OMG, I can tell you right now that thinking about food bores right through me. Like right now, I’m thinking about a quick snack to sustain me through my writing session. I carry a Kind bar in my computer case for that purpose. But I feel like the hunger is getting sort of urgent, as I can feel it boring through my thinking. I can only imagine how horrible it is for people living in food deserts, where food is not readily available, driving prices up beyond people’s means. How the thought of a good, healthy meal must bore through them. I can imagine them watching another person eat and find it boring through the center of their beings. That’s so sad in a world where so much waste is generated by inefficient distribution systems that depend on capitalism as the foundation to solve problems like starvation.
“Just how much food do Americans waste? Here’s some “food” for thought: While the world wastes about 2.5 billion tons of food every year, the United States discards more food than any other country in the world: nearly 60 million tons — 120 billion pounds — every year. That’s estimated to be almost 40 percent of the entire US food supply, and equates to 325 pounds of waste per person.”
Yeah, food. It can be so boring. Something to think about as people complain about the price of eggs. Although many won’t.
I called this one a hybrid dream. My ‘anxiety dreams’ often circle around my long-ago military career. Now my psyche has folded some of my civilian occupations into the mix.
This one began with me working with programmers. While they were busy on the daily stuff required for the present, I was focused on a transition planned for several years down the road. We were installing a new ‘smart’ support system. I was creating test scenarios. At one point, I stopped for a break and overheard someone say that the implementation date would be 2032.
2032. My spirit sagged. I’m going to be forced to wait that long for results?
The dream shifted. Now I’m at work in a military command post as I did for years. I’m working alone in the facility, monitoring different systems. While going back to get supplies, I notice a light blue telephone frame room door ajar. After another second, gathering someone is in there, I head back to the console area to call the security police.
The console is a mess. Phones aren’t where I expected them to be. I can’t find a hotline to the SPs. What the hell, there aren’t any hotlines to anywhere. What kind of command post is this? A dream twist causes me to get distracted. I begin cleaning and organizing the command post, cursing it as I do. What the hell is wrong with this organization that they let it get like this?
Going past the blue frame room door, I realized that I’d forgotten about the person in there. Now I see a woman leave that room. Past her is a cot, chair, clothing, and a small camping table. She’s living in there! Now, using a radio, I notify the security police.
They immediately arrive and take her into custody. Then I realize, I’m out of the console area, and I’m locked out. The console area is never supposed to be unmanned. What is wrong with me?
I hasten to get myself back inside. A person who works for me, a female, is just entering, so she let’s me in I hurry to the console. She accompanies me. We’re chatting, and then I remember and tell her, “I’m behind. I didn’t do my shift checklist, inventory the communications security gear, update the log.”
She says, “Wow, you are behind.”
I begin doing those things. Unlocking and opening the communications security safe, house to all the code books and crypto, I find food inside. “What the hell?”
Taking the food out, I stack it neatly. It comes to me that someone else stored the food there but I don’t know their intention. It looks like candy for Halloween, Valentine’s Day, Christmas, Easter. I organize it and start giving it away.
Most of us have tried glycyrrhizin at some time in our lives. Often in the U.S., trying glycyrrhizin is done during Easter. Easter is when parents give their children baskets of candy. Among those candies are frequently jelly beans. In the jelly beans are the licorice ones, which are black. Glycyrrhizin is what gives them their distinctive flavor.
Licorice is by nature a black product. Calling it black licorice is redundant. But that’s how things have evolved. While my wife enjoys ‘red licorice’ — which isn’t licorice at all because it has no glycyrrhizin in it — real licorice is my candy choice. Love the stuff. Naturally, it has its drawbacks (what in life doesn’t?); in the case of licorice, glycyrrhizin can have toxic side effects if too much is consumed. Keeping that in mind, I limit my licorice addiction, substituting bullseyes when a sugar fix is needed.
