The Trifling Blog

Everyone in the Good Ol’ USofA has a gramma that was the “pie” gramma. This gramma is the keeper of the secrets of baking. This was the gramma that stood at the kitchen counter when we were kids and using nothing but a rolling pin and air (as far as we knew) baked delicacies fit only for kings and kids. Thankfully we were the later.

Zoom forward a few dozen years, and you find yourself in Santa Barbara on the west sah-eed.

Which brings us at long last to the title of this entry – Gramma Laura. She would have been right at home here. She would have been among the keepers of the secret of the grain. (Not brewers) She would have spoken the universal language of crust and cake, of rising and dusting, of sifting and kneading.

For weeks now, as I have sallied forth on UnterMyrtle (my bike) on my morning ride, I have passed by a Mexican bakery. All this time, I have been gathering my gringo courage. Today, I found my strength and my conviction. I walked into the panadería as if I knew exactly what the hell I was doing. Of course I didn’t.

OMG! Which as we all know is the Spanish abbreviation for Optimally Magnificent Goodies.

But I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. Even though I have been studying my Rosetta Stone Spanish lessons – I had not progressed so far that I felt comfortable ordering pastries from a panadería. Let me tell you…no es una problema. One of the wonderful things about being a Spanish speaking person, is that – you are probably much smarter than your American cohorts, and you speak English too! There should be a lesson in that. But, I digress. What you need to know is that the lovely peeps at this lovely panadería were fluent enough for all. They directed me to the pastries they thought I would find most delicious. And with the help of an elderly Mexican gentleman, I selected even a few more….

And the point of this rambling sentence? None really. I’m too stuffed. Too satisfied to type another word. Let’s just say “wow”. Gramma Laura would have been proud.

Pax – Out

When I was a young man: a new father in fact; my father-in-law said to us one day:” We should sally forth, to the land of my birth in search of the holy grail”. I knew that his cause was just, and his honor true.

Being but a squire at the time, I attended my master and saw to his needs; For I knew this was a journey of great import. We were in search of the great Chicken Fried Steak.

Away we went, launched from the tepid shores of Southern California, on our way to the hinterlands of the Texas panhandle – the place of origins…the beginnings. The Australopithecian beginnings of the CFS. Chicken Fried Steak. We sought the Lucy of CFS, and would have none of the posers along the way.

Diner after diner we tried. Restaurant after hole in the wall did we patronize. Until, at last we gave up.

There’s only so much Chicken Fried Steak you can eat before you long for a salad or a baked potato.

Which leads me to a minor story of a similar bent. Since I arrived in Santa Barbara I have been on the quest for the perfect fish taco. One would think, that the fish taco would be a mainstay of the diet here in the Barbara, but alas, it is not the case.

So, where in fact did you find the grail? The thronging masses ask? Mia Cucina is the answer. Come to find out, the best cookin’ is home cookin’. Fresh red snapper. Onion, Garlic, Cilantro, Chiles, a little olive oil and some fresh tortillas from the corner bodega later…..voila! The best fish tacos in Santa Barbara. If you are in the neighborhood, stop by. I will throw a few together for ya. Yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Once in a decade or so, an image so impacts me, that it feels like there is a physical weight on my chest. An example  would be the  little girl in the Shake and Bake commercial from the 60’s -  “And I helped”.  It was just such a weird and twisted image. Betty Crocker had gone terribly wrong. Over and over again, the networks played it. Even in my 10 year old world, the word on the street was: This was seriously twisted- and no one knew why.

Now, in my wisdom years, I understand why. The little girl was an alien. She simply was not from this planet, but some other relatively accessible sphere that has been monitoring us. And so it goes.

They took X-files of the air for a reason. I submit as evidence the above picture. At first, just a harmless Yahoo Mail ad banner. But then…insidiously…infiltrating my dreams…then my waking hours…Like some evil Jim Carrey or Jim Varney or some other evil Jim….Jimmy Crak Korn…Hell, I don’t know.

