?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Kitchen Bouquet®

Posted on March 1, 2005

Earl and I spent a long half-hour in the supermarket recently looking for Kitchen Bouquet®. A new recipe he wanted to try prompted this All Points Bulletin Search.

I’d heard of the product but had no idea whether it was a liquid, a powder, or solid. Did it come in a bottle? A jar? A tube? When we realized we were going into this blindly, we mapped our strategy.

“You check the condiment aisle,” I said, “while I’ll check the herbs and spices. We’ll meet back here at the shopping cart.” You’ll notice we didn’t consider asking for help, and that’s because men don’t ask for directions in public to get from Point A (Shopping Cart) to Point B (Item). In fact, that’s why they invented OnStar®.

The Kitchen Bouquet® was elusive, and the more I searched the more I became convinced we could make the recipe without it. (This is one of my pet peeves: a new recipe calls for one-quarter of a teaspoon of liquid smoke or a teaspoon of authentic almond extract or a tablespoon of capers. The remaining amounts age on your shelf because you probably won’t make that recipe again for at least another year.)

When Earl and I met at the shopping cart, both empty-handed, I said, “This is nuts. Let’s just eliminate the Kitchen Bouquet ® and call it a day. We’re supposed to cook a rump roast ten hours in a slow cooker. Surely the Kitchen Bouquet® isn’t the sole secret to its success.”

“No,” said Earl, his jaw reacting as if we were calling off a search for a missing child. “We’ll never know how it would taste with the Kitchen Bouquet® if we eliminate it.”

“But it could be just as good,” I countered.

“No, you get in the check-out line. I’m going to ask for help.”

I was so stunned at his comment that I did as I was told. And before the checker had finished ringing up our order, Earl, sleuth that he is, arrived with the Kitchen Bouquet®.

I guess we’ll never know how the recipe will taste without it.

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Gemstones

Posted on February 28, 2005

I love gemstones; more specifically, I love gemstones as they relate to rings. And I must have a couple dozen unusual rings to prove the point.

When I was young and foolish I made a list of rings I wanted to acquire as time and money passed my way. There was the standard diamond ring, the ruby, the emerald, the cultured pearl, the jade, and the star sapphire. I didn’t do research to compile this list; it came from the heart.

And, as time and money made my acquaintance, I acquired all of them. Not necessarily huge examples of my desire, but satisfactory acquisitions nevertheless.

What I learned along the way was that they weren’t enough. Gradually I became hooked on other precious and semi-precious stones. I studied their variety, their worth, and their difficulty to acquire. Eventually I created a new list, one that included amethyst, tanzanite, tourmaline, citrine, topaz, alexandrite, and colored diamonds.

It took a while, but now I’ve acquired all the items on my new list except colored diamonds. And I’m torn about whether to proceed or not. White diamonds are the norm; their little known sisters are pink, blue, yellow, orange, and brown. You’ve probably already guessed the bad news: colored diamonds are scorned. The good news is that they offer the wearer a ring with character, individuality, and color.

Someday I’ll probably purchase a colored diamond. But I’m not in a hurry. I want to enjoy knowing there is still one thing on my current gemstone list. By keeping it there, I have no desire to create a third list. Which is a good thing.

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Acceptance Speech

Posted on February 27, 2005

After reading my recent mini-essays about tonight’s Academy Awards, my son said, “So what would you say if you won a Oscar?”

Well, I’m not about to spend the afternoon creating a well-honed speech that has no chance of ever being given. But I am willing to list some basic Do’s and Don’ts for any potential nominees who are trolling my web site before they walk down the red carpet.

First the don’ts. Don’t act like you are not prepared. Don’t act like you expected to win all along either. The tone of your walk up the aisle should be one of graciousness and sophistication; it’s the middle part of the bell curve between panic (Ally Sheedy) and uncontrolled exuberance (Adrian Brody). It’s got Grace Kelly written all over it.

Don’t pull a piece of paper from your pocket and thank everybody from God to your parents to your producer to your agent to your live-in companion. If you really are gracious and sophisticated you have thanked each of these people many, many times along the way for their support and they should know who they are. Don’t give a history of the long, long road you took to get to the podium. It’s a long road for everyone. And don’t ignore the musicians when they begin the get-off-the-stage-now-music.