I’m gonna tell you in full disclosure, I’m not a cook. I cooked more when I was teenager, and it was just Dad and I. Pulling out the cookbook, I made Yankee pot roast, did different things with chicken, concocted meat loaf, scalloped potatoes, and stuffed green peppers, along with the usual breakfast fares and pasta dishes. Now I’m all about the soup.
Soup is fun and easy to me. I have six go-to recipes that my wife found for me. My current favorite — because these things change, you know? — is the fall roasted root veggie soup. Quarter five pounds of small potatoes. I like to use a medley of golds, purples, reds. Cut up a couple stalks of broccoli and carrots. Drench an garlic clove in olive oil and wrap it in aluminum foil. Spread the veggies across a couple baking sheets with the garlic clove in the middle of one. Drizzle olive oil over the veggies. I don’t add salt because of sodium issues, but you can. I do pepper it. Roast.
After they’re roasted, the veggies are put into a big pot. Two quarts of mushroom broth is poured in. Add water if needed. Take apart the roasted garlic clove and add. Simmer for twenty. Now you’re in yumsville. Add hot bread with butter, of course. It’s a cold day dish that’ll warm and satisfy. Good for you, too. That makes it a win-win.
I’m dreaming of a gray Christmas. Where raindrops glisten, and fog and mist close us in, and the temperatures are neither too warm nor too-oo cold.
And I got my wish! Yes, it’s a dreary day outside my windows. 43 F now, up from 36 F before. Cloudy as cloudy can be. Late posting this because I scoffed off to have breakfast brunch with friends. Yes, I was invited and didn’t crash it. Wonderful time with them, culminating in working on a five hundred piece Christmas-ornament themed jigsaw puzzle. Which didn’t get finished but was about 25 % when we walked after about 90 minutes of effort. Besides that, we compared stories of how we met our sig others, what holiday traditions were observed, and related tales of holiday craziness. Fun time all around.
We got home — I’d worn a dark gray sweater and charcoal pants to honor the gray holiday — ditched our clothes and served up leftovers.
You can guess that we’re not over-the-top Christmas celebrants. We’re not even up to our belly buttons in Christmas. Friends gifted us interesting X-mas theme stuff. Like an Amaryllis. And a pine tree centerpiece decorated in red ornaments and ribbons. Shortbread cookies dolled up with minced dill. Other kinds of cookies and baked goods. But that’s it. We put a couple items up and sent off a few cards and put a few gifts online and the end.
Meanwhile, my little sister sent me food photos of her Christmas setup. She had her nephews, children, grandchildren, sister, and Mom, along with her family. About fifteen people Ham. Mashed potatoes and cheesy hash brown potatoes, corn, green bean casserole, meatballs and stuffed shells, tossed salad, Stouffer’s mac & cheese for the kids. Apple pie, banana cream pie, pumpkin pie. Cookies. Cheesy pineapple casserole. Rolls from Oakmont Bakery along with carrot cake.
Today’s song is brought to you be Der Neurons. They’re always up for a song. In this case, someone said something about being human at brunch. The Ns took that as an brainvite to start “Human” by the Human League in the morning mental music stream (Trademark roasting). Not at all a Christmas song, this is a pop offering of a guy trying to explain away his cheating to his sig other by when they’re away by explaining, “Hey, I’m only human. Flesh and blood. A man.”
Hope your holidays met your needs. Time to start counting down to the new year yet? Here’s the music. Cheers
It’s a Trader Joe’s offering for the holidays. Basically, dark and milk chocolate is poured over pretzels, nuts, popcorn, caramel corn, etc. Some tiny pseudo milk-chocolate and dark-chocolate Reece’s Peanut Butter cups and faux M&Ms are thrown in.
Reading about it — a man bought fifty of the tins to give as gifts because he found it so good! — my wife thought that she would buy some for friends. But first, you know, being a good gifter, she thought we needed to try it out. We did that last night.
At first, yum. That’s good dark chocolate but what is it that it’s covering? We thoroughly tested and tasted, sampling everything. “Really sweet,” she said.