The point is this. There is something about this young man’s face that is just disturbing. Otherworldly. Which give one pause to ask:

Did the advertisers know this, and chose to use this image because they knew it was just so freaky-deaky that lots of folks would feel oogie, and then buy their product. OR,

Am I the only one that finds this visage slightly warped, looney, wacky, funhouse and disturbing?

Just another post from the editors at the Trifling Blog for your amusement and bemusement. Pax out.

As a writer, I am often wont to do a little research before I flesh out a concept or narrative. In this particular case, I got in my cyber-car and drove over to WIKI with a query on the origins of “Scotch” in scotch tape. This is just the word that I find myself using when I need an invisible self adhesive tape. “Say, do you happen to have any Scotch tape?” – You know what I mean.

Having located the junk drawer and found the Scotch tape, I was able to pin up the following email on my bedroom wall. Now, you have to understand that I am not an individual ordinarily given to pinning random pieces of paper up on my bedroom walls. I (as all friends will attest) have a serious case of OCD. In fact, a disorder. But in this case, when I received the email – I printed it and stuck it to the wall using my favored adhesive – Scotch tape. Following is the email from a dear friend…

“Well you lost your swing… We got to go find it… Now it’s somewhere… in the harmony… of all that is… All that was… All that will be… ~Bagger Vance
Happy birthday D, I’m hoping that this next journey around the sun concludes the search for that allusive swing… Love you!!!”

Sometimes, friends are closer to you, than you are to yourself.

Beed⋅li⋅cious

/bɪdˈlɪʃəs/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [beed-lish-uhs] Show IPA
–adjective
1. highly pleasing to the senses, esp. to taste or smell: a beedlicious dinner; a beedlicious aroma.
2. very pleasing; delightful: a beedlicious sense of humor.
–noun
3. (initial capital letter) a red or yellow variety of apple, cultivated in the U.S.

So, I’m on the phone the other day with my daughter. She is Beed. This is to say of course that like all things that find their way into my kernel, she has a nickname. Her’s comes from two things. One – the fact that she was just this tiny precious beed of a toddler. Another had to do with what she did with an actual beed, and her nose, and her brother. For details you can ask him.

Well, as I was saying before the backstory, I called Beed the other day just to find out how she was doin. The conversation went somthing like this:  Me: “Hi, how ya doin?”   Beed: “Hi DD! – I am fine, how are you?”   Me: “I’m fine.” (pause)  Me: “Whatcha doin”   Beed: “Bakin a chocolate cake”   Me: “Mmmmm, boy I sure wish I had a piece of it”   Beed: “OK DD, I will mail you one”.

Let there be no further doubt about the significance of genetics. Further, there can be no doubt about the sense of humor is inherited. My room mate came into the house last night after a high holy days marathon (he is a singer in LA) and handed me a box. He looked at it, then at me, then at it. Reading the inscription thereupon he queried: “Who is Beed Warrick?” At that point, I offered him the same explanation I offer you.

Wondering what the box might contain, I carefully opened it….to reveal…..a piece of chocolate cake.  And it was Beedlicious.

It is at little moments like these that you realize what a precious gift you have been given.

Love you Beed. Happy 21st Burday!

DD

On one level, everything has a point of reference. Every thought comes from another. An instance, a pinprick in time.

Then there are sea gulls. They are like watching toddlers at the beach. I know it is their instinct that fuels their movement. This appears to make them even more human.

They wait on the beach, first ahead of the waves, not wanting to get their feet wet.

When a wave recedes, they move forward and grub for sea goodies. Its all in the timing.

They work quickly, but the next wave inevitably rushes back in at them, threatening to wet their feet. They turn and run back up the beach. Chased by the sea. Their little legs looking like a 3 year old running down the isle at the grocery store.

The laughter this causes is out of time. It has no reference. Just a deep seated union.

Watching Seagulls is just funny. No ticket required.

