Sixty-Seven

Posted on March 8, 2015 by John Swinburn

It’s good to see a smile when you look in the mirror early in the morning. It doesn’t take much effort and it improves the day immeasurably for people around you.

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Agrarians

Posted on March 7, 2015 by John Swinburn

One day, in the distant future, a young woman named Phaedra will accelerate.

She will move faster than any of her friends and family, far faster than her father, who will have been a professor of agrarian culture, even more rapidly than her sisterhood of speed worship.

She will go far beyond artificial limits, touching the edges of acceptance that surpass the corners of time and the constraints of lingering doubts.

And you, you there in the comfortable leather recliner, you will follow her.  And you will wish you had escaped from the rigid behavioral codes of the other agrarians when you had the chance.

Then, and only then, you will  come to grips with that base, but incredibly beautiful, sensation of longing and need and richness that you find in the body of the one you crave so deeply, so passionately, so desperately. You might think Phaedra will be the one.  But you will find a different future from the one you envisioned when you began the pursuit, accelerating faster and faster and faster.

Her name, that wonderful name, that spectacularly short, supple, lovely carressable name, is …

Wait. If she wants you, she will say her name. It is not for me to write, nor you to read. You must hear her speak it.  Anything less is pure fantasy.

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Sixty-Six

Posted on March 7, 2015 by John Swinburn

Yesterday afternoon, I went for a fairly long walk.  Much of the snow and ice on the roads (except for one) near our house had melted. What was left was slippery only in a few spots. Though I slipped a few times, I was able to stay upright.  But I coughed and wheezed for an hour or more after I got home, thanks to a horrendous nasal drip and being badly out of shape.  Focus. On. Getting/Staying. Healthy.

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Fifteen Degrees

Posted on March 6, 2015 by John Swinburn

That’s what my computer claims the outdoor temperature is at the moment.  Fifteen degrees.  That is cold.  Down right frigid. No matter where you are, fifteen degrees is more than moderately brisk. Even if my computer is wrong and, instead, my indoor-outdoor thermometer (which claims the temperature outside my house is twenty-four degrees) is right, it’s cold.  I am ready for the temperatures I came to love in the Fall and early Winter. Nighttime lows in the thirties and forties, daytime highs in the fifties or sixties.  That’s the kind of weather I could get used to.  In fact, I did get used to it.  Highs in the seventies would be OK.  Just passing the word, in case the weather mavens and the climatic activities that do their bidding are listening and find it in their hearts to be kind to  me.

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Breathing Fire

Posted on March 6, 2015 by John Swinburn

I want a lightweight, but heavy-duty, snow shovel.  I do not want to use it, but I want it close by in case I need it.  Yesterday, if I had that shovel in my garage, I would have used it.  I would have shoveled enormous volumes of snow and ice off my driveway.  I would have scraped ice off the streets after the snow plows came by, ripping snow and ice from the streets and spraying it along the sides of the roadway.

It’s a little late to want a snow shovel, though, isn’t it?  AFTER the snow and ice events. AFTER the most intense need for the thing.  I’d be satisfied, at the moment, with a working and fully-fueled flamethrower.  In fact, that may replace a snow shovel as my current deeply desired THING.  I could burn the damn ice and snow off my driveway and sidewalk.  I could keep it in my trunk, enabling me to vanquish uncooperative Village streets.  Hell, I could take over the streets of Hot Springs and Little Rock with the appropriate flamethrower.

Wait.  Why am I thinking small?  I want a staff of eighty people, equipped with massive snow-plows and powerful flamethrowers to patrol the streets in front of me, incinerating the ugliness that weather brings.  For that matter, they could incinerate other things, any things that endeavor to wreck or derail my happiness. Now, if I used the same power to clean the streets and help feed the hungry, that would be something.

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Sixty-Five

Posted on March 6, 2015 by John Swinburn

Goals are overrated. Achieving them, we believe, will make our lives better.  Success in reaching objectives we set for ourselves brings happiness.  Contentment. Joy. Fulfillment. Nonsense.

Contentment comes with satisfaction. Satisfaction comes with appreciation of one’s lot in life. I firmly believe happiness is found only when we come to accept the circumstances in which we find ourselves and, within those circumstances, appreciate the goodness that surrounds us.  We must minimize the negative aspects of our challenges.  That’s all there is to happiness. It’s simple.  But it’s so damn hard.

