Category House and Home

Technically Speaking

Michael 2 Comments

I blew it. I missed Thursday. Technically I suppose I didn’t. It’s still Thursday here, but I always have a post written and scheduled to be released so you can read it over your morning coffee. Technically, I do that so I can read it over my morning coffee. It gives me a little joy since I no longer write memos and directives that the staff got to read over their morning coffee. Ahh, those were the days. Oh the joy that I got out of putting a chill in their morning coffees. Yet I noticed that some of my joy was missing while I was having my morning coffee today. So I set out on the search for why.

At first I thought it was because I hadn’t crisped my breakfast potatoes enough. I knew it wasn’t that because I scarfed those puppies down like nobody’s business. (Potatoes of any kind are a treat for me and breakfast potatoes I’m lucky to get maybe twice a year.) (And yeah, I really could have put a better crisp on them. Oh well, there’s always sometime next year.) (Why, you ask. They’re not really friendly to a renal diet.) (Oh, why weren’t they crispy enough? I probably didn’t give them a good enough smash. And from there it’s all science. Wimpy smash, wimpy starch release, wimpy crisp.)

WeeklyAfter discounting potatoes (minimally crisp as they were), I was still sensing some lack of joy. Aha! I said to myself. “Self, aha! It’s August. Not a good month for you.” And yes, August has had some bad memories of late. Two of the last four Augusts have seen me in emergency rooms followed by hospital admissions and one of those was a marathon four-monther. Another August was the closing of the hospital I wanted to stay at until I retired (as an employee, not a patient). Which, technically, I did, but not in the manner I had planned. (Too many commas?) But then last August nothing bad happened at all so I am on a roll. Technically you could say I am one in a row. Nope, that wasn’t it.

I know. While having my morning coffee I got a text from my sister. That would bring unjoy to anybody. But no, she was just telling me that she was going to return some containers of mine that I had used to share some peach cobbler with her. And whenever my containers come back they are always full of new food. Food is always good. Food = joy. Food somebody else makes = great joy.

No, the lack of joy could be due to only one thing. I didn’t have my post to read this morning. Somehow I had forgotten to write a post for today. I don’t understand it. I didn’t do anything different over the past few days to make me lose track of days forget what I had done, fail to record particular highs or lows, or observe life at its craziest. I think I just forgot. Technically, I blew it. Fortunately I had a lot of other posts in my mailbox and you guys write better than me anyway. So joy was restored and all is right in the world.

Oh, but you’re getting this post anyway. Have a good Thursday. Or whenever it is wherever you are. Sorry if you really missed it at breakfast. Have a second cup of coffee on me.

 

 

Head Buds

Michael Leave a comment

Sometimes a mind is a terrible thing to have. I don’t even know how I got started thinking about this but once I did there just was no stopping it. It had a life of its own and it must have been as crappy a life as I have because of all the people in the world it could hang out with, that person was me.

“It” is my mind and I know your own mind usually doesn’t get to choose from many people to hang out with, but still. It started while I was at dialysis yesterday, when I usually read or work a crossword puzzle or two, I felt like doing something else. Unfortunately, there aren’t a lot of something elses to pick from there. Watch TV. No. Pull out the tablet and scroll through some social media. No. Watch YouTube. No. As long as the tablet was out I thought I’d plug in to some music and I plugged in my ear buds. And there we were. Off and running!

What a strange term that is. Earbuds. When I was in school we called the little speaker you connected to the transistor radio that you sneaked into class so you could listen to the baseball game an ear phone. Then we graduated to listening to rock and roll on our stereos at home and to not disturb Dad was sleeping after working night shift, we shifted to headphones. I guess if we had used earbuds back then their bigger cousins would have been called head buds.

