February, 25, 2002--Honor Your Spirit Day by Karen Schwabenland In my house are many search engines. I know this to be true because someone keeps changing my default engine. I don't want Duck, Duck, Go or Bing, or even Yahoo as my search engine. And by the way, what the hell is ecosia? I've never heard of it.
I can't think of one single reason to change search engines, but someone keeps doing it. Perhaps it is the family ghost. When we bought this old house, we were told a man had died in it. It was a disclosure that the seller was required to tell us. Frankly, I would have rather she had told us the name of the paint shades and the titles and makes of the wallpaper that she had decorated with. At the house closing, her realtor stated that there was one final thing that needed to be stated. "We need to let you know that Mr. Wallace died in the house. Will that change your mind about anything?" "Died?" "Yes, he died there." "Violently?" "No, no, not violently." "O.K., then I guess we're still in." Since that time, there have been many strange things that have happened here--lights left on in rooms where we were positive they had been turned out--for starters. A master bedroom that is always ten degrees hotter or colder than the den (although they share a wall) is another one. Another example of Mr. Wallace's repertoire of pranks are flickering light bulbs (even brand new, right out of the box) and a washing machine that will occasionally try to walk away from it all. I hear you washing machine. I hear and see you, and I understand. Sometimes the stairs creak when no one is on them. Our oven always bakes faster than the prescribed time allotted. And as previously mentioned, someone keeps changing my default search engine on my desktop computer. What's more, when standing at the kitchen window looking out at the street, one is overcome by the insistent urge to eat sausage. More on that later. While our ghost is not exactly friendly, he does seem benign enough. I like to think he watches over the house when we are away. He has occasionally sat around on the job, however. Where was he in last year's freeze when our laundry room pipes burst? And let us not forget the broken underground pipe of 2019 which caused a toilet to explode. Nasty sewage water from the overflowing commode spread like lice in a preschool classroom. It created a river down the hallway and puddled around the bottom of our Christmas tree causing the wrapped presents to look like battered houseboats and ruined fishing piers after a hurricane. It seems that our ghost, Mr. Wallace, has something against pipes. Maybe he is not able to access them very well. I once heard that to get rid of a ghost, you had to enclose them in a lead box. The fact that some of our pipes are still lead could explain his hesitancy to stop the clogs, leaks, and breakages. After we had lived here several years, my long time neighbor revealed how Mr. Wallace had died. He had a massive heart attack while taking a shower in the master bathroom. Funny, but it does not really bother me about that, though. I am seldom reminded of him while I am in there. I just feel sorry for whomever had to find him. I did not tell my neighbor about his hauntings. I falsely believed at the time that a house ghost should be a very private thing. My neighbor filled in many blanks about the family that used to live here, though. One story she often repeated was that she frequently spotted Mr. Wallace standing at the kitchen window chomping down on a giant piece of sausage, an act that that would always bring Mrs. Wallace's wrath if she knew about it. I have not been able to tell much about Mr. Wallace from an internet search, no matter which search engine I use. I do know that his first name was Joseph, though. Given everything that we've been through together in this house, I'd like to think I know him well enough by now to refer to him by his first name. From now on, our ghost will called Joseph, or just Joe. February 11, 2021--World News Day
by Karen Schwabenland Clogged toilets at the White House. A world wide pandemic. The Super Bowl Studium fortified against invaders. The Silent Olympics. Troops gathering in the gloom. Such are the tidings that greet us--should we choose to watch or read the news. I do watch and read. I do watch and read because I am a watcher and a reader. I watch my world. I notice the changes. For example, today in the Supermarket, I observed an ominous event. A man in front of me in the check out line tried to pay with his telephone. He looked rather idiotic in his Nike sweats and striped running shoes waving his phone over and over the check out kiosk. This was indeed something new. Is this what our world is coming to? Are we all to be condemned in Future World to wave our phones at small screens while wearing Nike sweats and striped running shoes? And in Future World, will we all have neglected to shave our faces for the past two days. Or weeks. Depending on our rate of beard growth? Nike Sweats Man was trying to pay for six rolls of toilet paper and twelve boxes of bread sticks. My better side kept me from trying to figure out what he was going to use those items for, and if their use could be related. The kiosk was not taking the phone transfer of funds. Not for love, nor money. No way. No how. There was a naive young girl running the cash register. All she could say was, "I don't know why it's not working," in a lilting voice. Her pony tail bounced each time she said it. Meanwhile, behind me there was a lady with a cart full of flowers. She and I began a quick friendship while we waited for help to arrive, or peace on earth. Whichever came first. She was miffed about the events in the check out line. I was not. Because I watch the news. I have come to expect catastrophes. As a matter of fact, if you can leave your house and return without a catastrophe occuring, you must be sporting some powerful magic. Nike Sweats was not sporting powerful magic today, even though he may have been magical in previous transactions with his phone. Ponytail asked him if he wanted to pay in cash. He said he would go get cash from his car and left everything, all twelve boxes of breadsticks and six rolls of toilet paper, on the counter. I turned and reported this turn of events to Flower Cart Lady. She became a mad hornet at this news. Right in front of my eyes. I half expected her to buzz around her flowers and was ready to swat her with the magazine I had been reading--but not expecting to pay for. She promptly decided to try another line. By then, there was a gentleman behind her who also determined to move along. I already had my pile of supplies on the belt and ready to be scanned. I thought that Ponytail would go ahead a check me out, in spite of the man before me leaving mid-transaction. I have been around. I know what's what. I know that transactions can be cancelled or put on hold. Ponytail had not been around. I doubt she has been anywhere at all because when the man left, she just looked at me and sighed. "The machine is broken," she said. "The lady who was here before him tried to put her credit card in it, and it wouldn't take it. She paid with cash." My mind began to work overtime. The lady before Nike Sweats may have been a spy or an overt operative from a foreign entity. She may have been from Khaszakistanislovsky or the Canary Islands or anywhere. She had a loaded computer chip on her card and whoever was the next person to put their computer chipped card in the machine would be the person who unraveled our entire world. That card's chip would then be compromised. Infected with a virus. Then I go home, try to purchase something with the same number on that card of off Amazon and, "Boom!" My home computer explodes causing the roof on my house to cave in which then hits me in the head and knocks me out. Possibly killing me. And then everyone who ever ordered anything from Amazon would meet a similar fate. Luckily, I had my capable assistant, by the name of Muscles Malone, with me. I told him to take my items off of the belt. We went to a less dangerous cash register. Crisis averted. All because I am a watcher and a reader. And I know that each and everyone one of us is only one keyboard tap, or magical transaction, away from total annihilation. February 6, 2022--You say Po-tah-to; I say tators!