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Putting My Head in the Oven

Posted on March 5, 2015 by John Swinburn

Earlier, when I finished my first set of posts for the morning, I intended to go explore what my brain had in mind (pardon the pun) for me today.  But reality sometimes falls short of expectations.  Instead of exploring intellectual challenges hidden deep within my frontal cortex or elsewhere between the crevices of my grey matter, I explored a new breakfast possibility.

Hatch chile frittata with abundant mushrooms is on the menu for breakfast today.  I reached the decision to make that dish after going astray while looking into the latest medical opinions concerning the pros and cons of eggs, with regard to cholesterol. Upon finding that one egg per day is unlikely to have an impact on one’s cholesterol level, I opted to withdraw from the all-too-common breakfast refrain around this house: egg whites with chemical colorants added to make them appear like scrambled eggs.  Instead, I opted to try something different.  I’ve not made frittata for breakfast in a long time, perhaps as long as forever, so I decided to do it.

I looked for recipes that might correspond to stuff we have on hand. I found a green chile frittata recipe that was close.  Though we have canned green chiles on hand, my esposa hermosa informed me yesterday while I was eyeing them with lust in my heart that she is saving them for another batch of her chile.  So, that was out.  I knew, though, I had frozen some strips of Hatch chiles some time ago, so I looked for and found them.  Then, I decided I should use some of the remaining sliced mushrooms.  Though the recipe did not call for mushrooms, it did not prohibit them, so I reasoned they were an acceptable addition.

I rarely cook anything that requires flour and baking powder, so I had to check to see if we had adequate supplies of those two ingredients.  Yes and yes. OK, how about eggs? More than enough.  And we had salt and pepper and cheddar cheese and cottage cheese. Everything I needed to make frittatas.  Because the recipe I adapted feeds ten, or so it says, I adapted the amounts called for.  It’s hard to adjust downward some of the ingredients in a recipe to serve ten; the original, for example, called for one-half cup of flour.  I would want one-fifth of one-half cup of flour, but my measuring cups have no such mark on them, so I winged it.  I think I used about one and one half tablespoons.  Later, when the frittata comes out of the oven, we’ll see if my adjustments and my adaptations and my additions, etc. work.  I may even have to adjust the cooking time, inasmuch as the frittata for ten called for 15 minutes at 400 degrees, followed by 35-40 minutes at 325 degrees.  I am out of my element when it comes to the effects of temperature on different volumes of the same ingredients.  And then when I adjust the ingredients, too, my element is like some combination of aluminum and helium, which can’t be a natural thing.

I may, or I may not, report on the outcome of this experiment in frittata-foolery. I hope putting my head in the oven was the right thing to do this morning. I should know in about 15 minutes, assuming my wife is up by then.

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So Many Things to Think About

Posted on March 5, 2015 by John Swinburn

Thirty-four minutes ago, when I woke up at 2:57 a.m., I was younger and the ice outside my windows was just as cold as it is now.

A lot of thoughts can happen in thirty-four minutes. Impossibly large numbers of thoughts invade the brain during that time.  Maybe escape is the better descriptor. Doubts and wishes and hopes and regrets numbering in the thousands or maybe even in the millions rush around in a frenzy, as if racing against the clock, desperate for release before 4:00 a.m.

If we had a way of recording, on paper, all the thoughts, ideas, and emotions that take place inside our brains after we awake in the middle of the night with no expectation of going back to sleep, we’d have to shred all the forests.  And we’d have to fill both sides of each sheet of paper.  And the type or print would be very, very small or it would not fit on the paper made from all the forests we sacrificed.

Across the room from where I write, books and an old clock sit atop the glass insert in a small end table. Someone cut the tree for the wood for that end table, then dried and milled and cut some more.  Someone measured the wood and glued pieces together. Someone applied dark stain to the finished piece. Someone applied a protective finish over the stain.  And the glass; the glass for the table made from silica that someone melted, probably using machinery that defies my imagination.  Using techniques of which I know nothing, someone frosted that glass and cut it into a square and carved a bevel all around its edges.  Someone made the knob for the drawer in the table and someone made the screw that affixes the knob to the drawer. Someone wrapped the glass table top in paper to protect it from breakage when someone, probably someone else, shipped it to the store where we bought it.

