Whenever I hear one of those food poisoning stories come across the radio, I reach over and turn the volume up. It’s only a matter of time until my mother-in-law is implicated.
She’s developed a cavalier attitude toward freshness codes lately. She thinks they’re a sign that America has gone soft. She says common sense and her nose will tell her when something “goes bad.”
It’s the South Dakota Depression era farm girl coming out in her – the one who grew up without electricity, refrigeration or pasteurization.
Either that or it’s the frugal Fridley mother of eight, who routinely performed miracles with loaves of Wonder Bread and cans of tuna fish and got her lunchtime multitudes fed.
There was a brief period – a couple of decades there – when she cooked fairly normally. Now she’s reverting to form, paring the spongy parts off shriveled potatoes and making soup with octogenarian leftovers.
She’s playing fast and loose with the microbes – and reminding us every so often that Flemming developed penicillin from some form of mould.
“Eat this,” I once heard her say as she handed an open container of cottage cheese to a grandchild. “Then I’ll tell you how old it is.”
She’s even found stores that specialize in selling old and dented canned goods and come home with bags full of God-knows what and a glow in her heart that not even the most successful Bloomingdale’s bargain hunter could hope to match.
The woman doesn’t date freshness in days or weeks – or even in months. It’s a matter of years, decades and, now, centuries – even millennia.
There was the can of coconut milk she bought in Hawaii in 1976, last seen on a cupboard shelf in 2002. Asked where it went, she said she’d made cookies with it, and served the cookies to her card club.
“The ladies said they were the best they’d ever had,” she reported smugly.
Don’t get me wrong. The woman is a great cook. She still makes a world class ginger snap, and I’ll put her fried chicken up against anyone’s – any time, any place, anywhere.
But, like Ronald Reagan negotiating with the Soviet Union, I’ve adopted a “trust-but-verify” stance when she cooks. I like my chicken – all my food for that matter – to be at least four decades younger than I am. I want to see it every step of the way from the store to her frying pan and on to my plate.
Especially now, with the Holidays coming and all those old family recipes about to hit the table. I’m going to keep an eye on my mother-in-law. I suggest you keep an eye on yours, too.
Those old recipes are great – especially with fresh ingredients.
Which is why, if I have my say, Thanksgiving will be at our house once again this year.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Concerning Green Minivans
Socrates said the unexamined life is not worth living. Amen, brother. I couldn’t agree more.
I examine my life all the time. I contemplate my flaws, note my sins and transgressions, and work hard to balance the karmic books.
In examining my life, I think I may have hit upon the central question. The one which, if answered, will solve the riddle of my existence and make everything absolutely clear in perpetuity.
The question is this:
Why am I always stuck behind green minivans on the freeway?
Other drivers move in and out of traffic. Openings appear for them. A blink of the turn signal and they’re on their way, simple smiles on their vacant faces, no doubt listening to lite rock with less talk and fewer interruptions.
I, on the other hand, am pinned in the right lane, a rusty Camry in my blind spot, a green minivan directly in front of me.
In my younger days, I worked my way out of situations like these with a combination of horn, accelerator, and middle finger. Now that I’ve had time to examine my life, I see that I was wrong.
That rage was not the answer.
That I was swimming against the current.
That for every green minivan I flipped off, two green minivans rolled off an assembly line somewhere and onto the freeway ahead of me.
Better to proceed at the speed of the green minivan ahead of me (usually five miles an hour slower than I personally would like to go). Better to remain calm and contemplate small details on the tail gate – the uninspired design of the lights… the bumper sticker advertising a child’s honor student status… the smeary arc of the worn wiper blade on the rear window… that sort of thing.
Better to drive with a tranquil, empty mind.
Sometimes, I use inane, obviously focus-grouped minivan model names for a mantra.
“Ooohhhm… Windstar…. Ooohhhm… Town and Country….”
They say there’s room for seven passengers in there. They say there are storage compartments for everything. I say every green minivan comes with a spiritual lesson stowed in a special compartment just for me. It’s standard equipment.
But what’s the lesson?
Why does fate always stick me behind green minivans on the freeway?
What am I supposed to take away? Patience? Humility? Compassion? Wisdom? What?
The answer eludes me as surely as green minivans impede me, and I continue to examine life, trying to tease the truth out.
“Ooohhhm… Windstar…. Ooohhhm… Town and Country….”
I will finish this commentary, forward it to MPR, and, if they like it, I will hurry over to the studio to record it.
I will take the freeway, and as I merge into traffic, there it will be. A green minivan. Right ahead of me. Going five miles an hour slower than I want to go, dragging the meaning of life like a broken tail pipe
I examine my life all the time. I contemplate my flaws, note my sins and transgressions, and work hard to balance the karmic books.
In examining my life, I think I may have hit upon the central question. The one which, if answered, will solve the riddle of my existence and make everything absolutely clear in perpetuity.
The question is this:
Why am I always stuck behind green minivans on the freeway?
Other drivers move in and out of traffic. Openings appear for them. A blink of the turn signal and they’re on their way, simple smiles on their vacant faces, no doubt listening to lite rock with less talk and fewer interruptions.
I, on the other hand, am pinned in the right lane, a rusty Camry in my blind spot, a green minivan directly in front of me.
In my younger days, I worked my way out of situations like these with a combination of horn, accelerator, and middle finger. Now that I’ve had time to examine my life, I see that I was wrong.
That rage was not the answer.
That I was swimming against the current.
That for every green minivan I flipped off, two green minivans rolled off an assembly line somewhere and onto the freeway ahead of me.
Better to proceed at the speed of the green minivan ahead of me (usually five miles an hour slower than I personally would like to go). Better to remain calm and contemplate small details on the tail gate – the uninspired design of the lights… the bumper sticker advertising a child’s honor student status… the smeary arc of the worn wiper blade on the rear window… that sort of thing.