“It is really sweet,” I agreed. “I’m feeling a little sick.”
She nodded. “Me, too.”
I cut the sweetness with water and urge myself, stop eating. But the damn stuff was addicting. Finally, stomach in full rebellion against more, I ceased.
“I don’t think we’ll give that to anyone,” my wife announced. “It’s just too sweet for everyone we know.”
I agreed. Then I wondered, what are we going to do with the rest of a tin of Jingle Jangle?
We made Christmas crock pot candy today. I’m employing the marital we. I put Christmas confection on them and found containers to house them until they’re bagged up. My wife did the actual work. She blames me in part for them. She said, “I have to make something to exchange with Lori. She’s going to make that biscotti that you like and bring it over. I need something to give to her.”
Yes, I have a bad habit of effusively thanking people for whatever baked goods they share with me. Folks take that to heart. Thereafter, I’m delivered biscotti, banana-nut bread, zuchinni loaves, peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, grape pie, fudge, and brownies. I know, it’s an American tragedy.
We’re also going to a Swedish smorgasboard, so something was needed as a hostess gift. My wife decided the Christmas crock pot candy would work because we gave them out before, and the husband and wife told my wife how much they liked it.
First, I dreamed that my ankle was completely healed. Such a real dream that when I awoke, I asked myself, did I dream that? Checking the ankle, I confirmed, nope, not healed. Yet.
Next dream had me dealing with space. A father was in space, apparently as an astronaut. It wasn’t clear if he was a private citizen, military, government effort, etc., but the news was full of his attempt. Then, boom, we were all looking up at a starry explosion on the edge of Earth’s atmosphere. Then the newspaper, electronic, and digital media is full of his disaster and death.
I wasn’t involved in any of this, just a spectator. Talking about the matter in a fractured dream process under a blue sky, my friends and I went off to get lunch. But while this progressed, I put forward the man’s daughter, a four-year-old, had been with him, and he was launching her separately back to Earth. I kept insisting that she was out there, coming back. All others were doubtful. We hunted down a tracking monitor. As we watched it, another object was being traced across the sky. There was a target arc and vector it was supposed to be following. As it veered off that, reports of a crash came in. Everyone agreed it was her and that her vehicle crashed and she was deceased. But I remained optimistic that she’d come down, and that what we’d seen was just a ruse to throw everyone off. Certainty remained in me that she’d made it back. Then I stated my belief that her father had also made it back, using the distraction of his spectacular destruction as a diversion.
That’s where the dream ended. Who this man and his daughter were supposed to be and why we cared is a complete unknown.
The night’s final dream found me with a power to make toys come to life. I could also make them grow larger. Once I learned of my ability, I tested it on a yellow toy dump truck and a green army tank. Finding my wife sitting on top of a tiny green hill, I demonstrated my new skills to her as my black and white cat, Tucker, watched.
In true dream strangeness, I then went to a cafeteria to find something to eat. Although the dining room was full, they were preparing to close. I got in line. Only a young couple were ahead of me. Cloying and loving, they were annoying and silly as they flirted and teased one another over their food selections. Seeing me waiting behind me, they apologized and offered to let me go ahead. I declined and they finished a few minutes later. Stepping up, I found that only pasta with a brown meat sauce and hot dogs were available. I piled some pasta on the plate and then loaded up two hotdogs. Eating one of the dogs, I thought, wow, that really tastes good. I was pleased with having it to eat and scarf the rest down.
My wife rushed in, interrupting my meal to warn me that something was happening to one of my toys. Her explanation was inchoherent so I just ran to where she indicated. As she said, my largest toy, a stuffed bull which was now a dozen yards tall, had fallen into a deep water. I ran over, trying to think instructions for getting out to the bull. But I was still assimilating the situation and didn’t have a clear idea yet.