Now the do’s. If you are nominated, it’s a good idea to find out how long you have before the dreaded music cue occurs. You can time your remarks accordingly and exit with the same graciousness and sophistication you’ve already shown.

A bit of humor can also be memorable. When Sean Penn received an award a few years ago, he said “This just proves that you tolerate me; you really tolerate me.” This was an obvious reference to previous winner Sally Field’s “You like me, you really like me.” It made the audience laugh. And given Penn’s reputation as a petulant personality, it showed he could laugh at himself as well.

If you can’t pull off humor, then some other personal note – such as why the role originally appealed to you or what you actually learned from portraying the character – or some anecdote that shows a behind-the-scenes glimpse of the film provides interest. It helps set your remarks apart too, because they can only be made by you.

Since movie actors and actresses memorize other people’s words and do a retake if they flub the first time through, perhaps they are not aware of what it takes to craft a speech that is short yet stirring. Maybe they don’t even think an acceptance speech should quite possibly be the same caliber as the work for which they were nominated in the first place. Too bad.

So, in closing, I’d like to thank my son, Keith, for all he did to help me get this essay where it is today. And I want to thank Earl for leaving me alone while I wrote it. If not for the grace of God and my Dell® Computer, I would be just another writer. It was a long, long road and I almost gave up. Hey, stop the music . . . I’m not done . . . I’m just getting . . .(fade to black)

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1893

Posted on February 26, 2005

I just finished reading The Devil in the White City by Eric Larsen. It’s an amazing study of the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, more commonly known as the Columbian Exposition.

Created to honor the four hundredth anniversary of Christopher Columbus’s discovery of America, the fair was just as equally amazing a feat as the discovery of the New World. In fact, in its own way, it created a New World for Chicago, that Midwestern upstart of a town.

The previous World’s Fair had been held in Paris, France, and there was more than a little pressure on the creators of the Columbian Exposition to exceed the Parisian turnstile numbers, the drama of the Eiffel Tower, and the glamour. Exceed it did. The 1893 Columbian Exhibition gave the world the Ferris Wheel, belly dancing, the term “Midway,” and various unique foodstuffs. Today, Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry is one of the buildings that remain from the 1893 effort.

Daniel Burnham was the chief architect, in the general sense of the word, of the Exposition; and many chapters in The Devil in the White City revolve around his activities. At the same time, an approximately equal number of chapters revolve around H. H. Holmes, a sociopathic murderer at large during the same years that the book follows Burnham’s supervision of the fair. Holmes is also the devil in the book’s title. According to the author, the two men never crossed actual paths, but their stories unwittingly intertwine because of the Exposition. Today’s reader has the advantage of seeing the historical perspective.

I guess it depends on your point of view, which story is more compelling, that of the creator or that of the destroyer. In the end, however, author Larsen does a grand job of revealing both men’s lives. In the end, both men are dead. In the end, one left a lasting monument.

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Crisis

Posted on February 25, 2005

The news is all around us, both subtle and blatant. Our country is in a crisis; no, in fact, our country is in several crises. I know, because I read and hear about them everywhere.

There’s the war on terror crisis, the economic crisis, the educational crisis, the Medicare crisis, the moral values crisis, the oil crisis, the national debt crisis, and quite possibly an overpopulation of dogs crisis.

It doesn’t matter whether you stand on the right side of the population continuum or the left, whether you voted for the incumbent or his challenger. All parties have resorted to it. And “it” is the rhetoric of crisis. In other words, to state one’s case these days requires drama and hyperbole for effect and persuasion. It doesn’t seem to require any documentation of reality.

So we have one side screaming that we must fix the economy now, that we can’t leave any child behind, and that Medicare is about to run out of backing. We have the other side yelling that the current administration is responsible for the economic mess, that there isn’t enough funding for every child in America to come along, and that Medicare won’t run out of money for years to come.

I can’t say who is right; but I can say that both sides have elevated their rhetoric, not only the volume but also the tone. It’s too bad, because reality has gotten lost in the shuffle. And maybe that’s the real crisis at hand.