As I think about all the stages associated with transforming wood and silica and metal into furniture and as I consider all the steps and the people involved in getting that furniture to my house, I wonder about all the people engaged in the process.

Who are they?  How many of them are still alive? Where do they live? What do they eat? Do they enjoy the roles they play in creating or distributing the furniture in my house? What tragedies have befallen them or their families in the last five years? Would they recognize the table across the room from me as something they had a hand in making?

My mind is quicker than my fingers. I’ve taken far longer to write these few paragraphs than I would have thought it would take.  That’s because my mind races even when my fingers are still.  Even when I sit here, staring at that end table, my mind is spinning. I think of all the people who participated in the creation of that table, but my fingers do not respond.  They respond only when threatened.  Damn fingers!

Now, it’s after 4:00.  I paused just long enough to write Sixty-Four, then returned here to finish whatever this is.  I think I’ll post something else this morning instead of writing what I should.  I’ll write something that gets deeper into the intricacies of my brain and where it goes when I’m the only one awake for miles and miles around.

 

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Sixty-Four

Posted on March 5, 2015 by John Swinburn

I have learned that one can, indeed, plan for days of snow and ice.  I have learned, as well, that one does not have to like it.

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Snowerism and Icyness

Posted on March 4, 2015 by John Swinburn

Weather people are telling us to expect craziness.  Wild, unchecked, massively bizarre weirdness.  Snow and sleet and freezing rain and sprays of icy woofka.

Every single county in Arkansas is under a winter storm warning.

We’ve seen a lot of sleet and rain this afternoon.  Our decks are white and frosty.  I hope we don’t lose power.  In the event we do, we’ve corraled all our flashlights and such.  But our supply of candles sucks.  We must have given away a billion candles when we moved.  I felt it then: NEVER give away all your candles!  Yeah, but my action on the feeling was zilch.  I am bad to the bone, with regard to forecasting the need to be prepared for ice and snow and related freeziness.  I am sorry for my lack of decent futurecasting.

Worst case, if power goes out, we have fresh propane tanks, so the fireplace can keep us moderately toasty.  I really, TRULY, ABSOLUTELY hope the power does not go out.  If it does, it will be a test we will pass.

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An Infusion of Knowledge

Posted on March 4, 2015 by John Swinburn

Though I didn’t learn a lot about birds during yesterday’s birding workshop (and we didn’t go out bird watching, thanks to the weather), I learned a lot.  So, in lieu of an attempt at writing a creative post, I’ll record here a bit of what I learned.

First, we learned about binoculars.  There are two main types of binoculars:

  • Porro prism binoculars, in which there is a jog in the path of light between the front lenses and the eyepieces.  The front lenses are generally set further apart than the eyepiece lenses, though in some compact Porro prism binoculars that is reversed.
  • Roof prism binoculars, which appear much simpler, but which have a much more complex light path and which require far greater precision in manufacturing, as illustrated in the images below (which I borrowed from Wex Photographic’s website).

From Wex Photographic’s website

Magnification and Objective Lens Size

As shown in the image above, the objective lens is the lens which receives light from an image.  And that leads me to the odd numbering that I have never been able to fully understand.  Binoculars are identified with numbers like 7 x 35 or 8 x 40 or 10 x 20.  The first number is the power of magnification. The second number is the size, in millimeters, of the objective lens, which controls the amount of light that enters the binoculars; the higher the number, the more light is allowed in and the greater the potential resolution of the image.  A set of 8 x 40 binoculars magnifies images by eight times and has a 40 mm objective lens.

Exit Pupils

The utility of binoculars in relatively low light is a function of the exit pupils, which are the small bright circles in the center of the eyepiece when you hold the binoculars away from the eyes and up toward the light.  The exit pupil is calculated by dividing the size of the objective lens by the power.  So, for example, the 8 x 40 binoculars has an exit pupil of 40/8, or 5. For people over 50, the size of the pupil in dark conditions is considerably less than younger people, which is why older people cannot see as well at night.  If a younger person’s pupils open to 7 mm in dark conditions, an older person might only open to 5 mm in the same conditions. A beam of light wider than the pupil cannot be seen, so a pair of binoculars with an exit pupil greater than 5, then, would be of no benefit to the older person.

Other Factors

Field of view is a measure of the breadth of the visible image.  The greater the magnification, the smaller the field of view. It is expressed as an angle or as the width in feet of the image at 1000 yards (420 ft.).