Earnest Hemingway just ran by. He looked like some Greek Neptune – Chiseled. Granite. Solid. Even his features were mythic. He skated across my canvas.

Behind him, gentle swells rise and fall. Sea air charges him.

He’s tethered to a mystical animal by some sort of umbilicus.

This odd vision of a God tethered to a dog running laboriously in the sand. You could feel the footfall. A statement about how solid and fragile we are all at the same time.

Somewhere down the beach this odd pair shuffles forward. Miles from here by now. Penned by other authors and playwrights.

Sung to the tune of “It’s too Darn Hot” from Kiss Me Kate (yes, Bur and Red – an homage for you). Just flew in from Arizona and boy are my arms tired.

The grass seems greener on the other side of the hill. I can remember standing in the shivering cold of a number of states that I have lived in post California and thinking to myself: “Ya know, I really don’t mind the heat much. Especially because it is that d – r – y heat.

I lied.

When it is 112 degrees Fahrenheit, everyone minds the heat. In fact, I am quite certain that post modern science would consider this tantamount to cooking someone in a convection oven. Which we know, is just frowned upon.

Despite the surgeon general’s warning I sallied forth through the desert in Uber Murtle (I promise to explain in the post script) to Phoenix Arizona to see my sister Lin and hubby Frank (Doug’s namesake) and niece Shay.

In our latest edition of Mr. D’s travelogue and recipe guide to the stars; many were the wonders we saw. Astounding were the miracles we witnessed. I offer as evidence…

Flying pigs. Yes, flying pigs. Apparently in Arizona they have genetically altered povines to self-refrigerate. They are everywhere. Good for the pigs. Bad for any chance of using the old adage “When pigs fly”. But I digress…

Oh yes, Phoenix has a ball team. My brotha FrankyG (his rap name of course) took us to see the Phoenix Rattle Snakes, or Rasor humps, or Diamondbacks – yea, that’s it. A fun day at the ballpark. The last time FrankyG and I went to a ballgame it was the world series at Dodger Stadium during my yooot. FrankyG – you da man.

Now, technology has come a long way at the ol ballpark. Imagine if you will an LCD screen the size of a moving van. I want one.

Then, as twilight purpled the desert sky we returned home to Newfoundland. Or at least that’s where these monster critters come from. Say hello to Sam and Holly. They are Frank and Lin’s ponies. Dogs like this in Phoenix are basically equivalent to down hill skiing in Ecuador. Somebody – get the hose.

Stay tuned for more updates from the road. Next up: The Fishmonger.

I think there are certain essential qualities to the American experience. One of these is the traditional parade that comes along with the County Fair. Now come back with us to those thrilling days of yesteryear…But seriously Mr. Peabody, where is the Wayback machine?

Back to the experience, you can pretty much insert the name of anytown USA into the picture. For me, it was the flower parade in Lompoc in the 60’s.

You know you have stumbled upon the real deal when the Shriners are in the parade.

Serious equestrian stuff. My sister’s favorite variety of horse, and no I can’t remember what it’s called. So, if you know, leave a comment. The first 100 people to correctly name this horse will get a pony ride.

This one was my favorite. He just looked majestic.

I am told by those who know such things, that the leather and silver work alone can be worth staggering sums. All I got ta say is, sometimes ya gots ta have yo bling.

If I were a real blogger, I would run over to Wiki and grab some historical background for the next picture. Alas, pure speculation is much more fun. So, what the hell was someone thinking, or drinking, or smoking, when they designed a bicycle so tall, that you cant get off. But yea, if I had a chance to ride one in the parade….

We would be remiss unless we give props to the Ophir prison marching kazoo band.

Wagon and coachwork have always been a particular fascination for me. I am pretty sure that it is in my genes. No, seriously, my great grandfather was a coachmaker. Check this one out. Almost as cool as the hearse from an earlier posting.

And no parade would be complete without a monster truck. This last addition to the roster of the classic American small town, mainstreet parade is a recent one. Wonder what kind of mileage he gets.

Just another day in the life.