Category: food

Cinnafloof

Cinnafloof (Not to be confused with cinafloof.)  (floofinition) –   1. Animal who is cinnamon-colored.

In use: “Cinnafloofs are rare but include bears, foxes, dogs, and cats. With each, people pause to regard and admire their cinnamon-colored fur for its unique hues.”

2. Animals who enjoy eating cinnamon-flavored foods.

In use: “The little calico loved doughnuts but was a bonafloof cinnafloof, stealing and eating cinnamon rolls whenever a chance arose, which was every Sunday morning in Paul’s house.”

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Special Edition Theme Song

Had a doughnut, thought about having another. The little devil on my shoulder started singing, “Go ahead and do it, do it, do it till you’re satisfied.” Now the 1974 B.T. Express song, “Do It ‘Til You’re Satisfied”, is stuck in my mental stream, distracting me from my writing and pushing me toward eating a second doughnut.

The doughnut does complement the coffee, though…

 

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Floofkade

Floofkade (floofinition) (origins: Alberta, Canada) – 1. Effort to cut off another animal from a particular area by force or threat of force.

In use: “The kitten began eating and immediately put up a floofkade with his paws on the bowl and several growls and yowls as he chewed.”

2. Effort, typically through fencing or objects, to keep animals segregated.

In use: “The dogs were floofkaded in separate kennels, but one dog figured out how to open us, and soon, he’d lifted the floofkade by single-pawedly opening all the cages.”

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The Ticket Dream

The Beatles’ “Ticket to Ride” started streaming in my head as soon as I awoke and thought about this dream.

To begin. I was alone in my car. My wife was away. I was going to see a local play. It was a big, annual event.

First, I was dismayed because I was waiting for a parking spot and someone else drive in and took it. As I complained about that, I discovered a lot more — and better — parking available. I was pleased as I parked.

I then went to a machine to purchase my ticket. That would reserve my right to see the show. I put twenty dollars in the machine and then realized that that would give me two tickets when I only needed one. Riding the roller coaster again, I frothed at myself and what I’d done.

I walked to the theater’s entrance see what plays were available. Two were running. After deciding which to see, I went back to the machine. I put my ticket in and selected my play. It spit out my new ticket, and five dollars. I didn’t understand why I was getting five dollars back but I was happy about it.

I headed for the door through the throngs of people. Most were moving slow; impatient, I cut around a group of four men, telling them, “Excuse me,” as I did, as one veered into my path.

That guy laughed. “Oh, look at this guy, hurrying, like he’s special, like we’re not all going to the same place.”

He, a bald, bearded, stocky white man, irritated me, but I put that behind me and got in line. We advanced until I was the next one in line. Then the ticket taker, a young, tall man in a red uniform, announced, “I’m sorry, everyone. I’m afraid that I have to announce that there are no more seats. The theater is closed. I’m sorry.”

Protests about having tickets rose. The young man spoke directly to me. “They do this every year. They oversell tickets and then people are turned away at the door.”

Disappointed, I made my way to the my car and then went off.

Using dream rules, I was now in a huge, crowded room. I had a twin bed with a light blue bedspread, one of hundreds, maybe thousands, of such beds.

I was kneeling by my bed when the four men came up who I’d passed before. The bearded one sat down on my bed. “Hey, get off my bed please,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I want to use it.”

“Can’t we both use it?” He had a large plate of food. Saying, “Here, have some food,” he pour a huge portion of spaghetti and sauce onto my bed.

I asked, “Why’d you do that? I don’t want that. I’ve already eaten.”

“I just wanted to share with you.”

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry. I’ve already eaten. Besides, if you were giving me food, pouring cooked food on my bedspread isn’t the way to do it. I have to sleep here.”

He was mumbling something back. I was attempting to move the spaghetti. Noticing some partially eaten chicken parm, I was tempted to eat some of the food but pushed against that idea.

The guy began cleaning up, but he made a mess of it. The ticket taker came by to chat with me. Seeing the mess, he summoned someone to help clean it up. As that was happening, he apologized for the ticket situation. He said, “They do this every year. They really need to fix it.”

A manager, a Hispanic woman in a skirt and white top came by to see what was going on. Seeing her, the ticket taker told her that he was just telling me about the tickets. “They really need to fix it.”

The woman agreed. “They do.”

A tall and bald white man wearing glasses, came by. The woman told me and the ticket taker that he was the senior manager. Then she addressed the man. “When are they going to fix the ticket problem? Every year, they sell too many tickets, and we turn people away at the door. Why does this happen? It doesn’t need to.”

