Every Picture Tells a Story

Tea: Lemon

Music: AC/DC, "It's a Long Way to the Top (if You Wanna Rock 'N' Roll)"

Time: Night.

Tonight, I took my son to a picture party for his high school strings group's trip to Australia.

There was food. There were, of course, pictures. There were videos (and, as usual, the homemade one was better than the one provided by the tour company).

And there was one moment that linked generations in my family.

My late father spent some time in Australia during World War II, on R and R from the brutal island-hopping battles of the Pacific Campaign. (His Marine unit fought at Guadalcanal and Cape Gloucester.)

He crossed the Pacific by ship, wondering if a torpedo would send his ship to the bottom and him into the water with the sharks. My son crossed in a jumbo jet, sleepless only because his seatmate ("some random adult from England") was snoring.

But one shot tonight -- a picture of Luna Park in Melbourne -- brought their trips together.

My father went there, escorting a young Australian woman whose sweetheart was off fighting. (It was an honorable arrangement, and my father an honorable man.) My son didn't go in, but his group stood outside the gate in the same place where his grandfather stood more than sixty years ago.

I wish they could have talked about Australia ... but I'll tell my son what I can of my father's time there. And I'll pray that he never needs R and R from a shooting war.

A Quick Bite of Appreciation

Tea: Iced Chai

Music: The Who, "Eminence Front"

Time: Night.

I like to cook. Occasionally, I even love it. And I'm not bad -- or so I hear from time to time.

But I still envy the people who can be handed random ingredients and make magic. The food whisperers, if you will.

The Iron Chefs (one of whom I once got to meet) come to mind, obviously. But they're just the most famous examples.

I'm in awe of anyone with an intuitive knack for what is both art and craft -- as well as a basic human need. To look at a piece of fish, heft a melon, sniff a bunch of herbs and know just what should be done with each, for how long and in combination with this or that -- well, that's a fine gift.

And while I might not have it, I'm not jealous. Just appreciative of those who do, and who share it with the rest of us.

Why do I bring this up?

Because many times I use this space to rant or gripe ... and tonight I just felt like raising a cup to artists of the culinary stripe.

Get Off the Stage!

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: The Alarm, "Rain in the Summertime"

Time: Evening.

Were it not for the humidity, I'd swear the calendar had skipped ahead to September. It's cloudy, with the occasional drop -- and mercury in the 80s. More of the same is in the forecast for tomorrow.

Don't get me wrong. Summer has its place. It's perfect for sitting outside and watching fireflies, for example, and there's no better season for ... um ... wait, it'll come to me.

Sorry, folks. I like fall, and I can't wait for it. As far as I'm concerned, summer is like a mediocre opening act that overstays its welcome on the stage, playing encore after encore.

The hardest part is, the heat's supposed to come back later in the week -- and after this break, it's going to feel even worse.

Ah, well ... fall is coming.

Just not soon enough.

Tea: Blueberry

Music: Rare Earth, "Celebrate"

Time: Night.

Today saw a birthday celebration in the family, for which -- courtesy of the generosity of a dear friend -- we went to Old Shawnee Pizza.

Just before we sat down, my son said, "There's a wasp on my shoulder."

There was -- a black one, crawling back and forth. Perhaps it was the cool weather, but it looked more sluggish than threatening.

I walked him outside, slowly, stopping on the way to pick up a copy of a free weekly tabloid. The idea was to flick the wasp up and off him, using the rolled-up paper -- and to swat the little sucker if it got chippy over being dislodged.

No sooner were we out, though, than it flew away. No flipping, no swatting, no nothing.

And you know what? I'm glad -- and for someone who used to be so phobic that I couldn't even look at a picture of a wasp, that's saying something.

Wasps, flies and the like are pests, true -- but they also have their purposes. If they didn't, they wouldn't exist. Killing one for no reason, then, would have served no purpose.