Eye relief is the distance back from the eyepiece one’s eye can be and still see the whole field of view. Normal eye relief for binoculars ranges from 9 to 13 mm, but people who wear eyeglasses should get binoculars that have long eye relief, which manufacturers define as 14 mm or greater.

Comparisons

Porro prism binoculars tend to be less expensive than roof prism binoculars, but roof prism binoculars tend to have better optics, are better waterproofed, and are more rugged.

The general advice about deciding between the two types comes down to money, the presenter told us.  He advised not to buy cheap roof prism binoculars; a similarly priced Porro prism pair would be a better way to go, he suggested.  But he says it’s possible to get a nice pair of Porro prism binoculars for $500, though the best quality instruments would begin in the $1500 range, for the premium brands, which he said are Zeiss, Leitz, and Swarovski.

Several comments were made about weight of binoculars.  The best set to buy, some said, is the lightest one with the best optics and the price suited to your budget.  The factors to consider were said to be:

  • How do they feel in use?
  • Is the image sharp & clear?
  • How does the center image compare to edge image?
  • Does the image have any color fringe, particularly in poor light (chromatic aberration)?
  • Is there adequate weather-proofing?
  • Are the binoculars in your price range?

Another factor to consider is the type of straps to use.  At the very least, a neck strap should be wide and soft.  At the best, a harness that allows you to let the binoculars hang down from low on your chest was suggested.

Yet another factor was the minimal focus distance, that is the closest an object can be to the objective lens and be in focus; shorter is better.

As to where to buy, high praise was given to Eagle Optics (www.eagleoptics. com).

My sister-in-law already bought a pair of Nikon-brand roof prism binoculars in the $500 range.  My wife and I will look for a good pair of roof prism binoculars, probably in the same price range.

Other topics of conversation included birding field guides, general birding references, smart-phone apps valuable to birders, etc.   All in all, I’d say the workshop was extremely informative.  I’m glad I went.

 

Posted in Nature, Technology | 2 Comments

Sixty-Three

Posted on March 4, 2015 by John Swinburn

I just viewed my couchsurfing.org profile, something I wrote quite awhile ago and updated with our new location not long ago.  Interesting what one thinks might be important to couch surfers. Here’s what I say about us, just in case you want to surf our couch.

Interests
Food. Eating it. Reading about it. Talking about it. Cooking it. Especially ethnic foods of all types. And eating in diners and cheesy dives of all kinds. Reading. Wine with friends (cheap…the wine, not the friends). Road trips. Travel in general. Books. Book people. Poetry. Moderate birding. Rainwater cachement (no experience…just interest).

Philosophy
People should be judged by what they contribute to humankind, not by the narrow definitions of what constitutes the “right way to live” as defined by bigots. Life is short; it should be enjoyed. One’s good fortunes should be shared. People who need a hand should get it; people who can give a hand should give it. I am not religious…not even a little. My wife is private about her beliefs. I am open to people with religious and spiritual beliefs, but very much opposed to proselytizing. Buddhism has a lot of appeal to me, though.

Posted in Ruminations | 2 Comments

For the Birds

Posted on March 3, 2015 by John Swinburn

In just a short while, we’re heading out to the first of four 2.5-hour birding workshops that we’ll attend over the next four weeks. Initially, I was very interested in it; the workshop purports to introduce participants to birds one can expect to see in these environs.  Maybe it’s the grey day, the fog, the humidity, or my mood, but I’m not as excited about it as I once was. Here’s hoping that will change and it will be an exhilarating learning experience.

Posted in Nature | 2 Comments

Sixty-Two

Posted on March 3, 2015 by John Swinburn

Every morning, someone sets off to do work better suited to someone else.  And that is a shame.

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Fascination with Flânerie

Posted on March 2, 2015 by John Swinburn

In my position as a professional flâneur, I sometimes stumble across interesting stuff. A life of loafing can be informative, illuminating, instructive, and entertaining.

