Wednesday, June 30, 2021

Careless Pasta

 



Careless Pasta

 

I was hungry, didn’t have much time and I'm a careless cook……so.

Scouring my pantry, I came across a bag of elbow macaroni. The bag happened to hold ‘gluten free’ pasta, but hungry overcomes fastidiousness nine times out of nine.  And by the way, I didn’t notice any difference in taste.

 

Time for a mild digression. I’m convinced lots of folks merely live by the latest fads, whether it’s medicine or exercise or clothes or whatever.  I know that’s why I  had grabbed a bag of gluten free pasta off the shelf of my local grocer, without one word of evidence that it would make a difference in my already jolly life.   On the other side of the still flipping coin, I’d bet for only some 1% of the gluten free crowd that it does make a difference. 

 

Things you may not know:  Wheat allergy is not the same as gluten allergy.  Gluten is contained in more grains than just wheat, barley and rye, for example.  But, if you really want to know about your intestinal allergies, better get your buns to a board certified gastroenterologist.   Dr. Google, on the other hand, is only certified to treat your mildest medical interests.

 

Do you really care?  No, or at least not my three faithful readers, who only care about getting some pasta in the pot and sinking their fangs into something good, to be washed down with a martini or two.

 

So, let’s get to the making of Careless Pasta.



Ingredients

 

16 oz. package of elbow macaroni (or any other pasta---the careless cook doesn’t care)

28 oz. can of Italian or Italian style crushed tomatoes.  Italian tomatoes just flat taste better. But, I’ve found some U.S.A. grown tomatoes that are damn close (see photo)

Half an onion, diced.   I used a sweet onion.

½ cup of sun dried tomatoes, chopped

Heaping tablespoon of beef broth paste

Tablespoon of Herbs de Provence

2 tablespoons rustic Italian herbs (see photo)

 

Getting’ careless

 

Cook the pasta according to package directions, or cook it as long as you want and do the taste test. Hey, you know your preferences better than the package does.  I added some salt and olive oil to the pot. 

 

While the pasta cooks, sauté the diced onion until lightly caramelized, then add the dried tomatoes and beef paste.  Stir well until heated through.

 

When the pasta is cooked, drain and return it to the pot.  Pour in the crushed tomatoes and add the herbs and onion mixture.  (No, I did not reheat the pasta.  It was still steaming! I just poured the tomatoes from the can.)

 

Decorate with some chopped fresh basil and grated Parmesan, if you wish.

 

Seem too easy?  Too careless?  Wait until you find out how wonderful easy and careless can taste.

 

You may say the martinis had something to do with it, but I bleeg to dis-a-grease.




 


 

 

Saturday, June 19, 2021

Ah, New Orleans


 


Ah, New Orleans, that decrepit old whore!

 

A face rife with fissures and echoes of jazz,

The half forgotten jazz that plays to ghosts, 

With notes of a lost generation and whiskey

Flavored by sugary stagnation.

 

Sit ‘n a bar, dine on oysters, with yesterday’s 

Stale recipes and coagulated sauces.

 

The diners come to say they’ve been here.

Oh, yes, I’ve seen the Street Car Named Desire,

And don’t know Tennessee Williams.

And Bill Faulkner?  Who is he?

 

And never heard Louis or Al blow their

Dented trumpets or Pete his licorice stick.

 

The streets reek of tawdry bodies sick with lust

 And find romance a bothersome chore.

 

Oh, yes, a weak old whore, with cracked teeth

And dusty hair.  See how her rouge has faded

And her mascara creeps down her legs.

 

A ragged whore whose beauty is blighted

And cracked with age, her hair a dusty mop.

 

But, bring your money and your sex, the old 

Girl needs it.

Tuesday, June 15, 2021

Elmwood Architectural Review Board

 



The single word, Elmwood, was chiseled in bold letters over the huge pair of stone framed, wrought iron gates, and below it in cheery script read “For Those Who Have a Lust for Life,” leaving in doubt if it was a wise choice for those who were still iffy about lust, or life, or living.

 

The shiny, scurring golf carts and lack of happy, bouncing children, marked Elmwood as an over 55 community.  Way over.

 

The place was gigantic, stretching from the main highway over to Boulder Lake.  There were no boulders on or around the lake and no Elms in Elmwood, but to those with a lust for life it didn’t matter.

 

The place was spic and span, no discarded paper and beer cans in the gutters, no cars on jacks, or front yards brimming with stone deer, no chartreuse front doors, and certainly no loud music.  Lust for Life was being carefully controlled.

 

Largely this atmosphere of sterility was the responsibility of the ARB, the Architectural Review Board, which met monthly in a well-appointed back room in the Community Recreation Center.  The room overlooked the golf course, with coffee and sweet rolls catered.

 

Sally Francis Tunner, often called The Wicked Witch of the Waist, due to bulk and attitude, called the meeting of the Elmwood Homeowners Architectural Review Board to order. Some spelled it Waste.

 

The other members of the board sat quietly, although Sammy ‘the drummer’ Samson did his usual trick of thumping his #2 yellow pencil’s eraser on the table.

