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Conserving Matter

Michael Leave a comment

As a scientist, one of my personal commandments was thou shalt not deny the conservation of matter. What we have we always had and always will. Never more. Never less. Always was, is, and will be. It can change, but it won’t disappear. It might look new, but it’s only rearranged. Ice melts into water, water vaporizes into steam, steam condenses into water, water freezes into ice. Always there, always the same, even when different.

Sociologists have their own sort of conservation of matter. Everybody we have is every body we will have. Old people move from the cold of New York to the warmth of Ft. Lauderdale. Immigrants from Caribbean refuges move from south Florida to Chicago to open diners specializing in arroz con gandules. Bright eyed 20 year olds move from Naperville to the seek fame and fortune in Manhattan.

Now, economists want to horn in on the fame afforded to our anything but fortuitous conservation of matter. You’ll recall the landmark post uploaded to this very blog not even some 30 months ago about the ever increasing sizes of American sizes. (If you don’t, you can read it here. If you do but don’t recall it as “landmark,” then you must have a pretty low opinion of yourself reading such drivel. If you do and you do recall it as “landmark,” have I got a bridge to sell you!) To refresh your memory, there is no more small or medium in American. It’s all large, extra large, and full size. This would seem to contradict the natural order of the conservation of matter. Where are the extras going into the larges coming from? In a word, coffee.

Coffee? Yes, coffee. For some time coffee package sizes have been dwindling before our very eyes every time we bring them (our eyes, not the coffee packages) into a grocery store. Years and years and years and years ago, and a few more before that, the standard coffee sizes were one pound cans or bags (for single coffee drinker households), two pound cans (for those teetering on the brink of narcolepsy), and three pound mega-cans (for households with small children). (If you ever had small children you understand that.)  The three pound cans disappears years ago replaced by 36 ounce canisters and the one pound varieties lost 4 ounces to become sleek 12 ounce bags. Now the largest single size container of coffee you can buy is a 30 ounce plastic jug, the small choice is a mere 11 ounces (8.4 to 10 ounces for designer brands and flavors), and medium has disappeared altogether.

So you’re going to say that you don’t drink coffee so your matter is indeed growing every time you order a large sweet tea or test drive an extended cab pickup. No, no, no. You might not drink coffee but if you’re partaking of the classic American coffee break you’re part of the proof of the hypothesis, eating one (or maybe two) out of a pack of 21 prepackaged cookies that used to come in cartons of 24, or one of a new baker’s dozen of donuts that now total a mere ten. Crackers that used to be sold in 12 ounce boxes are now 11, and cream cheese for your bagel is in a 6.5 ounce container when once it was 8.

So there you have it. The modern iteration of that most ancient of all absolutes. Everything indeed is as it once was, merely changed.

 

Whatball?

Michael 3 Comments

Only 40 more days until hockey season. Forty days. If Noah could make it, I can. The problem I have that our intrepid Biblical sailor never had to overcome is that football is in its preseason and will start some 30 days before hockey. Around here (here seemingly being anywhere bordered by the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans and Mexico and Canada) football dominates.

As soon as the NFL entered their preseason activities sometime back at the beginning of summer with “OTAs” whatever they are, football highlighted the sports pages. When the colleges and high schools entered their “preseasons,” it took over. Baseball, golf, tennis, auto racing, horse racing, and any other summer sport went on the inside pages. Yesterday’s email of “headline stories!” from the local paper mentioned 9 can’t miss articles to read, 7 of them football related.

Football has a place. For the young kid crowd, the peewee set, it’s a terrific outlet. It doesn’t require much skill, no physical agility, and little intelligence, while still offering the immature male an opportunity to run amok, yell and scream, and hit each other with abandoned. But by the time they reach 16 you’d think they would be out of that stage preparing to terrorize everybody else when they are awarded drivers licenses.

FootBallI don’t even understand how the sport got its name. Baseball employs bases. Basketballs are aimed at baskets. Ice hockey is played on ice. Soccer players sock each other. A football is a …. What? A local sports writer who is a voter in the football hall of fame selection process has often said that he would never vote for a kicker to be enshrined in that hall. Yet the football kicker is the only football player on the football team who actually uses his foot in the play of the game.

Just forty more days. Forty days. Time to gather two centers, two left wings, two right wings, two left defense, two right defense, two goalies, two coaches, two pucks, two Zambonis, two….

 

Strike Up the Grill

Michael 8 Comments

I saw an article on one of my magazines’ weekly emails that there are only 3 weeks left to grilling season. Obviously that’s a bit of marketing hype for this month’s hard copy edition’s cover story. Three weeks from now is just a week into September and for here, and I would think most of the U. S. except perhaps some ZIP codes in Maine and Alaska, there’s a lot of good grilling weeks well beyond that. For some parts, it never stops being grilling time. (Sometimes I think this country is just too big for its own good which messes with magazine headline writers’ best intentions.) Now as far as I’m concerned, and being just north of the 40th parallel and having a covered patio, I’ll grill pretty deep into winter as long as the grill isn’t frozen shut. When we get those deep freezes and harsh winds that facilitate snow accumulating under the patio cover, I’ll put away the grill spatula.

WintergrillI think the point they wanted to make with that 3 week warning is that Labor Day is only 3 weeks away. Pools will close, fall decorations will come out of garages, wardrobes will be swapped for darker colors, and pumpkin spice everything will greet us at the entrance to every store, even Pep Boys.