For example, I watched a YouTube video a few days ago (more than one, actually, but one in particular stood out); it is entitled “How to Make Fufu & Light Soup with Peanut & Goat.” It is home-movie quality, with the narrator (talking with a very strong British accent) while his mother, who has what I gather is a Ghanaian accent, tells him how to make the soup. Aside from the video, the description includes a full listing of the ingredients:

  • Onions
  • Scotch bonnet peppers
  • Jumbo cube seasoning
  • Garlic granules
  • Pig tail
  • Rib of goat meat
  • Dried Catfish
  • Fresh sea bass (or tilapia)
  • Tomato puree
  • Lamb intestines
  • Peanut butter
  • Ginger
  • One Liver (of any kind)
  • Lobster and enoki mushrooms

As I was watching the video, it was interesting to hear the guy’s comments during the process: “this is stinky,” “the soup is going through puberty,” “we’re leading it to adulthood.”

I am relatively certain I would be unable to buy all the ingredients for Fufu & Light Soup with Peanut & Goat in Hot Springs.  Their availability in Little Rock might be a bit iffy. The only thing about the list of ingredients that really stumped me was the Jumbo Cube. Thanks to Google, though, I found them. The thing is, the guy’s video does not explain what kind of Jumbo Cube he’s using.  According to the Jumbo website, the company makes several versions of (what I believe to be soup stock) cubes: shrimp, onions-spices, chicken, tomato, and a “generic” Jumbo cube (which may be what the guy is using).

I learned, through a bit more reading, that Jumbo debuted in the late 1970s in Sierra Leone.  According to one source I found, Nestlé produces Jumbo cubes in Côte d’Ivoire (and perhaps other places).

Until I realized Jumbo has U.S. distribution through A& K Global Foods Inc. in Maryland, I figured it would be impossible for me to get my hands on some.  I found a phone number (202-521-1493) which I will try tomorrow.  I suspect there are plenty of alternatives to the products made by the Jumbo brand, but I tend to want to use the stuff used by the originators of the recipe.  Incidentally, the guy in the video probably bought his Jumbo from a U.K. source; Jumbo does have U.K. distribution.

The other challenging elements of the recipe (which is not really a recipe; it’s more of an ingredient list with modest guidance as to amounts) are the dried catfish, lamb intestines, pig tail, and goat meat.  Goat shouldn’t be hard to find, but I don’t know where to look nearby.  I think the African and Caribbean and Mexican markets in Little Rock might be the best bets.  But lamb intestines? I don’t know.

There’s nothing else urgently requiring my time and energy at the moment, so I will continue to engage in my flânerie by wandering aimlessly into the internet’s back alleys.

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Sixty-One

Posted on March 2, 2015 by John Swinburn

If I had absolute control over everything—living and dead and inanimate—I would be dining on fresh abalone this morning. Instead, I am laying out plans for an upcoming meal that will not quell my appetite for abalone. If that is my biggest concern for the moment, life must be better than good.

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Just Soupy

Posted on March 1, 2015 by John Swinburn

Last night, I made Moshhorda (the Uzbek soup I posted about a couple of weeks ago).  It was excellent, in spite of the fact that we had only half the  amount of mung beans called for in the recipe (which means I’m on the hunt for mung beans).

This morning, I prepared Loaded Cauliflower that’s now ready to go in the oven whenever we decide to eat it.

Apparently, I’m in a cooking mood.  I’ve been reading about all sorts of other foods, mostly vegetable-based soups, that intrigue me and that I hope to make soon.

I’ve never been especially fond of cooked cabbage (well, I’ve always liked it, but just not as much as I like damn near everything else), but lately the idea of a soup that has lots of cabbage appeals to me.  I think I want to just make up my own soup, rather than find and follow a recipe.  Here’s what I’d like to mix up right now: cabbage, garlic, onions, tomatoes, salt, pepper, olive oil, celery, green beans, lemon juice, bell pepper, crushed red pepper flakes, potato, carrots, bay leaves, and chicken broth.

The thick, pea-soup fog probably has something to do with my interest in soup this morning.  While not as cold as it has been for the last several days, the grey day is cold enough to be called a soup-day.  We’re going out shortly, first to lunch and then to do a bit of shopping, etc.  Janine has barely been out of the house for days.  I went out yesterday to do a little shopping, but today we’ll head in to town to do more.  And we’re off!

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Stormy Dream

Posted on March 1, 2015 by John Swinburn

Sometime between four o’clock, the last time I looked at the clock before getting up, and five o’clock, when I got up, I had a strange dream.

