A kamakaze that didn't complete his task.

First let me say, I’m not making light of what happened in the Pacific war over 60 years ago, only making a comparison for this story’s sake.

They came at me from all sides; squadrons of them, single seaters and double seaters; seemingly with my destruction in mind. They were piloted by determined, single-minded people, in fact, most were women,

The weapon of choice….. the baby stroller.

You heard right, the stroller. First, I must admit, I had never seen such a variety of perambulators. The mall provided strollers modeled after fire engines, race cars and various cuddly animals—–animals on four wheels I might add. Most of them had faux steering wheels for the kiddies amusement, and frankly, I think they could have done a better job driving than some of their cell phone connected mothers.

As far as the strollers brought from home, they had it all; most with designer names emblazoned on them. I never realized that a stroller was also a status symbol. You can be assured that a tyke in one of those fancy, limo-strollers, was also dressed in up market clothes. You can’t imagine the trauma of a child’s mother outed, for dressing her tot in WalMart, riding in Lois Viton. Being maimed by a fashion statement is more than one could expect. I have always thought I’ll probably meet my end, run over in a gutter—by a garbage truck.

We visited the food court, still dodging incoming kamikazes. I summoned up the courage

A fleet parked; but not for long.

to approach a fast food vendor. Sidestepping, and summoning all the agility my senior self could assemble, I placed my order. It was when a cell phone rang, that all hell broke loose; I have never seen such a scrambling in my life, as occurred when twenty or thirty mothers, all reached for their phones at the same time. Disappointment was registered on more than one face, when it was discovered the call was for someone else.

One sight that surprised me, was when I noticed the contents of the strollers. There was little else in them besides the passenger(s). I suppose the trip to the mall was more for exercise and phoning, rather than shopping.

Men take note: After this little outing, I can make some suggestions for your well-being—-should you be forced to make a similar trip. First, try to locate a bullet-proof vest, or full body armor. Shin guards—shin guards could be helpful, and, in the event you’re knocked down, possibly a hard hat, or surplus army helmet would be a nice addition.

On second thought, stay home, send your wife to do the shopping; she’s already been battle hardened.

Bet it hurts.

Alright, guessers, ignore the crappy carpet; what is our gizmo today?

Last week’s gadget only had a single attempted solution. It is a “turnip pick” used to harvest root crops.

A virtual gold star to this week’s whiner.

She looks pretty Swiss to me.

However, I do like to think that someone else may have low enough epicurean standards to like what I cook. My recipe repertoire is limited; spaghetti sauce, Swiss steak, and beef stew….so were I to be persuaded to play chef for an extended period of time, my customers would certainly be begging for “a change you can believe in”, In fact, I envision a poster bearing my likeness, wearing a chefs hat, with a caption stating: “Nope”.

A while back, on this blog, someone requested my recipe for Swiss steak. Not one to disappoint a reader, I have decided to publish it today. However, before I reveal the secret recipe, I must tell you; I prepared it last night, and, frankly, it wasn’t my best effort. I sulked for most of the meal, but my wife, sons and daughter-in-law, claimed it was, as they say; “delicious”. There were no left-overs, if that says anything about the final product.

Swizz Steck

I prepare my Swiss steak in an electric sauce pan, it is a little more convenient than using the stovetop, and since it has to cook for several hours, it might be a little more economical.

3 pounds of round steak or any lean cut of meat that will feed the masses

1 large onion chopped

1 or 2 Green Bell Peppers, sliced

1 small can mushrooms

½ cup diced carrots

2 small cans tomato sauce

1 cup Red wine

Salt & pepper to taste

Season steak with salt and pepper on both sides, then brown steak in olive oil. Add onion, carrots, and mushrooms. Allow to simmer for a few minutes, then raise steak, and place a layer of green pepper and onions UNDER the steak. This allows the flavors to penetrate the steak. Add balance of green pepper to top of steak. Keep at simmer. Some like to add tomato sauce to the mix, and do so if you like. Allow it to simmer until tender. (May take three hours or more) If necessary, thicken the sauce stirring in a flour water mix. Check again for taste.

Hope it turns out, and you are given loads of compliments.

Well, no correct guesses last week, but here’s an agricultural stumper. A

Hmmm, a Swiss Steak grabber perhaps?

large dollop of Uncle Mike’s (Virtual) Swiss steak to the winner

Nothing like a picnic shared with a few friends.

The luster wore off picnics, at about the same time that our kids decided they’d rather be anywhere but where their parents were, either for their entertainment, or nourishment. I recall the effort in rounding up five kids, who of course, couldn’t face the trauma of such an outing without their best friend. With them, not having a friend along, was tantamount to a 90 day sentence at hard labor. Sorting out the food, five kids, assorted friends, and two parents, well, the procedure was like herding cats.