I think the point that they are actually making is that just like the stores that already have their pumpkin spice everythings starting to sneak close to the entrances, the magaziners enjoy rushing the seasons. If they didn’t publish their fall cooking guides, turning leaf travel guides, or autumn splendor festivals guides by July they think some other magaziner (or horrors! an e-ziner) will beat them to it and there will go their credibility with the masses. With that there goes their summer advertising revenue projections hopefully earned from the ads for fall fashions and vacations by the sellers certain that you’ll book you flight home for Thanksgiving weekend with somebody who advertised cheap winter holiday fares in June. Arrrggghhh!!!

What I was hoping I’d find in my inbox would be a recipe on how to use up all those summer vegetables perhaps in a grilled medley since we apparently have 3 weeks of grilling season left. Unfortunately, all I found were some interesting ways to use those soon to be ripe pumpkins. I guess all the zucchini recipes were in the April editions.

 

Those Were The Days

Michael 1 Comment

I’ve been spending the past several evenings watching Bond, James Bond movies going all the way back to the first offering from 1962. I was reminded, happily reminded, of how courteous people were back then. Everyone dressed well, everyone said please and thank you, everyone treated each other with respect. If I hadn’t lived through it myself I would say this was a romanticized version of mid-century life, but it wasn’t. At least it wasn’t where I lived and that wasn’t London, or New York, or Kingston, Jamaica. Nor was it spent in high class casinos, private clubs, or Caribbean resorts. It was a dinky little steel mill town in Western Pennsylvania and people still dressed well, said please and thank you, and treated each other with respect. If it had been sunnier more days than it was it could have been the set of Leave It To Beaver.

I was just about to type that the movies are part of a month long festival of sorts courtesy of the Starz/Encore networks. That’s not quite true. The movies are indeed part of a month long Bond, James Bond celebration airing on the Starz/Encore channels but they are there to see courtesy of myself by way of my monthly cable bill. And I think that is part of why I miss those original days of Bond, James Bond. No, the cable channel wouldn’t have paid for my movies back then. We all know there wasn’t cable then. Movies were at the theater. Where you dressed for the day out, said “please” when asking for a ticket and “you’re welcome” in response to the “thank you” the cashier would cheerfully tell you. Where the movie, popcorn, soft drink, and bus fare to get there and back could be had for the dollar bill mom gave you and let you keep the change. Today that 1962 fifty cent movie is included as part of my $140 monthly cable bill. And I have to provide my own popcorn and drink.

MarqueeThe last time I went to a Bond, James Bond movie at a theater it cost me $9.50 and when I passed over my $20 bill I got a ticket, the wrong change, and a “there ya go.” When I pointed out the error I was rewarded with the insipid “my bad.” At the concession stand I spent $7.50 for a soft drink, the required purchase to redeem my FREE POPCORN! coupon, during a wordless transaction other than my “small popcorn and Sprite” at its beginning and my “thank you” at its conclusion. (I’m still not sure why I thank the seller when I purchase something. Please tell me I’m not the only one.)

Even ignoring the almost 27 fold increase in the monetary outlay, it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Oh it wasn’t unpleasant. Nobody tried to pick my pocket, the crowd in the cinema was mostly quiet, and I didn’t spill my sticky soft drink onto my lap. Conversely, nobody said “excuse me” as they climbed over the lady in the row in front of me to get to the only seats that would satisfy them, nobody apologized for knocking the sticky soft drink into the lap of the unfortunate lady who was climbed over, and almost everybody dashed out of the theater as if someone actually yelled fire at the movie’s end. The niceties that were there in Those Good Old Days weren’t there and probably will never return.

If you should be unfortunate enough to ever mention this, particularly if you ever mention this to someone whose only experience with those late-50s early-60s days were through old movies or syndicated reruns of the Beaver, you may be rebuked for your naiveté and wistful but obviously wrong recollection of a time that wasn’t. But for me it was, they were, and it still is not a bad thing to aspire.

And now I have to run to the store and pick up popcorn for tonight’s showing. If I’m lucky, I might find a coupon.

 

Dogs can’t read MRI’s…

Michael 7 Comments

..but catscan!

Ok, that has nothing to do with today’s post but I couldn’t come up with a post where it would have relevance and I really wanted to use it.

But then again maybe it does go with today’s post because today’s post really doesn’t go with anything else. It’s a sort of “things I think I think” bunch of things that I think I thought this week.

  • I was at a book store, a real book store with real books and all, and there was a display of cookbooks. I always like cookbooks so I went over and the first one I picked up was a paleo cookbook and the first thing I thought was the same thing I thought every time I see a paleo cookbook. How do they know?
  • I saw a post come across my Facebook time line (and I wondered who came up with that name, but I always think that) that said dogs and cats can see apparitions. And I thought things not unlike when I think of paleo cookbooks. How do they know?
  • Why do cable companies advertise specials for “new subscribers only” on exclusive subscriber only channels?
  • Why are chilies hot but hotties are far from cold? (Originally I was going to use “Why are chilies hot?” as today’s title.) (In case you were wondering.)
  • How can 17 bad guys empty all of their machine guns and the hero doesn’t even get wounded while he hides behind a telephone pole yet he manages to never miss a shot with his little pistol? And how do they even write that up in the screenplay direction notes? “Bad guys shoot poorly?”
  • Can it still be called “breaking news” if it happened yesterday?
  • What’s the other half of a semiprecious stone?
  • Why is the opposite of “pro” con, anti, and amateur?

Will this never end?

 

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

————

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.