Don't get me wrong. I'm no Jainist. I squash spiders in the bathroom. I set out mousetraps in the garage, when they're needed. I have hunted, and will again. But if I really believe that we're here to be good stewards of creation, I can't kill something just to get it out of my way.

Welcome to the Reading Room

Tea: Christmas.

Music: Big Country, "Where the Rose is Sown"

Time: Night.

My earache is back ... so this will be brief.

If you like good poetry, and illuminating and interesting comment thereon, go here.

That should hold you until tomorrow (at the very least), by which time my head -- or the leftmost opening on it -- is clear again.

Is This Thing On?

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: U2, "One"

Time: Night.

Had free passes tonight to a comedy club in Overland Park. Free laughter is always a good thing, so we went. The second and third comics were funny. The first could be someday.

I guess I should feel a tad bit guilty, because so much of comedy involves "othering" someone -- and still I laugh.

I guess I can console myself with the fact that observational, left-field stuff -- Steven Wright, Heywood Banks, the late Mitch Hedberg and the like -- still makes me laugh harder than anything else.

Because if you can't laugh at powdered water, deanthropomorphized cartoon animals or people who understand Morse code being driven crazy by tap dancers ... what can you laugh at?

Time to Sense.

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed.

Music: Doobie Brothers, "Long Train Runnin'"

Time: Night.

I handed in not one, but two art reviews today. (One, I'd written before, but it vanished into the ether. So I rewrote it. I think it's better. I hope it's better.)

The common thread in each was that I told people to get out and look at the shows themselves, see what they could find, mine the exhibits for whatever meaning they can get. The most important thing, I wrote, was time -- time to look at things from different angles, time to go back and dig one layer deeper, time to

Maybe that makes me a lousy critic. Shouldn't I be telling people what's good and what's bad, and making sure they know the precise reason it works -- or doesn't?

Perhaps I could do that if I had years of experience and a long list of awards for my own stuff under my belt. I could look down, part with either a pat or a sneer, and congratulate myself on shaping the art world.

I know I've written this -- or something like it -- before. But to recap: Screw that.

People are capable of finding meaning, inspiration and beauty (in whatever form it takes) on their own. Is there pretentious crap out there? Absolutely -- in music, in visual art, in food, in theater. (Dear God, now I have "Ska-REWWWWWWWWWWWW-uh-TAY-puh") stuck in my head again.)

But people don't need critics to tell them whether something's good or bad. They have senses.

Can the senses be trained? Absolutely. That's what wine tasting and music appreciation classes are all about. Learning to appreciate quality has value.

Balanced against that, though, is the amazing phenomenon of individual taste -- the sum of the quirks, preferences and peeves that make us individuals. And how are you going to develop that if you rely on someone else to do it for you?

Bottom line: Sure, read reviews -- but with an eye toward making your own decisions. Then check things out for yourself, if you're interested in what's on offer. Give yourself time and an open mind, and see what happens.

Escape of the Six-Legged Snacks

Tea: Jacob's Dream

Music: Chris Isaak, "Only the Lonely"

Time: Night

Just my luck today. My son and I saw hundreds of grasshoppers -- and had nothing in which to store them.

So we couldn't catch them ... purge them overnight ... boil them in the morning in salted water seasoned with oregano and garlic ... and then sauté them in oil with jalapeño chiles.

(Yes, we've done that once already. And it was gooooooood. No "ewww" allowed.)

Ah, well. It's a long summer. There's bound to be a skillet full of bugs on the horizon.

And yea, verily, it will be good.

Catching a Break

Tea: Blood Orange with honey

Music: Bob Walkenhorst, "Stolen the Moon"

Time: Night.

The heat finally broke today. You can tell it's been miserable when 88 degrees feels like a cold snap.

I shouldn't gripe, though. A lot of people are doing without air conditioning this summer.

We live in the most privileged country on earth, and it's easy to start thinking of privileges as rights. But people have lived a lot longer without conveniences than with them -- so, obviously, they're not essential to survival.