by Karen Schwabenland This week, at my local green grocer, I found a bag of potatoes marked down to only ninety-nine cents. I don't actually have a green grocer, I just like the sound of saying it. I have a supermarket, like everyone else does. This potato find was most definitely going to be my bargain of the week. And they were not the usual potatoes that come in a plastic bag, either. They were the Yukon Gold variety, only three times the size of normal golden potatoes. I brought them home and sat them on the kitchen counter. What to do with these gigantic spuds? They were too big to boil all at once in my largest pot. I do know a thing or two about tubers, or maybe just one thing. I know that any potato can be baked. Or should be able to undergo a baking. So I decided to put them in my biggest crockpot and let them roast. I washed and dressed each one in an aluminum foil blanket, then tossed them in the slow cooker. Since it was early in the day, I set the temperature at low. They had a good seven hours to get all nice and fluffy on the inside. That night at dinner time, I sent the entire family to the kitchen with instructions to help themselves to the contents of the crock. I often take action like that. Every once in a while, I take even more drastic action than that though. At the end of a busy day, when the ship feels weighty and lists to one side or the other I will make a call, and not to the local pizza joint, either. Before I make that call, hungry people have often sought me out for solace. "What's for dinner? they ask. "Everyman for himself!" I reply. When their stricken faces stare back at me, I try for a bit of comfort. "Women and children first," I'll add. While I had not used the abandon ship command that evening, the situation in the house had indeed grown dire. People were starving, and I was quite busy not feeding them. "Thank God for my foresight in planning ahead with those potatoes," I thought. Much to my surprise, after my order for each one to help himself, I overheard a mutiny of impassioned voices in the kitchen before I stepped in there. "These potatoes are still hard!" came the cry. "They're not even cooked!" Wait....what? After checking the usual culprits of the device not plugged in or turned on, I quickly dove into the refrigerator and retrieved leftover lasagne from the night before. The mutineers quickly dispersed and ate their way past their trauma. I could not figure out what went wrong though. I supposed that the low setting was the cause of the potatoes not cooking thoroughly. The next day, I tried again with the slow cooker, except turning it to the highest setting. And since they were already partially baked, I baked them dang taters for three more hours. At the end of the baking time, I checked them myself. Still not done. At least not done enough for fine tastes. I'm sure they would be palatable for someone lost in the Yukon, hence the name, Yukon Gold potatoes. They were about three quarters cooked after twelve hours of slow cooking. That night for dinner, I inspected the refrigerator once again and produced leftover chili from three nights before. When I went to bed, I dreamed about potatoes. My nightmare was brought on by a double edged sword of anxiety from those un-bakable, possibly genetically enhanced Yukons. One edge of the sword was this: if those potatoes were a swim team, they would be from East Germany. I knew they were oversized when I purchased them, but why wouldn't they cook? The other edge of the the sword was a simple fact. I was out of leftovers. And if I had no replacement items for the uncookable potatoes, the mutineers could return. There was not a third side to the sword, but if there was it might have had something to do with the three day old chili we had eaten for dinner. Finally, on the third day, I rose again to bake those potatoes. They had begun to haunt me, and I would be glad to get rid of them. Into the oven, or crematorium, with them. After an hour and a half, the time it takes to bake normal potatoes, the kitchen began to smell like the warm essence of pomme du terre. I set out cheese, butter, and sour cream. "Tonight--we feast!" I shouted. The family assembled, and we set to attacking those long roasted vegetables at last. I can't say they were good, but they weren't bad. The lyrics to an old song by Lionel Richie floated around at the back of my head with only a slight change, "You're once, twice, three times a tator, and I nosh you. I nosh you." |
AuthorKaren Schwabenland--Keeper of a daily blog of written matter, reporter of events large and small, and charlatan extraordinaire Archives
September 2022
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