Now that was good enough for a mental chuckle but could “it” stop there? Oh no. (Yeah, I know for the vast majority of the world including parts that might still be uninhabited, that barely registers on the “hmmmm scale” let alone warranted a chuckle, but when Transistoryou’re entering your third hour of dialysis you get a warped sense of reality let alone chuckleworthiness.) So “it” decided to keep on going. Does anybody still listen to baseball on radio? I don’t. Sometimes I might watch it on television but even in the car I don’t listen to baseball. Even in a car I rarely listen to hockey. But that’s not a good example since I’m usually at the home games and watching the away games on TV. As much as I complain about having to listen to national play by play and threaten to mute the television so I could listen to the local broadcast on radio I never have. And I actually have a radio in the apartment. Two. One is attached to an alarm clock that I’ve had for at least 30 years that I last used as an alarm at least 20 years ago. The other is attached to a CD player. I don’t listen to that much anymore either. Radio? Wow. I know they still make radio. You can get many of your local stations on your handy dandy I Heart Radio app.

Fortunately, for as long as it took me to put all of that into some coherent form, dialysis was over and I didn’t have to listen to “it” any longer. Or at least any longer just then. But I know some day this week though I’m going to have a dream about head buds. I can’t wait to see what they look like.

 

 

Nickel and Diming the Penny Pinchers

Michael 7 Comments

I didn’t believe it. There was no reason to doubt her, but when my daughter told me there is a difference in English muffin prices I didn’t believe her.

Specifically, we were talking about Thomas’ English Muffins in your basic grocery six pack, the goto English muffin for both of us. When we feel like splurging. C’mon! Thomas’ are expensive for just a little something extra when you don’t want plain toast for breakfast. I found a store brand that was mighty tasty for less than half what the Thomas brand runs in our neck of the woods. Over two dollars less. “In fact,” I said, “They’re two and a quarter cheaper.” And that started it.

She explained to me that what I found was indeed $2.25 less than the PLAIN Thomas muffin. (In fact, it was $2.27 but why quibble over a couple pennies when so many countries are no longer even minting penny equivalents of their coinage. I’m still not sure why the American monetary police insist on continuing to print $1 bills, the paper equivalent of useless money. But, that’s a different post for a different day.) I tried to beg to differ but you can’t beg in front if your own child so I just differed with a simple “Nuh uh.”

She went on to say she was certain the wheat, raisin, oat bran, super duty extra protein, and seasonal limited editions are all increasingly increasing in suggested retail prices (that for grocery stores is the retail price or why have door buster savings every week?) ranging from $4.26 for plain to $5 and change for double protein. I still resisted based on the logic that all of my Cheapo Brand Muffin were $1.99 across the board from normal to off brand bran. Since it wasn’t greatly affecting my savings or her inheritance we left it as a supermarket curiosity. One of millions down every aisle.

You know I couldn’t leave it there though, could I. No. If I did, we’d have no post today. So the next time I was at the store I wandered down the English muffin aisle, and I didn’t even need English muffins. (Talk about being dedicated to my blog readers.) I find my bargain basement brand right there on the bottom shelf where all off brands belong, each iteration bearing the shelf tag $1.99. Above them, strategically placed at eye level was the Thomas English Muffin lineup. And under the plain muffin was the shelf tag with the not on sale price of $4.26. And next to those, the wheat muffins priced at $4.28, and so on to the Double Oatmeal Protein at $5.38. Who would have thought it?

While I was there, I thought I’d treat myself and pick up a pack of the cheapos. Wheat. If I was going to save I may as well splurge on it. Or whatever is the word for when you intentionally save more. The next morning I was preparing breakfast and thought I deserved more than toast and reached for an English muffin. Even though I still had a couple of plain muffins I opted for wheat and cracked open the new package. Take that Thomas muffin people! Try and gouge me just because I want wheat. I don’t think so!

As I was splitting it I had that feeling that something wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right. Not the feeling. The muffin. It seemed to not fit my hand right. It felt … small. I shrugged it off and continued splitting. I dropped the halves into the toaster and turned to tend to—- Wait! The toaster! Those are really low in the toaster. What’s wrong with the toaster? Yes, you got it. There was nothing wrong with the toaster. It was that muffin. That blasted, small muffin.