Gets me to thinking a bit ... what would happen if people gave up a few privileges and luxuries, now and again, so others could have the basic rights of food, water, shelter and purpose?

I'm not going to climb into the pulpit or anything ... but if anyone here catches your eye and your heart, isn't the chance to help worth a few lattes?

On the Block

Tea: Mandarin Orange (iced)

Music: Don Henley, "Sunset Grill"

Time: Evening.

I like to think I live in a neighborhood, rather than a subdivision. We know the names of the people who live close to us. We attend neighborhood Christmas parties, shovel snow next door, and -- when we're in town -- take part in the Fourth of July mini-parade around the block.

Still, though, it strikes me that the suburban experience is still largely a back of the house thing. We grill on the deck, rather than sitting on the front porch watching the world go by.

A good chunk of me envies the people for whom the stoop is the neighborhood gathering place, the sidewalk a river bringing a cargo of interactions.

(And no having to mow the grass. There's another plus.)

Don't get me wrong. I don't mind having the green space and the shade. But I think the farther our houses get from each other, the more we lose something intangible -- that sense of really being next door to someone.

Not to Rush Things, But ...

Tea: Christmas

Music: Vince Guaraldi Trio, "The Great Pumpkin Waltz"

Time: Night.

The Christmas decorations are out in all the hobby stores already. That's jumping the gun, more than a little.

That said ... boy, could I go for some fall right now.

A little woodsmoke in the air ... some salmon on the grill ... maybe a tumbler of single malt Scotch.

And no more of this flipping heat. It's making me cranky.

Demons and Witches and Goblins, Oh My.

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed.

Music:

Time: Night.

In a bid to clear my head today, I took myself to Barnes and Noble to spend some more of the Christmas gift card.

In the end, I gravitated to the clearance bin (largely because I don't have a gigantic amount left on said card). There, I found E.R. Eddison's "The Worm Ouroboros."

I took this as a sign that, having devoured George MacDonald's "Phantastes" and "Lilith" already this year, my pre-Tolkien fantasy reading should continue with this book.

I'm 51 pages in, and enjoying the trip so far. Eddison manages to be more affected yet less precious than MacDonald -- although I've yet to see anything as emotionally charged as some of MacDonald's writing, particularly the broken globe segment in "Phantastes."

Anyway ... it's an engaging read in a genre I enjoy. Between this brand of fantasy and Christopher Moore's whacked-out scenarios, I'm getting a good supply of unreality these days.

Never a bad thing, that. Not in my world, or what passes for it.

How About Them (Crab)apples?

Tea: White Grapefruit

Music: The Alarm, "Rain in the Summertime"

Time: Night.

The trip home from church tonight turned into an extended crabapple picking session at one of the local parks. At some point, there will be jam or preserves -- crabapples being pretty darn sour when eaten out of hand. I still have to pop in a few, though. Sour isn't always a bad thing.

No lectures, please. Anything on public ground that doesn't say "do not pick" is fair game. I've brought home wood ear mushrooms from a nature preserve in Blue Springs, Missouri, and cloud ears from the Arboretum in Overland Park. (Yes, it does say "No picking plants" in both places -- but mushrooms aren't plants. If there is a loophole, it must be taken.)

There's something about providentially provided produce (Yes, I do like to eat my p's) that adds an extra bit of satisfaction to the consumption.

I spent my high school years on the southwest Kansas prairie, eating prickly pears (the fruit and the pads), lambs' quarters, sandhill plums and yucca shoots.

When I was at Kansas State, a walk back from Eisenhower Hall at the right time of the year would net crabapples from the quad and wild plums and rose hips from bushes by the Student Union.

(Never thought about it, but I'm sensing a theme here.)

I've also hunted and fished, which bring their own (and equally valid) sorts of satisfaction. But it was foraging, not hunting, that kept us going back when the cave walls doubled as art galleries. Can't always find animals ... but those roots and berries and tubers are right there, if you know just where to look.

