Eating for the Common Good

Popular lunchbox sandwich (archaic)

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are no longer a staple lunchbox treat because little Appolo or Lemon Sky might be allergic. This tragic news has plummeted me into a pit of despair. What is childhood about these days? Saving the planet via no plastic baggies, no plastic bottles, no juice boxes and composting leftovers. No trades because one kid's treat is another one's poison. Fruits and veggies, even sushi rolls, have replaced candy in lunch boxes. Yikes--just when they need it the most, trapped in the classroom all day, strapped into a teeny desk learning boring facts they don't care about and will forget asap--who couldn't use a KitKat bar under those circumstances?

An article in today's Wall Street Journal runs the following headline above the masthead, in large white letters on a black background:

"THE MEAL PARENTS DREAD"

What could it be, I wondered: The last meal of a tot convicted of murder and about to be executed? Or maybe for a sick child having a feeding tube installed? Nothing so dire, it turns out it's the ordinary brown bag lunch for grade-schoolers that has today's young parents in a tizzy. One loving mom even goes so far as to declare, "I pack my son a lunch every day and I hate it." (How nice--I certainly hope he forgets that comment by the time she's in diapers and needing someone to spoon-feed her Ensure.)

It was 20 years ago, but the memory is fresh: I loved making my kid's lunch. Little notes, some surprises, drawings with Xs and Os all over the place. Healthy of course, but always with a special treat. And my husband still talks about the lunches his mom made every day, and twice, since he's a twin: each item wrapped in tin foil so he never knew what he had, a veritable treasure hunt each noon that he looked forward to. Of course today he might be suspended for all that tin foil, and his mom's blatant disregard for the rest of the world would be the talk of the town.

Sad times we live in.

The Emptiness of Words

"I love you."
"I'm sorry."
"Forgive me."
"Forget it."

Please don't say those things to me. Like the dollar, they have lost their value due to overuse. How happy should I be to hear that you love me when you also love hamburgers, Niagara Falls, pizza, The Three Stooges, your golf buddies, hiking, Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream and the Red Sox?

How convinced am I that you're sorry you hurt me when you are also sorry that your modem is dead, or that you went off your diet or had a flat tire on the way to work, or because you lost your favorite hat or ate the last of the chili, and especially because your cat killed a squirrel before breakfast?

"Forgive me" is what I heard you say to the stranger in the supermarket when your cart hit her heel, and to the clerk at the convenience store when you gave him the wrong credit card, and to the fat guy you accidentally cut ahead of at the checkout in L. L. Bean's last week, so please don't say it to me after you have shattered my heart into a pile of shards. I'll say "forget it," but I promise you--I won't.

Is Anybody Listening?

It's getting sort of annoying that God has never spoken to me personally. After all, he talks to others: Several of my friends, and even my own sister, have recounted instances when they heard his voice and were instructed to do such and such. All kinds of people believe he exists, and in fact go to special buildings to worship him and receive instructions. And there's the Pope, of course, who's got a direct line, and all the other devotees who spend their lives in service to him. There are people who are cured by God, or saved from bad behavior like the alcoholics with the 12-steps, and blah, blah, blah, but I have never seen the slightest shred of evidence that he is out there.

And why not? What's wrong with me? I'm nice, despite the fact that I called a snooty woman who lives near me "snooty," which she is, believe me. That kind of straight-from-the-hip talk is my worst offense. Besides that, I'm a pretty good friend to Man: I give to charity, help those in need, lend a sympathetic ear--sometimes two-- and love animals. I don't kill bugs even though I hate them with every fiber of my being. I can't think of one person I have ever knowingly hurt, besides my old friend Richard who got so angry when I said it was ridiculous to believe those church wafers are actually part of Christ's body that he ended our 30-year friendship.

I say all this because I would welcome a little proof that somebody up there likes me. I think we all would. It's time for some divine intervention, with much of the world in ruins, suicide rates rising and global suffering growing daily. So I am calling on God for a sign--something--anything-- that he's got a plan. Of course, there's no reason to think he reads my blog, so this is likely falling on deaf ears--if he has ears.

The Stupid Internet's Stupid Stories

I'm not sure how it happens, but average people who do ordinary things of little interest show up in the news all the time. I rarely click on stories that begin, "Man accidentally kills wife with blender," but it's amusing to imagine the plight of the editors charged with finding these stories and blowing them up out of all proportion. This recent incident from my own life is of no importance whatsoever to anyone--even me--but since I can, I post it here for no good reason in that nutty, Huffington Post style:

Bored Cat Plots Owner's Death
In a stealthy act of pure selfishness, a formerly loving domestic short-haired tabby sought revenge for her 18 years of captivity. Known simply as "Daisy," the animal woke up her devoted owner at four in the morning with piercing cries of distress. Fearing the cat had been caught in some sort of trap (there are none in the home) or perhaps was being eaten by a wild animal (also impossible), the myopic woman rushed from her deep slumber to rescue the once-adored pet. In her haste she neglected to put on her glasses, and instead blindly ran toward the deranged shrieking. Her myopia exacerbated by the total darkness, she missed the last step and fell backwards onto the stairs, bruising her body painfully in several places. Daisy finally shut the hell up as the woman burst into tears, struggled to her feet, and limped back to bed. The cat was fine--she just wanted some treats.

