Such is life. It is no cleaner than a kitchen; it reeks of a kitchen; and if you mean to cook your dinner, you must expect to soil your hands; the real art is in getting them clean again, and therein lies the whole morality of our epoch.

—-Honore de Balzac

From my blog (I called it an “Online Journal” then), The Daily Epiphany, Saturday, February 16, 2002

Cooking on my Birthday

I guess most people want somebody to cook some special meal for their birthday. What I wanted, though, was to cook my own.

Some close friends of ours have started their own catering business. They have leased a storefront and outfitted it with commercial cooking equipment – big ovens and a huge gas stove, giant refrigerator and freezers, and massive stainless steel tables for food organization and preparation. They gave me a key and I went down there the other week to set up their computer and I fell in love with the place. I guess my favorite thing is the commercial gas range – it looks like what the chefs on all the cooking shows use – an acre of massive black iron pan supports with tiny blue pilot lights sprinkling the area. Turn a heavy steel knob and a get-engine rush of gas throws out some serious heat. It’s something you can actually cook on – not like the wimpy weak glowing electric coils in my home kitchen.

When they called and asked what I wanted for my birthday dinner I replied that I wanted to cook in their commercial kitchen. They said sure so I prepared a menu and went down to the Wal-Mart Neighborhood Market to buy my supplies (I won’t shop at Albertson’s any more, even though it’s closer to my house, in protest of their new 1984 Big Brother Card).

I drove down to the place a couple hours early, put a CD in the boom box and started cooking. I made onions cut in half and hollowed out, wrapped with a strip of bacon and stuffed with wilted spinach and a dollop of feta cheese on top. I marinated some sliced fresh mozzarella in sour cream and spices, then melted this over some crusty bread with a slice of tomato and an orange sprinkle of some powdered chile de arbol. For my main course I put chicken breasts, mushrooms, potatoes, white wine, and a fistful of chopped fresh herbs into bags made of carefully folded heavy foil (the basic recipe came from TV, from the Naked Chef) and baked the mess. Candy made a chocolate cake and I added a baby spinach salad.

We had six folks for diner and a sitter for everybody’s kids (we knew there wouldn’t be anything to keep the little ones occupied at the catering place). There weren’t any good places to sit, but there was plenty of wine, so that didn’t matter.

I think the food came out fine (the one thing I didn’t have was a good toaster or a salamander so the bread turned out a soggy – the stuffed onions were too tough, though the stuffing was good), especially the chicken. The foil bag is a great technique to learn. I can imagine baking stuff at home and taking it to a picnic. The foil puffs up like a Jiffy Pop and it’s great when you pierce the package and all that fragrant steam puffs out. Easy clean-up, too.

And now, a piece of flash fiction for today:

The Appliance Crisis by Beth Goder

from Flash Fiction Online

Beth Goder Webpage

Beth Goder Twitter

“What’s your name,’ Coraline asked the cat. ‘Look, I’m Coraline. Okay?’

‘Cats don’t have names,’ it said.

‘No?’ said Coraline.

‘No,’ said the cat. ‘Now you people have names. That’s because you don’t know who you are. We know who we are, so we don’t need names.”

― Neil Gaiman, Coraline

From my blog (I called it an “Online Journal” then), The Daily Epiphany, Wednesday, October 07, 1998

Hail

I started out for work in the morning just a little bit late, having to rush. Candy, watching the morning news, warned me of impending weather. I glanced at the television as I walked out the door and saw that familiar ominous radar image of the metroplex with an irregular diagonal orange line of thunderstorms slashed across it.

I hadn’t driven very far before fat blobs of rain started slamming into my car. It didn’t look that threatening – no large dark caterwauling thunderheads or blasting cold wind of an advancing squall line. Only the usual gray skies with a few darker patches. There was an occasional rumble or crash of thunder and a bright laser flash, thin crooked line of lightning, however, to indicate more powerful forces at work.

The plop sound of the big soft drops soon took on a strange clicking noise as they struck the steel skin of the Taurus. The water quickly turned to ice. I was caught in an unusual early March, early morning, dawn really, hail storm.

It’s a helpless feeling to sit there, stuck in traffic, as chunks of ice scream across the sky to slam into your vehicle and the cars all around. I looked for a place to pull over and get some shelter from the storm; unfortunately with morning rush hour all available overhangs were quickly snatched up by aggressive drivers in expensive new Sports Utility Vehicles or Dual-Axle Pickups. The gas stations, fast food emporiums or any other structure with a modicum of cover were full before I could even move forward an inch in the backed-up street.

So there was nothing to do except wait in the backup of cars on the road behind the spot where a crew was digging out some potholes and using orange cones to narrow the way from three lanes to two. That caused the slow backup in the left two lanes of good citizens like me, patiently waiting our turns while obnoxious morons in the right hand lane zipped by to asshole their way back into the queue at the very cones themselves, thereby holding everybody up.

Nothing except sit there and hope the ice didn’t get big enough, the wind strong enough, to put unsightly dents in my car. Which it didn’t. It only lasted a minute or two. Although the hail did look fairly large it was soft and misshapen, fluffy; not a very effective weapon. As the spring goes on into summer I’m sure the tornadic thunderheads roaring in out of the great plains will get better at it and have some good damaging hail.