I was with someone, I don’t know who,looking out a huge plate-glass window in an outside office in a high-rise building. A rapidly approaching storm mesmerized us. Hanging beneath the dark grey clouds were mammatus globes, those round “boobs” indicative of a severe thunderstorm.  As we watched, the globes separated from the cloud and came together into a sort of sphere. When the sphere got close to the building, the globes separated and seemed to individually “attack” the big plate glass windows of the building.

I warned the person I was with that we needed to get away from the windows. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the flexing and bending of the glass, but I was so I opened the office door to the open space in the center of the building, hurrying toward a set of stairs. As I ran, it began to rain.  Inside the building. People got up from their desks, laughing, and headed for the same set of stairs.  I heard chatter from the people, but the only specific thing I remember as we headed for the stairs was “I can’t believe it’s raining inside.”

Though there were a lot of people on the stairs, they weren’t crowded.  No one seemed in a hurry, we just walked down fairly slowly. The bottom of the stairs opened into a large room filled with big round dining tables, the sort of round tables you’d see in a hotel ballroom set for dinner.  Ushers directed the people descending from the stairs to specific tables to which people apparently had been assigned.  I was directed to a table covered with plastic models of airplanes and winged dinosaurs and earth-moving equipment. As I accidentally touched a winged dinosaur, its plastic jaws opened and it started to attempt to devour a tractor.

Then, an usher seated someone else at my table and usher approached me; without him saying anything, I knew he expected payment from me. I took out my billfold and tried to pull out a credit card, but it was stuck with some sort of thick, sticky adhesive.

And then I woke up.

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Sixty

Posted on March 1, 2015 by John Swinburn

Every morning, something new is waiting. New cup of coffee, new thoughts, new opportunities to consider how colors change as the sun rises. It’s as if there’s a new world out there, or the same world through new eyes.

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My Friends

Posted on February 28, 2015 by John Swinburn

I got an unexpected and unpleasant phone call tonight.  A friend called to say her husband is back in the hospital and, depending on the outcome of tests and evaluations and assessments, may not come home.  He may have to go to a wound-care facility.  If he has to undergo an amputation of his foot/leg, he may go beyond that to a permanent care facility.

That’s the sort of news that rips a person apart. We’re not super close, though we’re good friends, but it doesn’t matter, does it?  How can one not feel absolutely torn into shreds by such news?  It’s ugly and unwelcome and bitter.

But I’m not the one who has to deal with the worst of it, am I?  I’m not the one who has to face amputation. I’m not the one who may have to deal with a partner who’s never home anymore.  I’m not the one whose life has been torn into a thousand pieces.

I watch my own reaction to this news and think I am weaker than I ever thought I was.  I am unable to face the news with the stiff upper lip that such information calls for.  On one hand, I say  “screw it.” On the other, I have to acknowledge that other people look at me askance for being such an overtly emotional dingo.

Crap, there I go again. It’s not about me. It’s about my friends and the miserable trauma they are going through.  What can I do to ease the pain? What can I do to siphon off some of that bitterness and ugliness?

They tell me it’s best to just say “I’m here.”  So that’s what I say.   But that’s not nearly enough.  We have to take off the blinders, rip off the shades, and recognize that we have to embrace one another.  Hugs save lives.  I’m certain of it.

Posted in Friendship, Health | 1 Comment

Tart Cherries

Posted on February 28, 2015 by John Swinburn

One does not speak of tart cherries (and let me be clear, I’m not referring to cherry tarts) unless one is serious about the subject.  It’s just not done in polite company.  So, I have to assume I am serious about tart cherries, because I am about to speak of them.  That is, if one can legitimately say one is speaking when one actually is writing and not uttering a word.  I claim writing can be a legitimate form of the term “speaking,” so you now know where I stand on the matter.

What you do not yet know is why I am going on about tart cherries.  Oh, and not just any tart cherries, but Michigan tart cherries.  You see, I know of no other tart cherries, so I’ll speak only about the ones with which I am familiar.  It’s a little bit of a long story, so bear with me for a moment.