I'm pontificating, I know. I'll shut up and eat a crabapple.

A Different Kind of Infusion

Tea: Chrysanthemum

Music: The Beatles, "Penny Lane"

Time: Night

Last month -- I forget the day -- I went into the back yard and picked a double handful of mulberries from the tree there. I rinsed them, let them dry and then packed them into a clean jar.

Then I filled the jar with Most Wanted vodka, which I like because (a) it's made near Atchison, Kansas, and (b) it's good. I put the jar in a cool place in the basement and let it sit -- until this evening.

I strained the liquid in the jar -- now a deep, clear rose color -- into a freshly washed and dried bottle, which I then corked and put in the freezer. (Yes, I popped the cork every now and then to let air into the bottle. I wanted to be able to get the cork out once the bottle was cold.)

A few hours later, I put a shot glass into the freezer long enough to frost up. Then I filled it with a shot of the infused vodka, went outside and took a sniff.

The fruit was there, noticeably. Next step: down the hatch, Russian style.

Vodka can be oily at room temperature. There wasn't a hint of any oiliness here, though -- just a quick taste of fresh straw, followed by the mulberry note (rounding on the tongue and the roof of the mouth) and a sweet, grassy aftertaste.

As first efforts at infusing go, it might not have been a home run. But I'll call it a solid base hit -- and I'm already making plans for what's left. I've never muddled before -- but as with infusing, there's a first time for everything.

So Bacon is Cleveland?

Tea: Jacob's Dream

Music: Mott the Hoople, "All the Young Dudes"

Time: Night.

With the kids out of the house, one package of bacon goes farther than usual.

Last night, it was BLTs (one of the ten best sandwiches in the world, in no particular order).

Tonight, some crumbled up leftovers went on top of a white pizza, along with cream cheese, yellow onion rings, thinly sliced Roma tomatoes and a sprinkling of shredded Mozzarella and Parmesan.

There are four uncooked slices still in the refrigerator. They'll go into a pasta sauce tomorrow, along with more onion, roasted red bell pepper and the remaining Roma.

I've heard rumors that there are people out there who get tired of bacon. I'm not one of them. I'm not even half of one of them.

This is because ... and yes, it takes the upper case: Bacon Rocks.

It rocks on its own -- the thicker the cut, the better -- and as an accompaniment for everything from cheeseburgers to steamed green beans to filets. I've even had a chocolate bar with bacon -- and you know what? That's right. It rocked.

(Pancetta, a subset of bacon, also rocks. This must be duly noted.)

I'm not sure who first got the idea of curing pork belly and then applying smoke. (Not where it was first done -- the visionary who first conceived of bacon.) There is, however, some interesting reading to be had here and here.

Whoever it was ... I raise a rasher to you. Because you, too, rock.

Aren't They All?

Tea: Arctic Storm

Music: King Crimson, "Starless"

Time: Night

This will be short. My leg hurts (the price of playing football past whatever passed for my prime) and it's been a semi-rough night.

With most members of my church's youth group off on a mission trip, and their director overseeing the endeavor, it fell to me tonight to run the show for those who stayed behind (six kids, five of them seventh-grade girls.)

Before the short lesson, on forgiveness and thankfulness, I got to tell them that one of the girls who went on the mission trip is now without a mother. She was found dead in her car last night.

I don't know details, and I'm not going to speculate on what happened. The senior pastor described the circumstances as "tragic" -- but really, isn't any death that leaves an adolescent motherless tragic?

Isn't each death a tragedy, or the culmination of one?

I Can't Place the Accent

Tea: Mandarin Green with honey

Music: Aztec Camera, "Oblivious"

Time: Afternoon.

So after dropping the kids off at church for a weeklong mission trip to California (Missouri, that is), it was errand time.

First stop: Hobby Lobby, where "Selected Home Accents" were 80 percent off.

I have no idea what a "home accent" is. This stuff looked like knicknacks, geegaws and assorted -- well, stuff.