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Bingo

Posted on February 24, 2005

The magazines “Writer’s Digest,” “Modern Maturity,” and “Wired” have all incurred my wrath. Well, maybe wrath is too strong a word and maybe displeasure, which could amount to letting my subscription lapse, is a more appropriate one.

It’s those darn bingo cards that interfere with the enjoyment of reading a magazine from cover to cover. And, no, readers can’t win big bucks by filling in an entire row horizontally, vertically, or diagonally.

Bingo cards are printer’s lingo for those postcard-sized inserts that live between the pages of magazines. Some are freestanding; that is, they’re apt to fall out when you get to a certain page. Others are stitched into the magazine and have to be ripped out. All of them are annoying.

The very first thing I do when I receive a magazine is remove all the bingo cards and put them in the trash. My basket currently holds a significant bunch of them, all exhorting me to renew my subscription, become eligible for a free gift, try a new line of hosiery, purchase special hand cream, or obtain my copy of “Cargo: the New Buyers’ Guide for Men.”

On this last one, I’m not sure if the guide itself is for men who want to purchase gear or for women who are shopping for men. But that’s another topic.

I asked a couple friends what they do with bingo cards and the answer is always the same.
We all shrug and put the cards in our wastebaskets, so the magazine publishers and hosiery pushers only hear from those who order something by sending the cards back. We, the disgruntled, need to figure out how to be heard.

One idea I have is to return the cards with a big X on them and nothing more. Why? Because most bingo cards say the following: “No postage necessary if mailed in the United States.”

What this really means is that the company that sent you the card in the first place is willing to pay the postage for you to return it and buy its product. Imagine the costs involved if everyone who disliked bingo cards sent them back without ordering anything.

Bingo.

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Award Shows

Posted on February 23, 2005

My mini-essay yesterday about the Oscars has fueled further thought about award shows in general. For some reason, I’m addicted to watching them, even when I am not a devotee of the medium being honored. I don’t go to movies; I don’t watch television; I don’t keep up with daytime soap operas; and I don’t listen to music radio. I go to New York City so seldom that I cannot be called a fan of Broadway either.

Nevertheless, I LOVE award shows.

So the corollary of this is: Why? Why this intense interest in seeing who got what when I don’t even study the genre in which the award is bestowed? I think it has to do with feeling superior.

Most of the winners of the various awards make far more than I do as a humble scribe. They lead far more visible, exciting lives too. While they are enjoying caviar at a cocktail party, I’m paying for my own drinks.

So when I watch an award show, it’s my opportunity to pick things apart, to feel better by criticizing the glitteratti. It isn’t that my ego is so small or that my self-esteem needs boosting; it’s more that I find Hollywood, Music City, and Broadway to be somewhat overrated in the everyday world.

I start by critiquing the outfits worn by the stars because my preferred costume is a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I wouldn’t know which end of a pair of heels to push my toes into. Then there are the rehearsed lines for stars introducing starlets who will then introduce the person who will announce the award. It’s as if the whole thing is about how many recognizable people can be squeezed into one or two hours. Finally, it’s about the acceptance speeches, or lack thereof.

For the most part, these people make their living performing in front of a live audience. Even actors and actresses in movies must hype their films by visiting the various morning talk shows and the late night hosts. It shouldn’t be unrealistic to assume they can string one or two sentences together without much effort. Instead, they go “Oh my God” or “I can’t believe it” or “I didn’t expect this, so I’m not prepared.”

This is where the feeling of superiority on my part kicks in. I am positive, one hundred percent positive, that if I knew I was up for a particular award where a thank-you speech was expected, I would prepare one. Even if I thought I might lose, I would be ready. So although I’m not a movie star or a recording artist or a theater performer, I believe I could beat them all in the contest called “Acceptance Speech.” Hands down.

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Oscar

Posted on February 22, 2005

I just learned that the Oscars are being telecast this coming Sunday, and it makes me wonder where I’ve been these past few weeks. I don’t even know who is nominated.