In 1985, I moved from Houston, Texas to Chicago, Illinois.  Actually, I lived in Katy, Texas, but at the time no out outside of Houston had ever heard of Katy, so I claimed to be from Houston.  When one moves from Houston to Chicago, one is much closer to Michigan than one once was.  Therefore, one is much more likely to take long, leisurely drives along the back roads of Michigan.  And I did.  I did, indeed.  It was during one of those long, leisurely drives long the back roads of Michigan that we (my favorite wife and I) came across a roadside fruit stand.  We stopped and, you guessed it, the proprietors of this fruit stand were offering, for sale, tart Michigan cherries.  I had not heard of such a thing as tart Michigan cherries before that very moment.  I had always assumed all cherries were sweet.  All the fresh cherries I had ever had in Texas (none of which were grown there, by the way) were sweet.  None, that I recalled, were tart.  Speaking of tart, let me diverge from the topic at hand for a moment to relate a story I find amusing.

The incident about which I am now going to relate happened long after the tart cherry incident, and is completely unrelated, except for the word “tart.”  Just so you know.  I was living and working in Dallas at the time (well, living in Arlington and working in Irving, but that’s beside the point).  Two members of my staff encountered one another in the hallway at work.  One of them apparently had just put a piece of food or candy in her mouth that caused her to wince.  The other noticed her expression and said, “tart?” The wincer, without missing a beat, replied, “bitch” and kept on walking.  I have laughed about that on many occasions since.  But now, back to my story.

These nice people at the fruit stand offered to let us taste, without cost or obligation, a tart cherry.  The flavor was magnificent.  I had never in my life to that point tasted anything quite like it because, as you know, I had not eaten a tart cherry before that moment.  I was in love with the flavor. We bought a bag or basket or some such container of tart cherries and took them home with us to Chicago.  I don’t recall whether we drove immediately back to Chicago with the cherries; we may have continued on our road trip, and I suspect that is exactly what we did.  As with most things, though, that detail doesn’t really matter and has absolutely no bearing on the story I am telling, so please just disregard it and don’t give it another thought, for it will distract you from the more important points which I will relay, or perhaps already have relayed.

My memory tells me (and sometimes my memory tells me things that aren’t true, but this time, I’m relative sure it’s not lying to me) we used part of our cache of tart cherries to make a pie (I would not have been involved in that endeavor because, to the best of my recollection, I have never made a pie of any sort, nor has the idea of making a pie been one of my “must do” activities). But we used part of them simply to snack on.  And if you’ve never snacked on tart cherries, let me tell you there’s something to add to your list of “must do” activities.

The reason all of this came to mind is that I stumbled upon a recipe, while looking at or for something completely unrelated, for tart cherry pie.  That, of course, triggered my memories of moving to Chicago, driving around Michigan, buying tart cherries, and falling in love with them.  Once those kinds of memories are triggered, an online search for tart cherries (a search in local grocery stores would be fruitless; pardon the pun).  And, guess what?  I FOUND SOURCES FOR TART CHERRIES! Not freshly picked cherries, unfortunately (I guess I’ll have to drive to Michigan for fresh cherries), but I can buy canned tart cherries and dried tart cherries.

I suppose you’d like to know the source, huh? Well, I’m not one to keep good news all to myself, so I’ll share it with you in a moment, but first let me explain something. I talk of Michigan tart cherries as if Michigan is the only place to find them.  To be honest, I haven’t looked elsewhere.  It may be that they are as common as fleas on a dog.  But my introduction to tart cherries was in Michigan, and that’s good enough for me. I’d be willing to try tart cherries from another state, if another state would like to supply them to me. But, to date, no other state has bellied up to the bar, as it were.

Oh, by the way, as I was reading about tart cherries, I discovered that many, if not most, pie recipes call for tart cherries.  And, apparently, many (if not most) canned cherries for pies are tart cherries.  But I cannot believe that, at least not entirely.  I’ve had canned cherries intended for pies and they were ghastly sweet.  Maybe they added sugar, in a misguided attempt to make people who lust for sugar find tart cherries more attractive.  I say they should let those people find their own sources of sugar, dammit.

OK, finally, here’s where I found an online source of Michigan tart cherries.  If you want to buy five pounds of dried Michigan tart cherries for me, this is the place to do it.  And it will only cost you about seventy bucks (plus shipping, I’m guessing; I stopped looking when I realized it would cost seventy bucks for five pounds…that works out to, like, fourteen dollars a pound, if my math calculation capabilities are working properly).  So, without any further fanfare, here is the link to the source of tart cherries.  Well, it’s not HERE, it’s right down there, below here:

King Orchards

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Fifty-Nine

Posted on February 28, 2015 by John Swinburn

A glass of cool water can brighten a room.  Take a sip and the grayness that’s smudging the walls and the windows and the world around you leaks away.  That sip begins the process, leaving a cleaner, clearer view for the eyes to behold.  Now, imagine a million sips of water. The brilliance of the experience would be blinding. So, if that is the case, one might say water causes blindness. But because these comments are just tricks, manipulations of language for personal pleasure, one might say personal pleasure causes blindness.  I believe it’s been said before, though the logic escapes me. Obviously.