I took out another wheat muffin and one of my remaining plain guys.

Muffins

Side by side there was no mistaking it. The wheat muffin was smaller. And judging by how much, I’d say more than two cents worth smaller.

I feel so violated.

 

The Dinner That Didn’t

Michael 6 Comments

Before I start today’s post I want to apologize to some of you. Somehow my site’s notification commands got changed and I haven’t been notified of new followers or comments since sometime in June. (OK, I probably did it, but I didn’t know I did it or even how I did it. Hmm. Maybe I didn’t do it. Anyway…) Unless I just happened to run across something you left for me I may not have acknowledged you. I’m sorry. It’s fixed now and if I haven’t caught up with you yet, I will soon.

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The Dinner That Didn’t

Yesterday was a dialysis day for me. But today is not a dialysis post. Today is a dinner post.

My dialysis time is right in the middle of the day. I leave home around 10:15 in the morning, about 2 hours after breakfast, and I get home at about 3 in the afternoon, at least 2 hours after when lunch should have been. Usually when I get home I grab a snack to settle the hunger pangs that had been roiling for 2 to 3 hours. That way I can still have dinner around 6ish and maybe a light snack sometime later so I don’t wake up famished. The only thing that makes this all a little tenuous is that on dialysis days I’m pretty tired (exhausted), and cooking is often not (never) something I want to take on. What I usually do on the four days of the week that I don’t have dialysis is cook enough for a small army, or at least two meals. When I get home from my treatments I can then rely on the “heat some leftovers method” for that evening’s meal. It usually works like a charm. And sometimes not.

Yesterday I was running a little late. I rushed out the door closer to 10:25 than 10:15. Actually, I was rushing out the door closer to 10:30 than 10:25. Things happen. But I still had 15 minutes to make a 20 minute drive. I can do that. I was merrily on my way with my bag of comforts (book, tablet, crossword puzzles, soft warm woolen blankie (ahhhh) (what can I say, I get cold there)) on the seat next to me when I realized I had forgotten not only my glasses (no crossword puzzles for me) but also my wallet. (Darn! Danger, danger! Reduce speed!!!.)

A while later I was sitting in my dialysis chair, not working a puzzle, controlling my heart rate, and thinking about what I was going to have for dinner. I took the proverbial mental inventory of the fridge and decided on…hmm, nothing. As my mind’s eye scanned the shelves I saw eggs, breakfast sausage, deli meat, several cheeses, some homemade relishes (I should really post the watermelon rind relish recipe I just did – fabulous on fish), condiments, milk, water, a couple of juices, white wine, a large bowl of cut fresh fruit, and a jar of leftover pancake batter. All perfectly yummy in their own right but nothing dinner-worthy. Oh there was plenty in the freezer but it all required real cooking. No Stouffer frozen entrees up there. (Darn.)

EmptyFridgeI thought about this quandary. I had plenty of time to think not being able to see well enough to read or write. That’s when I realized that I had a golden opportunity right there in front of me. Stop on the way home and treat myself! Yes! That’s when I remembered why I had such an empty refrigerator.

The day before yesterday I had a doctor appointment. On my way home I was going to treat myself to lunch at a local diner close to me. The only problem was that this hole in the wall greasy spoon (when I decide to treat myself, I go all out), doesn’t accept cards and I was cashless. No problem that a quick stop at the drive through ATM couldn’t fix. Except for the storm raging and the chain across the driveway that held the sign, “CLOSED. NO POWER.” (Darn.) (Again.) (Or the first time.) (Do you think I overuse parentheses?) By then I was so close to home and so hungry I just went home and ate. My last leftover meal. *sigh*

No problem, I chuckled to my remembering self. That was yesterday (actually 2 days ago), this is today (actually yesterday). The power’s back on. And I sat back in my chair and tried to relax without the help of my glasses. And I relaxed like that all the way through the rest of the afternoon and right on up until I pulled onto the greasy spoon’s parking lot and then I remembered some more. Still no cash. No wallet. No ATM card. No treat. *bigger sigh*

So yesterday for dinner I had pancakes with sausage and fresh fruit. I thought about topping it with watermelon rind relish but I think I’ll turn that and some cod I have in the freezer into fish tacos for dinner today.