Call me strange, but I have never looked at a room and thought, "You know what this needs? A little wooden cow, right over there." (I suppose the pertinent home accent for that would be a Texas Panhandle twang.)

And I fail to see what enhancement a blue glass pumpkin or a large metal wall hanging of a key might provide to any space. (I'm sure my Philistine accent is showing now, huh?)

In my world, if a living room has books, a place to sit to read them and enough light to do so comfortably, I'm good. I'm not opposed to miscellaneous items placed in the right spots, but they should be functional.

(It must be noted that a piece of original art does not count as a knicknack. It also must be noted that big box stores might sell the materials for original art, but I've yet to see one carrying the finished product.)

In the kitchen, the important things are (a) cookware and utensils, (b) storage and (c) something on and in which to actually cook. (Yes, and food.) If you need a ceramic rooster sitting on your spice shelf to feel at home ... you need to get out more.

And don't even get me started on bedroom "accents" and "accessories." What in the world is a "pillow sham," anyway? If it's not a real pillow, why do I want it on the bed?

Maybe the people who thought up "home accents" are the same people who came up with different colors of tissue. I don't care if it's blue, green, white, paisley, plaid or tie-died -- in the end, it's just something to sneeze at.

As with any rule, there are exceptions to the Accents are Laughable Code. The following items are always suitable for display in any space:

Rubber ducks;

Geodes and pieces thereof;

Statuettes of Frank White and/or Gollum;

Fossils;

And other cool stuff like that.

(Full disclosure requires me to note, though, that there is a line of nonfunctional birdhouses along the windowsill in the kitchen. Sometimes I do know when to nod, smile and keep my mouth shut.)

Reunions, Perchance Goodbyes

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Johnny Cash, "In My Life"

Time: Night.

The bags are packed, the trunk loaded. Tomorrow morning, we'll set out for southwest Kansas (picking up two of the kids along the way in Salina, where we'll snag a bag of sliders at the Cozy Inn.)

There are two family reunions planned, both on my mother-in-law's side of the family, along with a visit to my late father-in-law's parents. Both of them are now in their 80s, and in failing health.

My wife's grandmother, meanwhile, is in a nursing home -- fairly hale in body, but in an amiable fog.

I have already said goodbye to my own grandparents and both parents -- but any death is all deaths, as my friend/collaborator/undefinable kindred spirit Seánan Forbes is wont to say, and impending farewells evoke memories of past ones.

That said, this is not an extended series of pre-wakes. As long as there is life, it is to be lived and celebrated. Besides, tomorrow's not promised to any of us. Grim thought, perhaps, but also an incentive.

I know it's been a while since I rapped at you ...

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: War, "Why Can't We Be Friends?"

Time: Night

Let's see.

Crappy car: Check.

Interesting employment situation: Check.

Insane slacker skills: Check.

It's official. I have become Jim Anchower (minus the stash).

So, anyway, today I took a break from writing and decided to spend a few minutes searching for new ways to waste time -- because, apparently, watching J-League matches on ESPN 360 just isn't enough. (Best announcer quote from Gamba Osaka v. Kyoto Sanga: "If Gamba can get a goal near the end of the first half, that will certainly be a detriment to the other team." Gee, ya think? The guy also called the goalkeeper "the custodian" a lot.)

First, I went to hulu.com, which promises hours upon hours of free "Lost in Space" and "Land of the Giants" episodes. (Yeah, I love me some 1960s Irwin Allen sci-fi TV. You got a problem with that?) Want "King of the Hill" instead? You got it.

Then, on another site, I found this. Cold War safety tips at their ironically hilarious finest. I know, I know, the specter of nuclear annihilation wasn't funny. But the turtle and the jingle -- not to mention the contention that a newspaper over the head will prevent radiation burns -- are unintentional comedy gold.

And best of all? There's always The Herculoids on YouTube.

Someone pass me the cold pizza, willya?