The bull was running in a circle under the water. I thought he would drown. Then I saw that my black and white cat, Tucker, was riding the bull. As I gaped, I realized that Tucker was guiding the bull. Encouraged by that, I thought instructions to Tucker to help him, telling him to turn toward the shallows. Apparently receiving the guidance and applying it, Tucker guided the racing bull left and left again, and up and out of the water.
Sitting here reading a food review. It’s a food gift basket for Mom. Reviewer says that the food in their gift basket was “delicious and tasty”.
My Neurons sat up straight. Aren’t those the same?
No. I always thought of them as being closely related but displaying a difference of degrees. Tasty is a less enthusiastic embrace of something.
“How was the chicken?”
“It was tasty.”
That’s a thin endorsement to me. I’m hedging. Something was wrong with it but I’m trying to put a positive tag on it.
Delicious, however, is an unreserved endorsement.
“How was the chicken?”
“It was delicious.”
To me, if it’s delicious, I’m unabashedly pleased.
So they’re not literally the same to me but in this world, they probably could be said to be literally the same. But in no way I would ever describe something as tasty and delicious. It’s one or the other.
Gray clouds have returned to win the sky. Really, it seems like one big light-gray cloud. Low relative to the upper elevations, it cuts off the view after two hundred yards, giving an impression that the world ends there.
The wind is sedated to an infrequent breeze. Chillier air has shifted back in. We navigate 39 F with a high of 50 proferred, and more rain sometime.
This is Saturday, November 23, 2024.
My song today is “Good Life” by OneRepublic. I’d been reading news and opinions online late last night. One thing after another led me to new insights and angles. I ended up reflecting on the MAGA GOP’s narrow minded views. Their hypocrisy and lack of principles always flavor my opinion, as well. I’m sure they rationalize everything as the ends justify the means. Such cliches allow them to declare they’re for freedom, equality, and ‘protecting women’ even as they curtail equality and people’s freedom. They’re all about conforming. Two sexes and genders, traditional missionary position, trad wife, that’s them, at least in public. We suspect many dark things happening in private, based on what periodically crawls into the light. See, for example, Donald Trump’s “grab ’em by the pussy” philosophy and his affairs, Matt Gaetz, Jeffrey Epstein, et al.
And, it’s their religion and their God to which we must all bow. That’s how they interpret religious freedom in their ‘Merica. Their pasteurized, homogenized history that must be taught. Anything bad that happened is pushed aside so they can pretend it didn’t happen. Mass shootings are all because of people with mental health problems who are troubled by the liberals’ DEI and woke agenda. All is good in the MAGA world, as long as the wealthy can avoid being taxed, the stock market is going up, and everyone is working, even if it’s at menial jobs for slave wages, even if it’s children working, even if the skies and waters are polluted. That’s their version of a ‘good life’.
As for Democrats, liberals, and progressives, they must be ignored, expunged, or re-educated to accept the MAGA way.
It’s so far from my idea of a good life that I’m nauseated when I contemplate the gulf.
Anyway, after I shifted through these strands of thoughts, The Neurons inserted “Good Life” into the morning mental music stream (Trademark rising) where it shared some time with “It’s My Life” by the Animals and “It’s My Life” by No Doubt. “Good Life”, released in 2010, feels like another of those songs people know mostly through movies and television shows. It’s been used in a few of them.
When songs are in my head, my mind often focuses on specific sections. In this case, the specific section is a set of lines:
Listen, to my friends in New York, I say hello My friends in L.A., they don’t know Where I’ve been for the past few years or so Paris to China to Colorado Sometimes there’s airplanes you can’t jump out Sometimes bullshit that don’t work now We all got our stories, but please tell me What’s there to complain about?
Well, excuse me, but I have a lot to complain about. Some of it is about aging. Much of my gripping is first world blues, but there’s also a substantial political section to my complaints.
Coffee and I have been re-introduced. We plan to make green chili stew in a little while. The rain has begun dripping down again, clouds have dramatically darkened the day, and the temperature has leveled off at 42 F. Feels like something lower. That stew will go well with this day.
Michael Seidel, writer 