Unless I go out and treat myself instead.

 

The Melted Pot

Michael 4 Comments

Yesterday I made French toast for breakfast and I asked myself once again that question I ask every time I make it: if you want French toast in France do you just ask for toast? Of course the answer is no. French toast in France is called pain perdu which actually means lost bread and I assume it makes no more sense to Paris diners than it does to me. And it would indeed make no sense to breakfasters there since it’s likely to be served as dessert not as breakfast. Where did we Americans go wrong?

To complicate my breakfast matters I actually had Canadian bacon (not really bacon) and Florida orange juice (all Florida, all the time) with my French toast. (I really should refrain from tart juices with such sweet breakfasts and not challenge my taste buds so dramatically in the morning.)

In America we often herald the origin of a dish in its name because we came from so many different places. Even food classically American is prefaced with its originating locale except in said locale. Although it may be a Philly cheesesteak anywhere else, in southeast Pennsylvania it’s just a cheesesteak. Nashville hot chicken is on Tennessean menus just hot chicken, and Wisconsin brick cheese can be ordered just as brick cheese in Milwaukee. But it doesn’t always hold true as even in Buffalo if you want their classic version of the buttery hot wing you probably need to specify Buffalo wings.

Some of the modifiers make sense. When someone on American soil decided to make an eggy potato salad, the vinegary version had to be differentiated so calling it German potato salad made clear it was of the sort a Bavarian immigrant brought over the Atlantic. And that’s surely also why Irish stew kept its identifier to distinguish it from other stews. Although that doesn’t explain why Swedish meatballs kept their moniker but Italian meatballs are now just meatballs nor why we still call Hungarian goulash Hungarian without knowing any other goulashes. It’s no wonder we have such schizophrenic menu choices.

So those of you elsewhere and those who have traveled elsewhere, what are these and other Somewhere Somethings called in their home-wheres?

 

You’ve Got Mail. ish.

Michael 5 Comments

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve had three friends go on vacation. One to the other side of the world, one to the other side of the country, and one to the other side of her back porch. I don’t know if any of them were where sloths are indigenous but I do know that all of them swore off electronic communication of any kind while they were out of country, state, and office.

I also know that upon their returns, all of them swore they will never do that again. Apparently it took each of them as much as a full week to sift through email, Twitter and Instagram feeds, and Facebook posts. Email the worst.

I’m not a big vacationer. Other than a couple of longish trips over the last 45 years my vacations were mostly long weekends or 2 days jaunts. Before that my parents were responsible for recreational trips and mostly I remember being in the back seat of a large Chevrolet with no air conditioning during the two hottest weeks of the year. Probably why I now tend to vacation in the fall. Now by the time anybody realizes I am gone, I’m back home. The long trips that I did take were so long ago that snail mail was still a catchy way of denigrating the US Postal Service and my catch-up phase amounted to retrieving the mail and newspaper from the next door neighbor and dropping off some salt water taffy, moon pies, or beignet mix in exchange for being my personal drop box for a handful of bills and a flyer advertising the local department store’s weekend long one day sale. Catching up on hundreds of hundreds of emails wasn’t part of my routine. (The thousands of thousands of work generated emails accumulated over the rare day off don’t count. And they were easy to sort through anyway. Unless it came from someone who signed my paycheck or annual evaluation, they were quickly deleted.)

