[A summer repeat from July 3, 2016] I scored a point or two by asking Donna if she wanted to go out for dinner on Friday (ka-ching).  “No she said . . . how about if we stay home and have something simple.” Now I have come to realize that “simple” in Donna’s parlance means plain chicken, rice and asparagus.  Three of my favorite things.  Not.   So I offered to make dinner.

I went to Fresh Market (my usual haunt for dinner inspiration) and bought 3/4 of a pound of wild Atlantic sockeye salmon for Donna.  Simple.  And I got three crab cakes for myself (a regular crab cake; the “ultimate” crab cake; and a salmon cake). I wanted to try them all.  The salmon was drenched in olive oil.  Seasoned with turmeric and pepper and baked for 20 minutes at 400.  The “cakes” I sautéed in olive oil until brown. 

Then (be still my heart) I got organic white potatoes; organic carrots; and some Shiitaki mushrooms.  The potatoes I diced thinly and sautéed in butter.  Topped with ground pepper, turmeric, Kosher salt and garlic powder.    The carrots and Shiitakis were washed (the carrots were filthy), the carrots skinned and everything diced and sautéed  in olive oil.   Both took about 40 minutes on low(er) heat.  Candles.  A little Gato Barbieri crooning in the background.   “Well?” I asked.   Donna looked up.  “This is probably a nine and a half.”  She paused.  Savored a bite.  “Actually a ten” (ka-ching).  And then – the píece de résistance – I whipped out a Talenti Sicilian Pistachio gelato to close the meal.  And did the dishes.  Ka-ching ka-ching . . . . .        

·  A cold seat in a public restroom is unpleasant. A warm seat in a public restroom is worse

·  Apparently an RSVP to a wedding invitation “Maybe next time,” isn’t the correct response.

·  Don’t irritate old people. The older we get, the less “life in prison” is a deterrent.

·  Aliens probably fly by Earth, go home and lock their doors.

·  I really don’t mind getting older, but my body is taking it badly.

·  I miss the 90s when bread was still good for you and no-one knew what kale was.

·  Do you ever get up in the morning, look in the mirror and think “This can’t be right.“

·  My wife asked me to take her to one of those restaurants where they make food right in front of you. I took her to Subway.

·  I picked up a hitchhiker. He asked if I wasn’t afraid, he might be a serial killer? I told him the odds of two serial killers being in the same car at the same time were extremely unlikely.

[A repeat from May 22, 2016]   In my post of February 10, 2013, I talked about a visit to Boca Grande, Florida. Wonderful. Memorable time.    And I alluded to the Boca Grande Public Library. 

Fast backwards about 32 years. Donna, Lauren and I were in Boca Grande with our dear friends Diane, Dave and Dave Jr.  Dave said “want to go check out the library?”  And we did.  The Johann Fust Community Library.  Nice library.  Lotsa books.  In the back on the far right, there was a cage of sorts.  A fenced area.  And a locked fence door.  I ambled back and peered in.  Oh my socks and shoes. 

In that cage, on the shelves, I recognized books that were hundreds of years old.  I began to perspire. The librarian Pansy walked over.  “Can I help you?”  “Ummm. . . may I look in there (pointing)?”  “You’re in interested in that?”  Mmmmm. . . sure.   She keyed opened the lock and let me in.  And I drooled. . . . .  Dozens of first editions (e.g. Origin of the Species – 1859) and books dating to the 1500’s.  Without appearing too enthused, I casually asked “what are you going to do with these books?”  Pansy folded her arms, shook her head and said “I just don’t know.”  Now I am not as dumb as I look so I offered – “you . . . ummm . . . want to sell them?”  And she looked at me incredulously “you would want to buy them?”  And I said yes.   And I did.   Suitcases and boxes full of rare books donated years before by Charles Goodspeed of Boston’s famed rare book shop.  All brought home.  And quickly deaccessed.   

It was a memorable “score.”  Like buying the Rock Island Railroad archives (5/15/14) or stumbling upon the mysterious cemetery of books in Lisbon (8/24/14).  I have always liked libraries . . . .   

[A repeat from November 17, 2016] I enjoy playing golf during the summer and in the shoulder seasons. And my preference is to wear shorts.  In the summer, that’s an easy sell.  Looking around the golf course on a hot summer day, most guys are wearing shorts.

However once Labor Day arrives and the temperature begins its inexorable slide down the thermometer, the long pants start coming out.  Even when it’s 60 degrees.   But not me. . . . .

I can’t count the number of times someone has said – as I walk in the locker room on a chilly Saturday morning – “you’re wearing shorts!?!?”  Posed as a question, the answer would be obvious — from my knobby, scarred legs.  Yes.  I am – indeed – wearing shorts.  But when presented as a statement, it might just suggest that I meet someone’s definition of “knucklehead” (see February 13, 2014, for the proper definition of “knucklehead”).  

Hey – I’m comfy in shorts.  But I also figure if a 110 pound cocktail waitress can wear a miniskirt when it’s 10 below zero, I can wear shorts to golf on a day when Andy Avalos says “it’s going to be 59 degrees and sunny.”  Such weather is in my opinion shortsworthy.     

