly beaten up by Otis, a somewhat spastic Rottweiller mix with a bad temper. No harm done. Like I said, it was brief. By the time I got close to intervene they’d already separated. Seconds later Otis’s cherub-faced upright came wheeling by on her mountain bike, oblivious, it seemed, to what had gone down — “Come pretty Otis, come!”

Yeah, I got your pretty Otis right here, girl.

Mood: edgy.

Not much else of note going on. I am We are anxiously awaiting to hear on the status of a certain application I’ve submitted. Prefer to leave you wondering at this time. Once we know, especially if the outcome is favorable to us, you’ll know.

Bye for now.

Hold the Pablum, Please

Don’t judge US!

To boot, the very next night we accompanied friends to the Long Branch Saloon for burgers — beef! — and fries. I was told the buns were homemade. So there. Took a statin before bed to tie the score: Atherosclerosis 1, Me 1.

I would love to be able to report to you that our lives are busy and excitement filled. You know the kind of report I speak of. All of us have at least one cloyingly cheerful acquaintance who once annually goes burbling on about the husband’s recent promotion, the family’s ensuing relocation to Wherever, the effortless progress of the children (two is a sweet number — imagine Noah & Sophie) passing their grades. Both of whom are gifted. Which anymore only means they handed in their homework on time. And don’t forget the gratuitous pic of the family cat. Missives of this kind typically arrive around Christmas time. This is done on purpose, to leverage the gratefulness inherent in the season and sucker you into believing just how “magical their year has been!” Moreover, anticipating that certain readers will nevertheless remain skeptical of any report of year-long felicity, photographs are frequently included as evidence. (On the backside, to save paper. This is also done with intention. Staying connected need not mean despoiling Our Earth!). Hardcore types may go so far as to hire a professional photographer to capture the evidence: “Here we all are in a snowball fight in Aspen!”

Pablum. Utter pablum.

Having said that, it is probably not too early for me to begin penning the once annual “Nibblet.” Now in its fifth consecutive year. And it’s free! I changed the name; it used to be called The Nibbles. Care for a stroll down memory lane? 2011. Pablum free!

Skatta Moose Skatta Moose…

Will You Do the Fandango!

That time of year. Moose are in rut. And right in our back forty for cryin’ out loud.

That fella clearly doesn’t understand that NO means NO. Or, more likely, as Happy Wife suggested, being that’s a pretty puny bull mamma probably has her eye on a bigger bubba down the street somewhere. In Mooseville, size matters.

Perspective

Going to pick up Sweet Pea this afternoon. A small plastic bag. We intend to place it her beneath Rufus inside the basket on the hearth, where he’s been at rest ever since he passed in 2012.

Lately, I’ve been googling phrases like, “average length of a novel” and “average length of a chapter.”

Not because I want to impose any stricture on my writing, but merely because I’m curious to know what the numbers are. From what I gathered, the length of your average novel is in the range of sixty to ninety thousand words. Chapters, about five to six thousand words long. If true, and I’m average, I’m nearly finished with my first chapter.

Crisp, bluesky days up here lately. A little more snow on the mountains, but nothing in town so far. Happy Wife put a small pumpkin on the windowsill, and some Indian corn on the front of the house. That time of year. Come morning there’s frost on the grass, which is still green. Leaves are still on the trees too. Mostly. Kaya — remember Kaya? — continues to prefer our front lawn to crap on. I don’t say anything about it to the neighbor. Neither does Happy Wife. Moose crap on it too. Who you going to complain to about that? Besides, picking up dog crap is a snap compared to moose skat. You might argue that’s no reason we should tolerate Kaya crapping on our lawn. I suppose that’s true, but you see Jim, Kaya’s upright, our neighbor, is still stinging from having his wife of 30+ years leave him. Well over a year ago now. To complain to him that his dog craps on our lawn would feel petty somehow. There are people half way around the world, innocent people, getting beheaded. I think I can pick up some dog pooh now and then.

Amateur

My favorite of these two — Sweet Pea & The Tan Man. Sounds like the title of a children’s book. Maybe I should.

Both are now perma-linked forever on the right hand sidebar.

Not much new. Still just taking up space. Although slowly a sense of purpose trickles back into our daily lives. Inevitability we move on. The slopes turn yellow and red. The nights are once again dark, and getting colder. Come morning there’s a skin of ice on the water bowl outside. Garden hoses and lawn mower have been stowed for winter. There’s Termination Dust on the highest peaks of the Chugach mountains. I used to like that, “Termination Dust.” Now I hate it for its association.

I’ve started writing a book. No, I’m not going to say what it’s about, except to say it’s a novel. I’ve no idea how long it will take to complete. I’m a rank amateur at this. I will say I am so far pretty pleased with how the first chapter is coming along. My approach to writing something of this scope, to the extent I even have an approach, is to edit over and over again until I think it’s right, before moving on. It’s deliberate on my part, but subconsciously I may be doing it to put off the challenge of thinking about where the story will go next, i.e. the plot.

Anyway, it’s one advantage, I suppose, of being an amateur writer, you have no deadline, no agent calling you on the phone every week demanding to see evidence of progress — “Mr. Nibbe, just when is it that we can expect the next blockbuster from you,” — impatient finger tapping table — “hmm?”