So the thought of having to take vacation time so I could catch up with correspondence that came in while I was off using vacation time is not something I would entertain. But it’s not something I would scoff at either. I wouldn’t entertain it because I haven’t had to entertain it. I’m not sure that I have that large of a friend base. But if you can accumulate a few hundred unanswered emails and again as many messages on this or that feed in a few days that means someone wanted you at least a few hundred times over those few days. I think that’s very cool. And pretty positive too.

SlothFor me though, I’m probably pretty safe going off grid and coming back to not much more than a full spam folder with which I’ve had lots of practice in dealing (see work emails above). I will offer my mail and newspaper pickup services to anybody planning a trip if you still get hard copy papers and mail sent with a stamp.  But if you expect me to pick up your mail and papers while you’re away for a month in the Brazilian rain forest I’m going to want more than a box of chocolate mini World Cup candies. You can at least bring me a mechanical sloth.

 

The Incredible Shrinking Man

Michael 4 Comments

I got on the scale last Friday, like I have almost every day for the past I don’t know how many years, and like it has been for so many of them I read out to myself 154.8 pounds. I then hopped into the shower (ok, I gingerly eased myself over the tub wall and carefully positioned myself under the running water’s spray), shampooed, rinsed, repeated, lathered, rinsed, sang a few verses of He’s So Fine (I was having a feminine moment), then hopped back out (no, I’m not going through that again). And then walked past the scale and couldn’t remember if I had recorded that day’s weight. So I weighed myself again.

No, I’m not obsessed with my body, good or bad it may be or the weight of it. I am, like most people with late stage kidney disease, obsessed with making sure my body isn’t holding onto water unduly. The best way to do this is to weigh oneself and track that weight hoping not to find more than minor daily changes or steady increases over time. Hence the daily recording and the longish explanation I just made you suffer.

Anyway, I weighed myself again. 154.6 pounds. I went to jot that number when I saw I had indeed recorded the earlier figure of 154.8 pounds. Hmm. I was sure I had just weighed myself at that lower number. Because I have always been a bit more than a bit obsessive I decided to again step on the scale. Yep, 154.6. Hmm.

ScaleSaturday morning I went through my routine weigh-in (or weigh-in routine if you prefer) and found myself to be 154.6 pounds. Did the shower stuff, made use of the freshly laundered bath towel (love a soft towel), and glanced down at the scale. Should I? I did. And it read 154.4 pounds.

Skip to Sunday. Before shower, 154.6. After, 154.4. Monday before, 154.8. (Went out for dinner Sunday. Must have been that glass of wine). After, 154.6. Tuesday, the same 0.2 pound difference. What is happening to me? Am I shrinking?

Two-tenths of a pound does not seem like much. Indeed it isn’t. It’s about 3 and 1/2 ounces, around 100 grams. On the other hand, it’s more than just a dribble. It is, to keep my comparisons bathroom related, a bit less than a family size tube of toothpaste, a bit more shampoo than what the TSA will permit you to carry through an airport security checkpoint. Where did those ounces go?

Since I conducted my experiment, non-scientific though it was, over 5 days and came up with the identical data for each day, I am assuming valid results. I wash off two tenths of a pound with every shower. Perhaps I’m rubbing too hard and sloughing off more skin than I can regrow in the time I’m under the water. If I use a luffa instead of a sponge would I weigh even less? Maybe I’m getting too involved with my intra-shower songfest. Would the choice of a shorter song or a less energetic display of air guitar playing (don’t judge me) result in less weight loss? Could the water actually be too hot and I really am shrinking? I’m sure I’ve never been Scotch Guarded and anything is possible.

I don’t know where it’s going but I am definitely lighter on the after side of the morning wash up. I might see if I can commercialize my findings. People are always looking for a no pain weight loss program. What can be more painless than showering? If everybody experiences the same 3+ ounce loss with each shower only 5 showers a day a day makes for more than a pound off every 24 hours. In a week that could be almost 10 pounds. Providing your hot water heater can take the strain.

I’m going to look into this. After all, I have that kind of time.