It must have been bad somewhere, though, because, hours later, on the way home from work in the parking lot of the abandoned movie theater near my house (eleven screens, all of them within a couple miles of my house, closed when the new stadium seating 30 theater multiplex emporium opened a few miles south in the long vacant field that for a decade held a single real estate sign “ZONED COMMERCIAL,” off of the interstate loop) had appeared a large white tent open at each end. Cones were set out to direct cars through the open maw of the tent. Next to it was a large recreational vehicle painted a bright blue and white and bearing the brazen logo ALLSTATE – Catastrophe Emergency Response Unit.

So the insurance companies were all ready to start taking hail damage claims. The storm may have been worse in areas near here but it couldn’t have been too bad because I didn’t see anyone queued up for their estimates.

Across the street, in the parking lot of another abandoned theater was a small carnival. Only a few steel rides and a smattering of booths; the bright lights were coming on as the sun set. One attraction was a huge slide, an inflatable structure that looked like a giant cruise ship, listing forward at an acute angle. At the stern, pointing high in the air were two inflatable propellers and, of course, the legend TITANIC.

I turned right, into the neighborhood, putting my back to these omens of disaster and drove on home.

And now, a piece of flash fiction for today:

She Titles the Email “Things are Moving Along” by Caitlin Scarano

from Brevity

Caitlin Scarano Webpage

“The Earth is God’s pinball machine and each quake, tidal wave, flash flood and volcanic eruption is the result of a TILT that occurs when God, cheating, tries to win free games.”

― Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues

From my blog (I called it an “Online Journal” then), The Daily Epiphany, Wednesday, October 07, 1998

Monarch

After work today I drove over to the health club and had a good, tough workout. It was a gorgeous day and I felt like staying outside for awhile so I drove across Sunnyvale to Lake Ray Hubbard and a little park at the end of Barnes Bridge road. This is the place with the two wooden crosses, I wrote an entry about it back in June.

The two crosses are still there. I was glad to see that someone had repaired Jason Farmer’s cross. From the look of how it was done, it might be the same people working on the other cross.

Michelle Lemay Self’s cross is still kept up with a little plot of plastic flowers. The white wood is covered with messages written in what looks like black magic marker.

Wife, Mother, Daughter
Granddaughter
Sister Beloved
"Friend"

We Don't know you
but visit all the time.
STEF

There is a little line drawn about eighteen inches up from the ground. It is labeled, “Austin’s height when She left him.”

At about three feet there is another line. “Austin’s height, 7/9/98, 2 1/2 years old.”

I
Love U
always
Your Husband
Chris Self

Nearby, in crude but legible hand,

I love you
MOMA
Austin 7/19/98

Along one side was a longer, more ominous message. I present it here as I copied it down, I don’t think it’s my place to make any comment.

For those of U that come
and see this 1 and Lonely cross
I hope u all have took the time
and understand are pain & are loss.
This 1 man I'd Love too c out
here 1 sunny summer day.
So I can end his sorry LIFE,
AND then be on my happy
way to go & tell my loving wife that
he has finally paid.
u know who u are
I'm coming soon.
Gregg

The park is as poorly-developed as always. Some run down playground equipment and an arc of shoddy grass, a bit of woods, along the shore of the lake. I walked on down a path away from the parking lot.

All the lakes in North Texas threatened to dry up with this summer’s drought. The recent deluge has helped, but the lake is still down. Instead of these little cliffs of mud-rock along the shore, there is a little stretch of sand, which used to be lake bottom. I sat along this poor man’s beach and watched the gold sunset sky, the hazy distant opposite shore with its expensive homes and developments. A lone sailboat fought against the waves, a flock of white seabirds dove for fish.

The wind was blowing stoutly and that was enough to build waves from across the big lake. They came rolling in, miniature breakers. With a bit of imagination it was like being at the ocean. It even smelt a little like the sea, mostly because of a mat of drying and rotting seaweed.

I walked on down the curl of the park ’til the stretch of public property ended in a steel barrier and “No Trespassing” signs. Away from the water was a thick grove of trees and a path. I walked back into a little grotto, my legs brushing away last night’s spider webs, nobody had been there all day. I looked up into the trees, still illuminated by the afterglow of the set sun and saw motion. The trees were full of Monarch Butterflies.

It was a beautiful sight. The green and yellow trees, orange sky, red and black flapping wings. The branches were lousy with them, many came fluttering down, disturbed by my approach. They flew in a cloud around me, close enough to reach out and touch.

They must be stopping over on their annual migration. It was an unexpected treat, a special pleasure, to have them decorate this remote speck of shabby forest.

I needed to get home so I walked back to my car. The return drive was slow and fun, I was stuck behind a peloton, maybe thirty riders. A local club was finishing up a ride, trying to get back before dark. I especially liked slowing down on the uphills, watching them all come out of the saddle, black shorts and colorful jerseys, pumping legs and bobbing helmets.

I had worked out hard enough, it had been a long, tough enough day that I was content to sit in the bucket seat and steer, listen to a tape, let them all do the work for once.