 

Sally Francis chewed her bottom lip, but didn’t say anything.  The drummer was often an ally.  By his no vote, the measure to paint the bottom of the swimming pool pink failed; likewise the movement to restrict the height of street signs to two feet.

 

Mildred Perkins, a sweet faced ninny, usually said little and today was no exception.  At the last meeting, she’d boldly broken silence to read one of her poems.

 

My heart lives within your smile

And I would walk a country mile

Because I really like your style.

 

This was greeted by looks of surprise and vengeful thoughts involving gunfire.

 

“Today’s agenda includes a request to install an outdoor toilet, another to keep a goat as a pet, a third to introduce nickel plated name plates to mail boxes, and a final request to ban nude swimming at the Elmwood Community Pool.

 

The final item was probably for aesthetics rather than decorum. To date there had been no complaints or the odd nude scampering about for that matter.    The men glanced at each other, wondering if they’d missed anything.  The idea of younger women frolicking and splashing, while showing the occasional matched set of nipples had it’s appeal, but this was a community, with the average age closer to grave than graduation.

 

“So, let us begin at the beginning,” Sally Francis said, which made one wonder if she spoke of the agenda, or a full English breakfast, or a midnight snack.

 

Quendle Grimby, gray haired and glasses, with a neck the size of the average woman’s wrist, was the first to decipher the code.  “Why does anyone want to put in an outhouse?”  His Adam’s apple bobbed in approval. 

 

Charlene Piffer answered immediately. “They’re putting on a new roof at 1404 Beatle Pond Road.”

 

Questions and comments flew like leaves in a jolly windstorm.

 

“A new roof?  I don’t believe that was on any agenda.”

 

“I hope they know we nixed the speckled tangerine shingles!”

 

“Can’t they still use the indoor plumbing?”

 

“Ridiculous!”

 

“How big is the outhouse?”

 

If Sally Francis had a gavel she would have happily hammered a nail, but instead she used her ample lungs.  “I suggest we table this until we get some ...”

 

Sammy cut in, as he had a habit of doing.  “NO outhouse!  I think that’s pretty clear.”

 

“Second item, “ roared Sally Francis, expressing her insistence that she not be interrupted.

 

Quendle meanwhile had dozed off and so had his Adams apple.  Sammy stabbed him in the side with his pencil, making Quindle so very glad he’d worn Depends.

 

“Keeping a goat as a pet,” Sally Francis said.

 

Dick Heather, a stumpy, serious, bald man with twilight years only a distant memory and lights out in the offing, made his presence known.  “Goats are not one of the pets in the covenant.  That’s pretty clear.  If this were the Army…”

 

“If this were the Army you’d have been in front of firing squad ages ago for inciting ignorance and cowardice in the face of logic.” The speaker was Dolly Madison, her real name, and a butt of jokes until the other board members had come to know and fear her.  Dolly had a quick wit, an eager mind, and called no one at the table a friend.  Oh, she had plenty of friends, but none so rude as to be elected, and waste her time.

 

“The goat is a service animal, sanctioned by the state,” Dolly said.  “Also, goats and sheep eat grass, and prevent greenhouse gases, unlike fossil fueled lawn mowers.  Our county protects goat and sheep ownership as an environmental issue.”

 

“Well F…..,” Sammy began, but thought better of it.

 

Dick Heather slammed his fist down, reawakening Quendle, who sped off to the men’s room.  Depends can only take so much abuse.

 

“NICKEL PLATTED NAME PLATES,” Sally Francis broke in, sending shock waves.

 

“Don’t care,” Sammy said. “Nickel plated, dime plated, quarter plated…all the same to me.”

 

“Everyone in agreement in not restricting the type of nameplates?”

 

Hands went up, waved briefly and came back down.

 

“How about nude swimming?”  Sally Francis tried to present it without a growl.”

 

Dick Heather said, “I suppose the EPA…”

 

“It’s a state issue and a community issue,” Dolly Madison said. “The state doesn’t allow nudity on its beaches, but private swimming pools are another matter.”

 

Voices, loud and tangled brought the issue to a head, with some male members in favor of the baring of love mounds, while others were silenced by thoughts of their wives.  Female members pictured flaccid, wrinkled penises.

 

The naked body, sacred as it was, had no place in the Elmwood community swimming pool.  Who the hell brought this up in the first place?  Dolly knew, but wasn’t saying.

 

The next day, Dolly sent an email to Sally Francis.  “In regard to the outdoor toilet, it’s a port-a-potty for the workmen, paid for by the roofing company and only needs to remain for two more days.”

 

Mildred Perkins’ poem was published in the weekly Neighborhood Shout Out.  She became known as the Emily Dickenson of Elmwood, although few had read her poems.  Those that had remained silent.

 

The agenda for the next meeting included having gate guards armed with pepper spray, requiring leashes on visiting grandchildren, and a request to bury a dog in his neighbor’s front yard “because she killed him.”