Boo, Humbug

Here it is with October half gone and I still don't have one pumpkin out front; usually by now there are several of varying sizes artfully nestled among a riot of potted chrysanthemums. That's what you do this time of year. But I'm done with the whole Halloween thing, up to and including the dispensing of candy to the future diabetics of America. Lest you find that mean-spirited, think for a moment about the popular definition of stupidity: Doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results. It's time to get smart.

In the past I have gone all out, what with the carved Jack-o-Lanterns, the aroma of roasted pumpkin seeds, the scary lighting and mood music, and even the occasional application of outlandish makeup and a wry costume. In years gone by, living in urban areas like Washington, DC and Salt Lake City, we've often run out of candy and resorted to emptying our cupboards of staples, but here in Maine, nobody comes. Ours is simply not a trick-or-treat kind of neighborhood; lacking street lights, the dark lanes and long driveways are less than inviting. Instead, the excited young celebrants ambush the picturesque village half a mile away, where the houses are clustered together and the residents are prone to hanging ghosts fashioned from bedsheets in their trees.

And so we are left with bowls and bags of colorfully packaged toxins in fun sizes with names like Twix and Kix, Snickers and Whoppers, Twizzlers and the like. These are usually consumed over a period of weeks by members of our family who shall remain nameless, accounting for the slow slide into the massive weight gain that is the hallmark of the holiday season. Refusing to repeat that mistake, I have started at the front door. This year there will be no exterior pumpkins, although there are a couple of mums out there because, besides being pretty, flowers are not fattening.

My Brush with Stardom

Hollywood's Walk of Fame

Last week I answered an ad I saw online for a reality TV show looking for "seriously good home cooks." I decided I might qualify, and thinking who knows where it could go, I emailed. They called. After a brief phone interview, guess what: They wanted me to come on the show and be one of the spatula-wielding gladiators who would be pitted against one another in the style that is so popular these days. If I lost the first round, it would be over. If I didn't lose I would go on to compete again, in a smaller group, until eventually I would either lose or win a cash prize and a chance at stardom! Then what: My own cooking show? A magazine perhaps? A line of dishware like Rachael Ray?

The sky was truly the limit. I'd have to go to New York or maybe LA for the taping, which was no big deal. Fine. Then they told me the dates, and it was exactly when my husband and I are going to be in Barcelona. We have our tickets and hotel reservations and guidebooks and maps, and we're even learning Spanish. So I said no. Besides, who wants to look like an idiot on TV? Especially now, with my new hideous hair color that I got yesterday. Not me.

Bagels for Goyim

A bialy trumps a bagel every time.

Jews are disappearing and soon they will be gone from the planet--except maybe that bunch in Israel--or so says an article in The Week. Apparently, "young American Jews are marrying at an astonishing rate and no longer practicing Judaism." It goes on to quote percentages and ages and blah, blah, blah, but the bottom line is that the Jews are facing "a dismal future."

This will be good news for some, as it's no secret that certain people actually dislike Jews, God knows why. I'm not too worried though, since the article was full of mistakes. One that jumped out at me was the idea that you can be a "cultural Jew if you like Seinfeld and bagels, even if you ignore the practice of the religion." This is something I take issue with since there is so much more to being Jewish! Bagels are the tip of the iceberg, and pretty much the domain of non-Jews anyway since Harry Lender and his evil son Murray invented the pre-sliced, frozen bagel in the 1960's. This was followed by other abominations like the blueberry bagel, the chocolate-chip bagel and the cinnamon-raisin bagel in the late 20th century, after which all hell broke loose. Pretty soon, fluffy round things shaped to look like bagels were being sold in supermarkets and even at McDonalds, which if you ask me is a shonda for the goyim. Besides, any real Jew wants a bialy.

And if for some reason you want to know for sure what you've got is a real Jew, put out some gefilte fish, kishka, kreplach, schmaltz, schav, kugel, gribenes, tongue, p'tcha, mamaliga, maybe a bissel herring with cream sauce, some homentashen if it's that time of year, and see what happens. And please, if you're having a fancy party and putting out a big spread, do everyone a favor and toss the nova and put out some belly lox--what is this, a country club?

Hoping for the Best

That Obamacare website really is messed up. I tried it just to see what all the fuss is about, and after 45 frustrating minutes it kicked me off for refusing to say whether I'm an Alaskan native or an American Indian. 