Unsubscription of the Day

Michael Leave a comment

Before there were jokes of the day or meditations of the day there were Dial a Laugh and Dial a Prayer.  If you were feeling down you could call for a smile or an inspirational pick me up.  Now we can enjoy inspiration in our inboxes every day by way of a joke, recipe, song, home decorating tip, deep discount air fare, fashion accessory, sports trivia, or even a prayer of the day. No need to wait until you need help dealing with life, life’s little boosts come to you. Directly. At no charge to you.

The thing about free anything, particularly something free that you can get every day of every week, is that they end up costing something. But not you. To you the subscriber the most expense you incur is the time it takes to scroll around or to read the ads that come with the daily encouragement. No, this isn’t a rant about ads. Ads are fine. I like ads. Ads will buy my old folks home space someday. Ads make the world go ‘round. And it’s because of this that I had this thought pop into my head three weeks ago.

What popped was “Really?” and what made it pop was “If you want to continue receiving this email, please click here.” The email in question is one of the ubiquitous OTDs. The question was, “Really? Well that’s a new one,” which I guess really isn’t a question but literary license and all that. What it definitely was though, it was a first. Usually you have to do almost anything you wouldn’t want to do in front of your parents to get out of an email subscription that you once actually asked for. If you are lucky enough to find among the message’s fine print a link to unsubscribe it usually takes you to a series of questions verifying your unwise selection (You are about to have your name PERMANENTLY removed. Are you sure you want to do this?) then respond to several confirming emails with links that take you to more veiled queries regarding your decision making and ultimately your sanity. Nobody lets anybody go from a subscription list. Those are the numbers that advertisers live by. They are literally the lifeblood of the OTDers.

So when I saw this email, this special email sent separate from the daily delivery of inspiration, I knew it was an experiment in the making. If anything, one would have thought that the email would have said that they needed to confirm their list and if I no longer wanted to receive it I should respond, but this was a whole new bag of beans. (Look, somebody has to make up new idioms and someday when “bag of beans” is old hat you’ll be able to say that you read it first.) Personally, I didn’t care if I got that daily gem or not so I didn’t “click here.” About a week later I got another email reminding me that I hadn’t yet responded to their previous inquiry and if I wanted to keep receiving their pearls of wisdom I should “click here.” Again I didn’t. Now two weeks after that I’m still getting my daily missives.

Well the joke is on them. I’m getting what other people have to actually go out and ask to get and I didn’t have to do anything for it. How’s that for pulling one over on them. Hehehe.

 

Look Who’s Talking

Michael Leave a comment

Use or lose it. Who hasn’t heard that at least with respect to vacation days or abdominal muscles?  I guess the same goes for voices. Since I retired there are precious few opportunities to replace the sheer amount of talking I once did. I guess it has taken its toll. Or more accurately, the non-it has.

When you stop exercising those abs you don’t notice an immediate loss of shape and tone. By eighths, maybe even sixteenths of inches you start a slow expansion from six pack to quarter keg. Someone who sees you daily or weekly may not even notice the transformation but run into somebody you haven’t seen in 3 years and you’ll probably hear, “Hey, you look great. Aw, no you don’t. You’re fat now. Just like the rest of us.” Or at least I imagine that’s what you might hear. Not ever having abs to die for I never had to worry about an unplanned belt explosion.

But not talking has resulted in somewhat similar observations. Apparently those I share my few words with hadn’t suspected an impending failure to communicate on my part. That makes some sense. Even the most common of my common conversationalists don’t hear much from me. Most of my chit chat revolves around a phone call or two to my daughter or sisters and much of my end consists of “mmm,” “uhhhh,” and “ok, talk to you soon.”

What got me thinking about any of this was the phone call equivalent of the friend who hadn’t seen you in 3 years, only this time played by the friend who you usually converse with via email or text messages but might actually speak with only once or twice a year. That call came last week and before I barely had “hello” out of my mouth I heard, “Oh my God, are you ok? If you’re sick, go back to bed or wherever you were resting and I’ll call back some other time.”