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given . . . . and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.   Isaiah 9:6

And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem (because he was of the house and lineage of David). To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child. And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.   Luke 2:4-7

Here we are again! Christmas 2022.  Mercy – the days are often long but the years go quickly . . . .

Our best wishes to all of you for a Happy and Blessed Christmas, New Year and Holiday Season!!

[A repeat from 10/31/2015, and a follow up to my last post on “First Aid”]  I was walking to the train station with a retired friend. He mentioned that he is taking a course on Lucretius – the Roman poet and philosopher (99 B.C.-55 B.C.).   His previous course was on Cicero and the one before that on some unpronounceable Roman chap.  My friend went on talking about Lucretius and his publications on the nature of the universe and Epicureanism.  Sounded pretty neat.  I asked what he was taking next semester and he was not sure.  Maybe something on analytics or Euripides.  It was then I stuck my chin out. . . . .

I asked my friend if he had ever had a course on first aid.  He looked at me – “no.”  I asked if he’d ever taken a Heimlich Maneuver, CPR or AED course.  I got the same answer.  He asked me if I had done so and I recounted briefly the year-long course work I took to become a Civil Defense emergency medical responder at Augustana College and my AED review (see June 12, 2014).   I said that over the years, knowledge of first aid has come in handy.  And on a few occasions very handy.

It’s great taking courses on Lucretius and Cicero though my personal bent might involve guitar lessons, drum lessons, bird study or a tutorial on doing card magic.  But lemme say this — acquiring knowledge on the subject of first aid (including AED, Heimlich, CPR) may someday prove to be more valuable than reading De Rerum Natura or Iphigenia at Aulis.  You never know when some fast-moving southbound emergency will raise its ugly head.  And there is no one but you . . . . . . 

1935. India. Mahatma Gandhi rushed into a railroad terminal to catch a train. He was late. And as he ran, the train began to move out of the station. Gandhi raced and grabbed the railing on the last car. And pulled himself up. But just as he stepped on board, the sandal of one foot fell off — and landed between the tracks.

QUESTION: Did Gandhi jump off the train to retrieve the sandal (and then try to make it back on the train)? Or did he shrug – and step inside the railroad car with one bare foot? What would you do?

It really is a trick question. Gandhi did neither. Instead, he quickly removed the sandal on the other foot and lobbed it into the center of the tracks — near the one that had fallen. An acquaintance who was already on board the train asked why he had thrown his other sandal. Gandhi replied that he was hoping that the person who found the first would find the second — and have a fine new pair of sandals.

This is an example of what might be called “creative compassion” — an ability to help others in ways that may not be so obvious. It is stories like this that give credence to the idea that we may not be able to change the world — but we may be able to change the world of another human being. The biggest thing we might do on any given day is simply to do an act of kindness, of compassion or of love — to another person.

[A repeat from August 3, 2017] De gustibus non est disputandum is a favorite phrase of mine (I know – “get a life RH“). It means “in matters of taste, there can be no disputes.”  We all have different tastes – in food, activities, temperature, friends, work, politics and other things.  Your “taste” in food may be way out of my wheelhouse but that doesn’t make it wrong.  Or right.  It’s just your taste.  

I love spaghetti carbonara with lean bacon, pancetta and peas.  I crave avocados (see 8/20/13) and smoked salmon with mustard.  You may hate the stuff (you poor soul) but – hey brother – de gustibus non est disputandum.  

I know a lot of folks swear by soft shell crabs.  But what is tasty about chewing on shards of broken plastic?   I’m not a fan of corned beef and cabbage.  I’ve never ordered it and on occasions when it has been served to me, I will nibble a piece of cabbage and bury the rest under a roll.  And pat my stomach “delicious!”   Ribs?  I mean what’s the point?  

I’m not afraid to try new things.  I’ve eaten worms, bugs, brains, innards, gizzards and goat tongue – often in business settings.  But when given the choice?  I’ll tee up something I like.  Or tolerate.  What’s your most unfavorite foods?    

[A repeat from November 9, 2014] Speaking of golf, when I’m with my buds on the golf course and we tee off on the first hole, a “Mulligan” is frequently offered for an errant tee shot.  We call it a “breakfast ball.” It’s a do-over.  Even if we’re playing for a few coins, it’s “hit another – nobody saw that first one.” 

Wouldn’t it be nice if in life we had do-overs? Mulligans? For errant words or deeds?   We do in a way though the granting of a do-over often lies in the province of the recipient of the errant words or deeds.  It’s called “forgiveness.”  I’m sure we all have things we’d like to do over.  Words.  Deeds.  And we’re all grateful for the granting of forgiveness (or lack of ill consequence).  I’m sorry . . . . It’s okay.  No worries. 

But today, there is a poison of political correctness that can sink careers.  Free speech is being crushed.  Do overs?  For the wrong word?  Forget it.   Accusations – even though false – are often enough to destroy a life.  

I’ve said some dumb things and done some even dumber ones that I’d like to call back.  But in the words of the great poet Omar Khayyam:

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”

Our futures lie within our own hands.  The “moving finger” business is probably a good reason to think twice before we act — or speak.  And knowing of our own fallibility – and frailty – a reason to consider the granting of Mulligans to others.