In years past, I’ve followed the movie critics as they published their December Top Ten lists, a good guide to what might be Oscar material. I’ve listened to interviews with various actors and actresses who are pitching their films and vying for the top spotlight. I’ve known the very morning the nominations were announced and watched with interest how advertising in the Arts Section of the Sunday newspapers fill with pride at being one of the five best films of the year. I even can hum a few bars of the Best Song from a Movie category.

Not this time.

Movies seem to have degenerated into clones of what were previously creative ideas. It didn’t come out this year, but I suspect Sylvester Stallone is busy somewhere working on Rocky 37. And who knows which edition of James Bond is headed next for the screen? Maybe these ideas seem fresh to a young audience, but I’ve been around long enough to remember with pleasure the first “Rocky” and “Dr. No,” and today’s retelling of the same story looks jaded by comparison.

Do I go to movies often? I hardly see one a year. But I’m voyeuristically interested in the culture that surrounds them, in the transience of their hold on us, in the hedonistic world of the big stars. I’ll still watch the Oscars this year, even if I’m not as informed as usual, because it amazes me that actors and actresses who make large sums of money cannot stand in front of an audience and offer a memorable acceptance speech. That too seems to be an integral part of the culture.

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Ebb and Flow

Posted on February 21, 2005

It’s late in the afternoon and I’ve yet to write my mini-essay. As I decide what to focus on, I’m struck with how many incidents, big and small, satisfying and sad, occurred on this Presidents’ Day.

For some strange reason, I took myself out to lunch, hoping to read and relax for half an hour or so over a sandwich. But Culver’s was packed, from the parking lot to the order line to every table in the place. Of course, there was no school today, but by the time I realized that my stomach was lobbying for instant gratification.

The place was loud, not particularly conducive to reading. But the wait staff was considerate, and the chicken sandwich was excellent. So I took the good with noisy.

The geese are back. They’ve been using the river as if it were an airport runway, flying in formation up and down its course. Their squawking isn’t as distracting as the din at Culver’s, but it’s just as constant.

My son telephoned to tell me of the sudden accidental death of a mutual friend’s brother. One moment he was mountain climbing in Chile; the next he was struck by a boulder and killed. It was the third person we’ve both known in the past couple weeks to die, and it makes my son’s recent bout with illness seem like less of a trial.

The weather sucks. But where Kevin lives in Fargo, North Dakota, it is always noticeably chiller than here. Knowing that makes me feel grateful to live in St. Joseph on an otherwise gray day.

When I was young we didn’t have Presidents’ Day. We celebrated Lincoln’s birthday on February 12, his actual birth date, and Washington’s birthday on February 22, his actual birth date. It never occurred to us to gang holidays and move them to Monday to afford many people the luxury of a long weekend. After all these years – Congress started the practice in 1968 – I’m still not used to it. But I guess I need to look at the bright side. We didn’t receive mail today, so I didn’t get any bills either.

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Rabbit

Posted on February 20, 2005

From a distance I wasn’t sure if it was a dirty mound of snow or something else. Even with binoculars, it was hard to tell; so I pressed Earl into service. After all, being a former Chicago policeman gives him the credentials to investigate potentially unsettling situations, while I prefer a more Pollyanna view of the world.

Earl slipped on his coat and strode outside, ever alert. The mound of snow did not move as he approached it. But then a true mound of snow wouldn’t. I moved on to other things until Earl returned to confirm that it was a large brown and white rabbit dead as a doornail on our front lawn. It lay about ten feet from the chicken wire.

“Can you get rid of it?” I asked, wanting to protect Pollyanna. “Scoop it up on a shovel and take it across the street to the woods?”

“I’ll take care of it,” And when he returned the second time, Earl said there was no evidence of foul play. Even with all his police training, he wasn’t able to pinpoint the cause of death.

In a way, I felt conflicted. Winter has been harsh this year, and I suspect the rabbits that live under our deck have been searching frantically for food. They’ve found it too by eating my young bushes down to the nubs, for which they’ve incurred my wrath. So we put up chicken wire around the most tender, bruised bushes. I hated to do it, but there are still plenty of other hardy bushes on the property that I’m willing to share with Mr. Rabbit and his siblings. Pollyanna isn’t so cruel that she wants them to starve. Especially in front of her window.

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