Better to drive with a tranquil, empty mind.
Sometimes, I use inane, obviously focus-grouped minivan model names for a mantra.
“Ooohhhm… Windstar…. Ooohhhm… Town and Country….”
They say there’s room for seven passengers in there. They say there are storage compartments for everything. I say every green minivan comes with a spiritual lesson stowed in a special compartment just for me. It’s standard equipment.
But what’s the lesson?
Why does fate always stick me behind green minivans on the freeway?
What am I supposed to take away? Patience? Humility? Compassion? Wisdom? What?
The answer eludes me as surely as green minivans impede me, and I continue to examine life, trying to tease the truth out.
“Ooohhhm… Windstar…. Ooohhhm… Town and Country….”
I will finish this commentary, forward it to MPR, and, if they like it, I will hurry over to the studio to record it.
I will take the freeway, and as I merge into traffic, there it will be. A green minivan. Right ahead of me. Going five miles an hour slower than I want to go, dragging the meaning of life like a broken tail pipe
Damn you, Silver Maples
To the City of Hopkins
1010 1st St S
Hopkins, MN 55343
Dear City of Hopkins,
This is to inform you that, once again this year silver maple trees all over the neighborhood are refusing to comply with your leaf pick-up ordinance and schedules. Once again this year, they are holding onto their leaves and stubbornly refusing to let go until after your leaf pick-up crews and trucks have passed through.
I suspect a plot. I suspect, too, that the plot is spreading. Keep your eye on the willows. They’re hanging back and exhibiting signs of reluctance. And the elms. And the oaks. Even the oldest and stateliest – towering trees that have been solid citizens of Hopkins for eighty years or more look as if, for whatever reason, they may choose to become “fellow travelers” this year.
The irony, of course, is that lowlife, riff-raff trees like the cottonwoods and box elders hanging out in the alleys, buckling garage foundations have already done their part to comply with the ordinance. Their leaves are falling.
And the decorative landscape trees – the crabapples and river birch clumps and the rocky mountain ash look like they’ll drop their leaves in time for homeowners to rake them up, tarp them to the street and meet your schedule too.
It’s the damned silver maples. They’re the heart of the problem. Standing there, with their roots in the sewer lines, and their leaves still green and firmly attached overhead, all smug and scoffing at a City of Hopkins ordinance.
It might be different if their leaves turned some dazzling color when they finally decided to go – a bright red, say – or a blazing orange that extended the more beautiful aspects of fall into November. If silver maples did that, maybe we could forgive them for copping this attitude.
But they don’t. Malevolent spirits that they are, they turn their leaves an anemic yellow-green. And they wait until they hear your trucks and street sweepers leave, then they drop them.
Standing in the living room, looking out the picture window, you can almost hear a sarcastic, “Ooops” as they let their leaves go.
Ten minutes later, it begins to snow. Five months after that, the last snows melt, and there are the silver maple leaves, still yellow green, only moldy now, limp as three week old lettuce in the refrigerator drawer and ready to blotch out the entire lawn until June.
Obviously, something has to be done, City of Hopkins. I say update the ordinance, or oil up the chain saws. It’s time to drum some respect into those no-good silver maples. Time to take a stand and show them who’s in charge.
The time is now. If we don’t draw a line in the lawn, here and now, then pretty soon Hopkins will be just like Saint Louis Park.
Signed,
An irate citizen
1010 1st St S
Hopkins, MN 55343
Dear City of Hopkins,
This is to inform you that, once again this year silver maple trees all over the neighborhood are refusing to comply with your leaf pick-up ordinance and schedules. Once again this year, they are holding onto their leaves and stubbornly refusing to let go until after your leaf pick-up crews and trucks have passed through.
I suspect a plot. I suspect, too, that the plot is spreading. Keep your eye on the willows. They’re hanging back and exhibiting signs of reluctance. And the elms. And the oaks. Even the oldest and stateliest – towering trees that have been solid citizens of Hopkins for eighty years or more look as if, for whatever reason, they may choose to become “fellow travelers” this year.
The irony, of course, is that lowlife, riff-raff trees like the cottonwoods and box elders hanging out in the alleys, buckling garage foundations have already done their part to comply with the ordinance. Their leaves are falling.
And the decorative landscape trees – the crabapples and river birch clumps and the rocky mountain ash look like they’ll drop their leaves in time for homeowners to rake them up, tarp them to the street and meet your schedule too.
It’s the damned silver maples. They’re the heart of the problem. Standing there, with their roots in the sewer lines, and their leaves still green and firmly attached overhead, all smug and scoffing at a City of Hopkins ordinance.
It might be different if their leaves turned some dazzling color when they finally decided to go – a bright red, say – or a blazing orange that extended the more beautiful aspects of fall into November. If silver maples did that, maybe we could forgive them for copping this attitude.
But they don’t. Malevolent spirits that they are, they turn their leaves an anemic yellow-green. And they wait until they hear your trucks and street sweepers leave, then they drop them.
Standing in the living room, looking out the picture window, you can almost hear a sarcastic, “Ooops” as they let their leaves go.
Ten minutes later, it begins to snow. Five months after that, the last snows melt, and there are the silver maple leaves, still yellow green, only moldy now, limp as three week old lettuce in the refrigerator drawer and ready to blotch out the entire lawn until June.
Obviously, something has to be done, City of Hopkins. I say update the ordinance, or oil up the chain saws. It’s time to drum some respect into those no-good silver maples. Time to take a stand and show them who’s in charge.
The time is now. If we don’t draw a line in the lawn, here and now, then pretty soon Hopkins will be just like Saint Louis Park.
Signed,
An irate citizen
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