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Woozy

Posted on February 27, 2015 by John Swinburn

Have you ever felt a little woozy, like your head and face and arms are melting?  Oh, you thought I meant “felt a little woozy” as in put my hands on a woozy, didn’t you?  It would be unseemly for me, or anyone for that matter, to feel a little woozy in that way. I’m shocked that you would even think it.  Stunned may be a better word.  But, then, how does one measure the worth of one word against another?

This post will self-destruct in less than twenty-four hours.

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Stepping Back

Posted on February 27, 2015 by John Swinburn

I’m journaling a bit this morning.  Nothing much here but random thoughts spilling from my brain, though my fingers, onto the keyboard and, miraculously, onto the screens of millions and millions of people worldwide (well, the potential is there).

Yesterday morning involved a brief detour in my travels.  I stepped back into the “dark night of my soul.” I was introduced to that strange term by my friend Kim, who thought I was going through such an event a few years ago as we chatted about existentialism over barely-adequate margaritas in a fast-casual Mexican restaurant in Addison, Texas.  Kim is a deeply religious Christian.  I am not. I admire Kim for her ability to accept ideas I cannot, her ability to suspend disbelief when I cannot, her ability to give herself over to a concept I find bizarre and potentially dangerous. She views things from a different perspective, of course, but I find it admirable, up to a point.

I was experiencing some tough times, intellectually (which, of course, fed my emotions), that required something akin to religion to get through.  But religion was most assuredly not “it.” Not even close.  But an intellectual equivalent, through conversation, might be.  So we talked. She assured herself I would get through this difficulty through the grace of God.  I assured myself I would get through this difficulty simply because it was necessary.  I was right, of course.

And yesterday’s short excursion into the dark disappeared in the light of day, a day that offered moderating temperatures, off-and-on blue skies, mostly ice-free and slush-free roads, and an opportunity to get what I call, only half joking, my semi-annual haircut. Today, the skies remain clear, but the temperature has taken a turn for the worse, something the skin on my head, absent a thick overcoat, notices.  When I awoke for the second time this morning, around 6:00 a.m. (I got up around 5:00, wrote a bit, then took fifteen-minute nap), the indoor-outdoor thermometer registered a comfortable sixty degrees inside (our sleeping temperature) and a chilly eighteen degrees outside.

Twice this morning, I’ve heard clunks or bangs or other noises of the loud and unsettling variety emanating from beneath the house, in the oddly-named “crawlspace” that’s seventeen feet high at the back of the house.  My imagination is running wild with these noises, with visions of the cinder-block columns supporting the floor joists laying in jagged unsupportive heaps.  I plan to pull on my jeans, a heavy coat, a pair of gloves, and my favorite fedora and go exploring beneath the house, once the temperature passes the twenty-five degree mark. Each time I have to climb down the steep slope to get to the crawlspace access door I curse the designer of the house, who failed to put a stairway from the back decks to the ground below.  I suppose I could have one built, but I have convinced myself the cost will be unbearable, so I haven’t even asked for bids.  So goes the life of a periodic pessimist.

The slushy spots on the roads that remained yesterday afternoon will have frozen into slick patches of ice this morning, making a persuasive argument against taking a drive today.  So, I will stay indoors and find things to occupy my time: foods to cook, ideas to explore, dishes to clean, and reasons to write.

 

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Fifty-Eight

Posted on February 27, 2015 by John Swinburn

If you allow it, an ugly passion will grow in you, a passion striving to suffocate the goodness in people around you, people you know and people you don’t.  If you allow it, this ugly passion will consume you and burn through the fuel your soul supplies without intending to fan the flames. All I can tell you is “be aware,” understand that your heart, your soul, your humanity and every shred of goodness in you can be consumed by these ugly flames, if you let it happen. Your role, as keeper of the faith in humanity, is to fight with every fiber of your being to extinguish the flames that attempt to consume those pieces of goodness within you.

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