 

Meanwhile, word had gotten out about the goat. Now three other neighbors had them.  A fourth neighbor inquired about the possibility of converting a port-a-potty into a small goat cheese factory. He’d seen one just down the street.

 

Dolly typed out an approval for the goat cheese project and the dog burial, and dropped them in the neighbors’ mailboxes.  She was tired of working with idiots anyway.




 


 

Thursday, June 10, 2021

The Fourth Monkey by J.D. Barker

 



The Fourth Monkey by J.D. Barker

 

“Page Turner” is so overused it’s become vapid eyewash.  How ‘bout this:  A book you grab thirty seconds after waking up, and before your first cup of coffee, a book that makes lunch an inconvenience, a book that makes you say “Yes, Honey,” when she’s just mentioned the Bahamas and your best friend in the same breath.

 

The plot of The Fourth Monkey twists and turns your mind like dead-ends in a complicated maze.  It’ll keep you awake, as eager as a gambler watching the little ball clicking and bouncing on a spinning roulette wheel.

 

“Come to bed,” comes the call of your one-and-only. What the hell!  Pour another drink and make it last to the end of the next chapter.  Then toss and turn, and get up for just one more.  Hey, this is a serious matter of life and death.

 

The Fourth Monkey is a murder mystery, a serial killer, cops with problems, a countdown to finding the victim when you couldn’t find the others.  It’s streaked with the scent of good and evil, blood and gore, tragedy, heartache, dark humor, illicit sex, and populated by a cast of carefully etched characters.

 

I’ve never read a serial killer mystery this well plotted or this interesting.   Guess away!  I promise you, you won’t know what’s about to happen until it happens.  The worst and best of The Fourth Monkey is that there are two follow-on books to this diabolical tale, enough to give you sleepless nights and delirium tremors. 

 

Your wife left for the Bahamas?  Don’t worry.  Keep reading.  She’s bound to come back.

Thursday, June 3, 2021

The Foreign Correspondent by Alan Furst

 



The Foreign Correspondent by Alan Furst

 

Yes, I’ve written about Alan Furst before and YES I am addicted to his tales of intrigue, wrapped around a Europe that is drifting toward war.  Paris, Spain, Berlin, The Balkans, all hold prominent places in his wonderfully written and carefully researched novels.  In The Foreign Correspondent, Furst takes the reader into the foggy darkness that hovers over the rich, the famous, the down-and-out corners of 1938 Paris.

 

Carlo Weisz is a foreign correspondent for Reuters, living from story to story, always searching for more.  He becomes entangled with Italian expats who are publishing an anti-fascist newspaper.  The Italian secret police are operating all over Paris and have already killed one member of the anti-fascist group. The others are still meeting, but on the run.  Among their number is a traitor.

 

Allow me to digress a moment.  I know some, who don’t know any better, will toss off fiction as a waste of time, a flim-flam effort of butchering history.  I heartily disagree.  Moi?   Surely this solid rule follower wouldn’t dare compare mere fiction to well researched history!  Oh, yea, oh yea, I would indeed.  I’m not at all denigrating historians, but well researched novels breathe the breath of life into an historical context.  With Alan Furst, history lives.

 

You lovers of historical romance novels know exactly what I mean.  Girl meets Lard, is captured by a pirate, rescued by the Lard and whisked away to his ancestral land in the Scottish highlands.

 

No matter how you feel about the substance or thinness of the plot, the details tell you more about personal lives and customs and other details of the mid-centuries than you’re likely to find in any history book. History deals with facts.  Historical novels, in their many forms, deal with life.

 

Another example from my own jaded past:  I studied the French Revolution in high school and beyond and am familiar with the bones of this huge event. But I never really understood the way lives were caught up in the bloody, nation ravaging turmoil until I read A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens.  Yes, that’s right, he of Oliver Twist and A Christmas Carol fame.  A Tale of Two Cites deals, not with events as much as people caught up in events.

 

The same is true of Alan Furst’s novels. When you read Alan Furst, you are taken bit by bit through the race to war, you learn what the people of Paris (in this case) were going through, and the people in Berlin, and the people of Italy, and countries that were on both sides of the politics, and those who were stilling on the fence, just hoping to survive.

 

The protagonist, Carlo Weisz, can’t bring himself to sit on the sidelines, no matter the danger.   To complicate things, British spy agencies also want to discover the operations of the Italian and German anti-fascist group, but for different reasons.

 

Furst leads you into smoky cafes and fashionable homes and restaurants, where lives are bought and sold, and where good and evil lurk in equal number. Sometimes it’s a conundrum, with both faces of Janus residing in one man…or one woman.  The tension is palatable, the danger is real, and survival is fragile. Life and death may hinge on a single word, or a single time and place, or a single friend, or the twist of a key in a lock.

 

As a bona fide member of the media, Carlo has access to many people at all levels of government.  It’s up to him to sift truth from falsehood and friend from foe. Sometimes they co-mingle.  Often he struggles in the dark, while many lives depend on his raw judgment. 

 

From start to finish, we are drawn in by a story that captures the period, the people, and the smell of a fetid wind of a war that change Europe forever.