And now, a piece of flash fiction for today:

Abyss by Lois Hibbert

from Flash Fiction Magazine

“. . . in seclusion, she had secluded herself from a thousand natural and healing influences; that, her mind, brooding solitary, had grown diseased, as all minds do and must and will that reverse the appointed order of their Maker . . .”

― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

From my blog (I called it an “Online Journal” then), The Daily Epiphany, Monday, September 29, 1997

Let’s go skate

After another mind-numbing day at work I took the kids down to the parking lot by the school. Candy took off to run some errands with her friend that’s staying with us.

Lee wore his in-line skates, elbow and knee pads, and his helmet. Nicholas rode his new bicycle, sans training wheels, and his helmet, of course.

Lee had a lot of trouble with his skates. He doesn’t actually skate as much as run on the wheels; his little bow legs splayed out, blades akimbo. I don’t think the eight little yellow polyurethane disks turn at all. They are cheap lil’ kid’s skates and they don’t fit very well. Part of the plastic shell kept digging into his ankles. I worked with it as best as I could, tucking and adjusting.

Meanwhile Nick was looping around the parking lot with no trouble. He only fell once, when he couldn’t avoid a little pink bike one of the cheerleaders (I guess drill team is the proper term, a bunch of ’em practice on the lot every day; they were all down at the other end). I worked with him for a minute on his braking. He had been stopping by sticking his feet out. I helped him learn the joys of backpedaling into the coaster brake, leaving a stripe of black rubber on the tarmac.

And that was it, the high point of my day. Hours of grinding uselessness at work. Dinner, baths, writing practice (I helped Lee write out “don’t open until Sunday” – I don’t know why he wanted to write that, he said “sure are a lot of O’s in here”), then bedtime at home.

A father taking his kids out for a skate, a bike ride; it’s a cliché, a television commercial; life insurance, some new vitamin maybe. Except in the commercial the youngest kid isn’t whining about needing to go to the bathroom every two minutes. The skates always fit. The kids don’t fall. The father on the TV isn’t so worn out from work that every minute is a struggle to maintain contact with reality. They don’t show how your arms ache after carrying a heavy bicycle, a pair of skates, two helmets, a set of pads, all in your arms up the hill back to the house.

And now, a piece of flash fiction for today:

Hock by Michael Kozart

from Flash Fiction Magazine

Michael Kozart Webpage

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.”
― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

From my blog (I called it an “Online Journal” then), The Daily Epiphany, Thursday, December 10, 1998

Magic trick

Candy went out with some friends tonight, I stayed home with Nick and Lee.

I worked for a few hours, organizing the room. It used to be Lee’s but now is an office and guest room (Lee has moved into Nick’s room, Nick into the TV room). I am very happy to have a space with my computer, two big bookcases, fold out couch, and no television. I used the rearrangement as an excuse to try and get organized.

The books are now sorted. All the writing reference books; dictionaries, thesauri, quote books, books on grammar, books with ideas to help plow through writer’s block, are all arranged on one shelf that I can reach from my desk. Computer programming references are in another place, fiction that I intend to read in another, books I never intend to read are boxed, ready to send charity.

My computer desk is now neat and organized. I have too many floppy disks. I make these wooden boxes that hold a hundred or so each, I still didn’t have enough and bought some plastic boxes too. Floppies are like National Geographics, I can’t bear to throw them away ’til they go bad. You never know what ancient text file will become absolutely necessary to world peace some day.

Meanwhile Nicholas and Lee were up to something out in the living room. I kept checking on them, and they seemed to be alright. Things were quiet. Too quiet.

It was fine, they were devising a magic trick. They came back to fetch me, brought me to the living room, and had me sit in a certain chair, facing another large overstuffed chair that came with our couch. Nick was wearing a rust sweatsuit, Lee was shirtless with blue sweatpants. Nick wore Lee’s alien mask, Lee wore a hockey mask, both left over from Halloween.

The trick commenced. Nicholas tucked his brother down behind the other chair and began solemnly walking in circles around the furniture. He would have to climb over one arm each time before he dropped down behind.

It was a good trick, after awhile I noticed that it wasn’t Nick walking around anymore, it was Lee. They look enough alike that with the mask, you can’t easily tell them apart. Lee is shorter and had more trouble climbing over the arm of the chair, or I might not have noticed. Of course then I heard a lot of noise as Nick struggled to change his clothes unseen behind the other chair.

Sure enough, after what seemed like an eternity, the shirtless kid with the hockey mask jumped out and both took off their masks. I acted surprised to see they were switched.

I heated up some dinner for them and Nicholas explained, complete with diagrams on a piece of scrap paper, the inner workings of the complex trick. He said he had seen this on the Masked Magician’s show on television. “We can’t do most of his tricks,” Nick went on, “They are too dangerous.”

Now it’s late, I’m back typing in my newly organized room; I can see more open desk space than I’ve viewed in awhile. The kids are finally asleep and I will be soon. I guess we all have to look for magic wherever we can find it.

And now, a piece of flash fiction for today:

[title]: an excerpt By [name of author]

from 3:AM Magazine