“We are going to fix it. You’re in charge.”

The woman was taken back. “What are you saying?”

“I’m telling you that the board met just now, and they’ve delegated authority to you to come up with a plan and fix the problem.” The man walked off.

Pleased, the woman looked at me. “Well, there you go. I’m going to fix it.”

The dream ended. Cue the Beatles.

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Easter Pancakes

When we began hunkering down, my wife used it as an excuse to clean out the freezers, frig and pantry. (Yeah, she’s one of those people who said, “Now I have time to clean things,” and then cleaned, making the rest of us in the household (which is me and the three cats, so, really, we’re talking about me, because the cats don’t care) look bad. (Yeah, I’m over it, okay?) While doing that, she found some lemon and blueberries pancake mix.

We’d bought it a while ago at a locally famous mill, famous because it’s been there a long time and still does things the old fashioned way, and there’s nothing else like that in the area. Called Butte Creek Mill, it burned down in December, 2015. Because it was local and famous, we visited it and the pancake mix about six years before it burned down. So, it’s old stuff.

There wasn’t any date on it. My wife wanted to pitch it. “It can’t be good.” She opened it. We smelled it. Everyone knows that smelling is the second best scientific way to check for freshness. I let one of the cats smell it, but he just walked away with a bored tail shrug.

“Smells good to me,” I said. Then said, “Save it. I’ll make us pancakes on Easter morning. It’ll be fun.”

That brings us to today.

I rose, made breakfast and ate it (oatmeal with cranberries, walnuts, with granola on top), made coffee, and started writing. My wife came out a little later. “I thought you were making us pancakes this morning.”

This morning? Today? Oh, yeah, Easter. “Sorry, I was writing in my head and went to auto-pilot and forgot.”

She gave me a glare that made the sleeping cats wake up and leave (that’s why they left in my mind — they were sensing danger). I proposed to make the pancakes for brunch. “You don’t like eating this early anyway,” I said, like that made it all okay, because I was really thinking of her.

“Fine.” I could tell she wasn’t pleased.

Fast forward a few hours. I made the pancakes. We don’t have cow milk so used vanilla almond milk. One egg refused to leave its perch in the carton. Instead of taking one of the other thirteen eggs available as a sane person would do, I tried pulling it out and put my thumb through the shell.

Stupid egg.

Now I had an egg mess to clean up. I also wondered if it was a bad omen for the eggs, because these things must happen for a reason, and the reason could be as a warning, “Don’t eat the pancakes.”

(In hindsight, though, that one egg was the only one on that side. I’d wondered why it’d been left alone on that side. Now I suspect that my wife set me up. She can be diabolical.)

But the pancakes were made, and we haven’t died yet. They were delicious. Even though the blueberries seemed like pea stones in the batter, when they cooked up, they were moist, and looked and tasted just like real blueberries.

The package made about twenty-six pancakes about six inches in diameter (because that’s how I like them). We ate some and froze eighteen with wax paper between them. Now we have something to look forward to finding when we clean the freezer again.

It’ll probably be during the next pandemic.

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His Rules

He wears the same damn pants every day. They’re loose, so he doesn’t need to watch his weight.

He’s added pockets to his pants for the remotes so they’ll never be lost (not that he goes far – frig, microwave, shitter, couch). He wears a utility belt with Tums, cough drops, and other crap that he might need that he doesn’t want to get up to get. A small frig resides besides the couch for essential soda and beer.

Clocks and calendars have been removed; who needs time? Sleeping on the couch makes the whole damn thing easier. He doesn’t plan to bathe or shave until this whole damn thing is over, his protest against government overreach.

Still, his mouth is hurting, so he’s thinking, maybe he’ll break down and brush his teeth.

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Starts

We weren’t able to get out to buy starts. There was a run just when shelter in place was announced; the initial supply was gone, and there weren’t any more to be had. But…looking around the house, seeds purchased years ago were found. Would they be any good? We didn’t know.

My wife decided to try them. We didn’t have starter soil or the proper pots. She made do. Arugula was planted (in the pot on the left) and butterleaf lettuce was put in the big pot on the other end. The middle pots were planted with basil. They were place in a dining room window where sun is plentiful from dawn to dusk.

We’re pleased with the progress so far. With the weather warming (into the seventies tomorrow), she plans to put some arugula out tomorrow. Meanwhile, we have other carrot, onion, and radish seeds.

 

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