Whew, I Think This Beats Trying To Thread That Camel

Quite a story here.

Somebody anonymously bestowed a mountain of money on various charities in a town suffering from a severe economic downturn.  The local homeless shelter, which had never seen a donation larger than 25k, (itself a remarkable gift) will receive 2 million.  I fight the urge to let myself get irritated when I read about wealthy people leaving millions to universities and hospitals, when there is so much money needed at the street level, so this story made me smile this morning.

I also found it interesting that a few of the recipients opted out of attempts to identify the donor.  Some said it would be disrespectful to even try.  I think I agree.  The whole thing reminded me of an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm where Larry “anonymously” donated money to a cause, only to be miffed that he received no accolades for doing it.

Nashville seems to be chock-full of biblical scholars, but I was surprised to read that the “through the eye of a needle” aphorism has it’s roots in Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. 

This slightly comforts me, I have no idea why.

Attention Soundmen, or Whatever They Are Called, Plus Randomness!

Please, stop this insane practice of making guns click when they are drawn or brandished.  For some reason, (I suppose its for dramatic effect) in every TV show and movie where guns are displayed, there is always this noise like someone is chambering a round.  Try this at home.  Your gun, no matter how many times you draw it from a holster or your waistband, will make no noise when you pull it out and point it.  Sure, if you pull the hammer back, you will hear a faint click, but I have seen movies, lots of them, where some guy has already pulled the gun, cocked it, and is just redirecting his aim or trying to be more menacing with it, and damn, if it doesn’t click and sound like it is almost alive when they do so.  Its stupid.

Someone is going to make a fortune when he/she invents a way to unroll barbed-wire quickly and safely.  Until then, i will continue to leave little bits of myself sprinkled around the property.

My yearling was standing in the back pasture, grazing as usual, when several deer approached him.  He stood there, even after the babies decided to run at him full speed, then turn and dart away at the last moment.  I mean they came within 3 feet of him, or less.  They kept at it, and he just stood there, I swear, with the most bewildered look a horse can muster.  I laughed so hard I finally scared the deer away.  Funniest thing I’ve ever seen here.  Ever.

Tony Romo reminds me of Joe Montana.  Not a great runner, but quick feet, and a great ability to see the whole field, and his release looks identical.  In fact, I’m seeing Montana/Rice when I see Romo/Owens.  Great fun.  Never thought I’d root for the Cowboys, but they and the Packers are the only teams with a chance to beat the Colts or the Pats.  Defenses are starting to tire….and everybody’s run game should improve, which might explain the fact that the Pack rushed for over 100 yards against the Vikings.

The “B” Stands For Baby

Ok, Aunt B is out of surgery, and should go home later today. Oh my God, you should have seen her. She was all gaa gaa over her surgeon, and was strangely quiet whenever he was nearby. However, after he had done his thing, I found being rolled around the corridors because none of the nurses wanted her in their station. She bitched because there were no M&M’s, she whined at the fact that the Hospital didn’t see fit to stock in Diet Dr. Pepper for her post-surgery recovery process. I was embarrassed. I’ll let her fill everyone in on what the procedure means, medically speaking. She was in a good mood, really, just couldn’t get past the idea that her cuteness couldn’t help her in that particular setting. I wanted to stay and snap a pic of her walking to the bathroom in that “slit up the back” gown, but alas, I’ve work to do. She should be posting by tonight! Yeah!

Crying Foul Over Fried Fowl, or, Take That, Hutchmo!

Its fun to tease Southerners about their love of frying.  I’m not really sure it’s completely fair to tie them to this practice, at least not exclusively, but since Southerners themselves make fun of it, I’m guessing I won’t be stepping on too many toes here.  I can remember the first time I ever had sweet tea.  It tasted like thin waffle syrup.  I was in some restaurant somewhere in Atlanta and ordered tea, and about spit it out when I tasted it.  I wasn’t expecting to be able to spoon it out.  So I’ll always remember that.  The other thing I’ll remember is the first time someone told me they were going to fry a turkey for Thanksgiving.  I laughed like a maniac.  “Who, I asked myself, would have a pot large enough to fry an entire 18 lb bird?”

Turns out, damn near everyone.  You’ve seen em.  They are monstrously large aluminum or steel pots, supported by the flimsiest, most rickety looking “stand” imaginable, with large handles on either side.  The idea is, you fill this pot with peanut oil, and, after consuming a 12 pack or so, immerse the turkey into this vat whose temperature is roughly that of the sun’s.  What could go wrong?  Well, if your bird is the teensiest bit wet, you will have front row seats for The Worst Fireworks Show on The Planet.  Snap crackle pop doesn’t begin to cover it.

I’m sure most of you have seen the inevitable videos of drunken red necks scalding themselves doing this, or, worse, tipping the pot over and setting the entire trailer ablaze.  Its a dangerous damn thing to do, period.