It was then that I realized I need a vocal version of the Ab Roller.

 

Food Fight

Michael 2 Comments

I was making the morning coffee the other day and took a moment to bask in the aroma wafting through the apartment. It made me appreciate the small space as just the right size that it can distribute something so aromatic to every corner of my little world. Of course there is the converse that small space dwellers must also consider. Quite fortunately, not nearly as often as the good stuff. That’s when I started thinking, I really have to remember I’m retired. I don’t have to think anymore. But then…

I like the smell of coffee. Coffee beans, coffee roasting, coffee grinding, coffee brewing. But I know that not everybody likes it. I don’t understand it, but I know it. What makes that happen? It’s the same smell. Why does one person like it and one doesn’t? Or in the case of coffee, why do 7 billion people like it and, assuming that about 500 million haven’t had the pleasure of smelling it yet, 23 don’t. And while we’re at it, what makes cilantro taste earthy and sharp to some, bright and citrus-y to others, and like soap to still more? Then I started thinking more…

I was out of cilantro. I needed cilantro because I was planning on using up some leftover chicken in a stir fry that evening and I always (ok, almost always) use cilantro in my stir fries. If you toss in some peanut butter it gives it a Thai flair. To me. I think so. I don’t know what someone from Bangkok would think of it. No need to get started thinking more. But then…

Thai has gotten very popular around here. Maybe elsewhere Thai food has always been popular, but here? Not so much. Now? Oh, yeah. You can’t swing a leftover chicken around without hitting a Thai restaurant. Before, if you wanted take-out it used to be nothing but Chinese, sandwiches, and pizza. And then I was wondering how close to real is the Thai take-out? How close is the Chinese? For that matter, how close are the sandwiches? OK, maybe too far with that one. But what about the pizza? I never doubted pizza before. I know that most of the pizza isn’t anything at all like real pizza because most of it isn’t at all close to my pizza. But then, I wouldn’t have expected it because very few of the pizza masters were of the same Neapolitan background as my mother, AKA my pizza master. You’d think I would stop there but no. Forget about the pizza palaces, I can only think of one authentic full service Italian restaurant nearby. Probably for the same reason and even there I could have stopped but I was on a roll. And I don’t mean a pepperoni roll. What was I thinking…

Pepperoni roll my eye. That’s nothing but a Stromboli. Not a calzone! A calzone is pizza dough covered with mozzarella, folded in half, baked, and if you wish lightly sauced by the lucky person who gets to eat it right out of the oven. I know. Calzones originated in Naples. The Stromboli is just a pizza with whatever toppings you want, like pepperoni, but rolled up. People always get things wrong. Look at yams and sweet potatoes. Consider all the people who think peanuts are nuts. Still, those are completely different animals. You want a couple of things just as confused as the Stromboli and calzone, see il maccherone versus le macaron, or more familiarly the macaroon and macaron. But the people who do know the difference at least know how to pronounce each of them. Unlike… (yes, more thinking)

What is it with gnocchi? Nobody who is Italian, other than Italian celebrity chefs who don’t want to alienate their celebrity clientele, says “No-Key.” It’s “nyock-ee”!  It comes from the Italian word nocca, which means knuckle. (No, not knot. Knuckle. Just what it looks like. Wrinkles and all. Trust me.) And don’t ask for a plate of gnocchis. Gnocchi is plural. If you really want just one, order a gnoccho. But I bet you can’t eat just one. Anyway, if you forget, the boys of winter don’t play Ho-Key, they play hockey! And that got me to thinking…

I have to send in my payment for next year’s tickets. I gotta go!

(In case you were wondering, yes this is the famous sticky note post. Famous to me. I’ve been staring at that hunk of paper for over a week now. Thank Heaven I can throw the note away. Or do you say throw away the note. You know, I’ve been thinking about that…)