Sue me, I'm interested in health care. Half the time my husband thinks I'm a hypochondriac; I'm pretty sure he's schizophrenic, which would explain the other half. Mitch started feeling this way early in our marriage when he discovered that my preferred bedside reading was the Physician's Desk Reference. So he wasn't surprised when, after a recent woodsy hike around Casco Bay, I awoke from a fitful sleep, my scalp on fire. "Wake up, I might be dying," I cried. "My brains itch. Is it a tumor? Could it be scalp cancer?" He seemed nonplussed, muttering something about mosquitoes.

In my own defense, I come by my neurosis honestly, hypochondria being our back-up religion when I was a kid. The family crest--a feeding tube inside a funeral wreath, inscribed with the words "All Roads Lead to Cancer"--enlivened all our table linens and dish towels. Somebody was always whispering that somebody else had a lingering illness that "didn't look good," and that it was "only a matter of time." My mother was one of the ringleaders, constantly searching for and usually finding the cloud inside every silver lining. I was hospitalized for chicken pox at age two. At four I had a tonsillectomy and they gave my mother the sedative. (She asked for a general, but they refused.) When I was twelve, my parents rushed me to the emergency room for hiccups; seventy-five dollars and a glass of sugar water later I was cured.

Naturally our family doctor hated us. His ridiculous handlebar mustache made him look like the Sheriff of Dodge City, prompting me to say, "Howdy, pardner," every time I saw him. He got revenge by keeping his stethoscope on ice, then insisting I remove my blouse for every examination. I got revenge back by fainting during my ear piercing, which he only agreed to do because my father was the president of their bowling league.

I hope they fix all that Obamacare stuff before I keel over.

Kitchen Kapers

Even if you have no problem ingesting something that once had parents, you've still got to pity the poor lobster. When he's not being boiled, broiled, steamed, grilled, baked or stuffed, which here in Maine happens every minute of every day, he's having his claws broken like some poor slob who pissed off Tony Soprano.

I know, I know-- people the world over consume chicken wings and baby back ribs and legs of lamb and all the other body parts of all the other animals all the time. Despite all that, a recipe I read in the New York Times for something called "Lobster Cappuccino" seemed unduly cruel. After luring the dumb creature into your home and completing the author's first two opening salvos, Step 3 advises:  
"To make the lobster broth and garnish, lay the live lobster on a cutting board. Place the tip of a large, heavy knife at the indentation where the carapace meets the head of the lobster, making sure the cutting blade is facing the lobster's eyes. Swiftly and forcefully, plunge the knife through the lobster until the knife hits the cutting board."

Assuming you are not Nancy Pelosi but are human and yet go forward anyway, Step 4 has you "twist off the claws and tail, split the lobster in half, discarding the innards after scraping out the roe." This got me wondering--besides whether or not you can get into Heaven if you make Lobster Cappuccino--if lobsters feel pain. Searching the Internet I found roughly a million lobster sites, each one addressing how to cook them, where to buy them and when to trap them. Could an entire species exist just for Man's consumption?

Fortunately I stumbled upon a website run by Robert Huber, a.k.a. Lobsterman. A biologist at Bowling Green State University, he graciously took the time to answer my e-mailed questions, one of which was: Do lobsters feel pain? According to Huber, "All vertebrates have pain pathways in the brain. Some pains may actually be something we go out of our way to experience, such as eating hot chili peppers. Having a knife stuck into your body does not usually come to mind in that context. Lobsters, like any vertebrate, will dislike having their bodies chopped in half and will presumably also find unpleasant a breach of the body wall or the tearing off of a limb."

This teaches us two things: First and most important, never quote a biologist in a humor column. Next, if you insist on following a recipe in which you've got to tear something limb from limb while it's still breathing, plan ahead and have some anesthesia handy. I suggest a glass of red wine. And while you're at it, pour some on the lobster--he needs it more than you do.

I Got This E-mail Today

Small Town Secrets

My blog stats are up again, since yesterday I wrote about an associate of that pack of Freeporters known here as Frumpy, Dumpy and Lumpy. They must have alerted her, and so today I have lots more clicks than usual. Once again, all I did was call a spade a spade, and in so doing outed someone for a minor infraction that was important only to me. Still, the truth is often met with disdain.

Here is why honesty is the best policy: because someone is always watching. This fact is brought home in a haunting novel I first read in the 10th grade entitled "Too Late the Phalarope," by the esteemed South African writer Alan Paton. In it the protagonist, a lovely and endearing family man and community leader, is brought to ruin by his own inability to come clean about who he really is. Eventually, a watcher in the shadows tells his truth to the world.

I am not a watcher in the shadows, and in fact I am kind of afraid of shadows and thus would never be hiding in them. But I do see what's what and have few compunctions about outing people who have done wrong, and by that I mean done me wrong. Not always, of course, and a few confided secrets have been safe with me for 30 years or more. (If you ask nice, I won't tell.) Still, I'm wondering if I dare change the name of this blog to "Freeport Place" and divulge some even juicier stuff...