So, of course, I had to try it.  I admit that I wouldn’t have even considered it if I didn’t absolutely love what comes out.  If you are lucky, or good, or both, your turkey is surrounded by a browned, crunchy skin and underneath is the juiciest, most tender meat I have ever tasted.  A couple of years ago I went out and bought a deep fryer that is actually designed to use indoors or out.  I can’t imagine why anyone would attempt this indoors, but people do crazy ass things all the time.  Anyway, I loaded my pot with peanut oil, heated it to the recommended temperature, injected my turkey with the obligatory “cajun-butter” liquid, and carefully and soberly eased it into the hot oil.   Later, what emerged was somewhat close to what I wanted, but not quite.

So, heres my question:  I didn’t care for the pre-packaged “marinade” that they practically require you to buy with your peanut oil, I don’t like the taste of butter, and it permeated the entire meal.  I thought about just buying a smoked turkey this year, I really really like that smoked turkey sandwich in the food court at Opry Mills mall.  So I’m thinking about that.  But, if I want to fry again, any suggestions as to what I can inject in the bird to keep it moist inside?    If you fry, I’d love to hear how you do it, particularly how you prepare your bird.   I don’t know why I am thinking about this already, but we get a free turkey every year, and sometimes we donate it, sometimes we eat it, and I guess I’m trying to decide which way to go this year.

Whatever suggestions you make, please make sure I can perform what is required after having 7 or 8 shots of Blue Agave.

(Apologies about the stupid post title, but I try to never miss an opportunity to mock The Hutch.  ® )

Satisfaction

My neck hurts.  My back hurts.  I’m cut in a couple of thousand places.  My fingers look like I was shredding cheese and forgot the cheese.  The long green weeds with the razor sharp thorns left most of my skin, but also left some kind of itchy venom on it.

But I don’t care.  One good man showed up yesterday and we strung barb wire fencing around the entire perimeter.  In one day.

I feel good about that.

My Big Halloween Caper

Living out in the country makes for a lousy Halloween. We never see trick or treaters, and back in the day we lived in a subdivision, my favorite thing to do was get the house all scary and make the neighborhood kids cry. I was good at it. So anyway, now that we are doing the Green Acres thing, (some of you go ask your parents about that show, we’ll wait…………..) I don’t get the chance much anymore. Alright, life moves on, so we have this tradition, oh, about 4 years now, where we get together with our best friends, Andy and the Missus, and we schlep the kids over to a local subdivision and let them collect candy and hang out. A quick word about our friends: We really love these people. Our daughters share a birthday, and became good friends at school. I met The Missus in line to pick up kids one day when she engaged me about my Wes Clark sign on my truck. We frequently spend weekends together, cooking enormous amounts of food, watching the kids play, and witnessing to each other about The Glory Of Jesus.

As much as I like them, they are not nice people. When they came over last night, they brought with them some kind of fermented potion and bade me to partake of it. Not wanting to insult these long time friends, I sipped a wee bit of it, nodded vigorously when they asked me if I liked it, and then spit the spirit laden concoction into a nearby trash can. No matter, I must have absorbed some thru my gums or something. Prior to their arrival, I was sober as the proverbial churchmouse. Potent stuff, this takeela, or whatever its called.

Ok, so off we go to the neighborhood, the 7 of them wedged into The MissusMobile, and me leading the way on my trusty four -wheeler. Same thing, every year. The four-wheeler was used in previous years to ferry worn out kids back the car, and also to make sure I did not have to walk the whole way like they had to. Well, thanks to that fiery liquid from Mexico, I decided it would be fun to roar up to groups of unsupervised trick-n-treaters and “tax” them some of their candy. (See, I never get any from the kids, the selfish brats) So off I go, careening around, scaring kids and extorting tootsie rolls and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from them. What could possibly go wrong?

Apparently, some future College Republican went whining to the local cops about my reign of terror, and I swear, they sent everything but the SWAT team out looking for me. Squad cars. Flashlights. Infrared equipped Helicopters. Search and destroy dogs. Well, normally, I wouldn’t have cared much. I would have assured the officer that I was playing a game, you know, “mixing it up”, having some fun, and I’m sure he would have seen the humor and let me go on my way.

However

If you’ll remember, my neer’do’well “friends” forced me to drink, and, being a tad inexperienced with mind altering substances, I was, in fact, shit-faced. Of course, that made driving the four-wheeler that much more fun, and that much more illegal. (At least Andy was duly appreciative of the perfect figure 8 patterns my tires made on some of the lawns) So, when I first caught sight of roadblock set up to snag me, I parked on a lawn and went strolling along with the group. (I made my son go turn the key off, I figured if they caught him, I’d bail him out before he got a tattoo or joined a gang or something) I swear they actually staked out that house for over 30 minutes. They cruised back and forth, they interviewed the people that lived there, I think they even swabbed the handlebars for DNA.

Eventually, I figured I could appear at least somewhat sober, and confessed to one of the coppers that it was mine, and that I was merely keeping an eye on my kids, which he should understand is part of my job as President of the Neighborhood Watch Association. Fortunately, I picked the right guy. He was cool about it, explained about the complaint call, and asked me rather firmly to “take it home.” I shot him a snappy salute, turned on my heel, and tripped over some bricks bordering a flower bed.

My bail is $500.00

Anyone?