I wasn’t always anti-picnic, for when I was too young to drive, and not old enough to know better; as soon as I heard “picnic” being bandied about, I was on board. In fact, I had already staked out my spot in our old truck’s bed. Our transportation wasn’t luxurious, and neither was the cuisine. We had hot dogs, and baloney sandwiches. This was long before the day of picnic coolers, and pop on ice. Our cooler was whatever Mother Nature provided; such as a convenient Alaskan stream, or a chilly Pacific Ocean beach.

A special delight was attempting to identify the flavor of our soda pop by it‘s color, because the local bottler used old brown beer bottles for his product. On one summer outing, my brother was lucky enough to find a mouse at the bottom of his strawberry soda. The unfortunate thing was that he had consumed most of it before he spotted his saturated rodent. You may be pleased to know that at this writing, he is still alive and well.

We lived in what is known as “Southeastern Alaska”. If you look at a map of Alaska, you might be hard pressed to suppose that any part of Alaska is east of anything, but, that’s where we were, and one thing we had in abundance during our summers was rain. So, we weren’t too worried about ants, we mostly prayed that we’d be lucky enough to stay dry.

Since that time, my ardor for Alfresco dining has cooled. When my favorite wife mentions the dreaded “picnic” word, first I feign deafness, in hopes that her inspiration will pass. I have tried to gently explain to her, that it doesn’t make much sense to clear our fridge of food, load up the contents in coolers and car trunks, then drive thirty miles to lay out our spread, hoping for a minimum of company, be it of the two-legged, four-legged, or eight legged variety. Then, if at a safe distance, I might also suggest that we could just stay at home, cook and eat what’s on the menu, and enjoy it right here, or, for that matter, if we really must eat outside, you know, there’s always our deck.

As you may imagine, I’ve lost this argument more than once.

So, should you be thinking of inviting me to your next excursion to your favorite picnic spot; remember, if it’s outside you want, I would prefer having my picnic on some restaurant’s patio—–under an umbrella.

Here’s an antique gadget, might have been handy on a Victorian picnic.

I know, it's a ........

A happy shopper leaving the $100 store.

cart loaded to capacity.

He hadn’t yet started piling his purchases on the conveyor, and he looked at me, noted the single item in my hand, and then began unloading the contents of his cart. He happily ignored my one item purchase.

A while back, I found myself in line with a nearly full grocery cart, and the woman behind me was pushing a cart holding just three or four items. “Go ahead,” I told her, “I’m not in a hurry.” She protested, but we soon traded places, and she quickly finished her purchase. She turned, and thanked me again.

I know she was happy, and I felt good too. But what about yesterday’s young shopper. Had his parents never attempted to school him in good manners? I wonder. My mother was the etiquette instructor in our family, and she did her best to impart what she felt were good manners to us. Polite was right.

Among other things, she also felt it was important, for me, as a male, to hold a door for others, and to relinquish my seat on a bus or in a waiting room, to female or elderly patrons. I still do. Remember the last time you took the shuttle at DIA? I’m reasonably sure that you witnessed no such display of courtesy. If an elderly passenger, using a walker, dared attempt to board, he/she would probably be trampled by their fellow travelers.

In today’s enlightened age, even opening a door for a female companion can be considered an insult. I don’t know, possibly old geezers like me are just impediments to a good life. I can almost hear the unspoken: “Get out of my way old man, move it!”

So, next time you’re in a supermarket line with a loaded cart, and you take notice of the person in back of you pushing a cart with just a couple of items, be a hero, let them take your place in line, I promise, you’ll both feel a lot better for it.

This doesn’t apply if the shopper pulls out her coupon wallet.

Beloved Readers; here is a gadget for you to mull over. It’s old.

Gizmo of Gadgetry

Be first on your block with the first correct guess. A hint: It’s been on the blog before.

Both Roguespeare and Brian have correctly re-guessed this gizmo, as an antique breast pump.

I was a caddie, and a goat. However, I'm not the goat in this photo.

Many summers ago, in Payson, Utah, (some 20 miles south of Provo), my friend, and fellow teen, Don Snow, suggested that we could earn a few dollars by caddying. He spun a wonderful story of how one could make two or three dollars for just strolling around the course for a pleasant hour or so, handing our masters their clubs, and to provide them with a tip or two on how to play a particular hole…should they request our useless advice.

Soon we were standing beside Highway 91, hitchhiking to the Provo golf course. I was almost drooling, imagining that easy money.

An hour later, we were waiting at the caddy stand. Don had caddied before, and was soon bag laden, well on his way to earning untold wealth, while I cooled my heels. I was a golfing wallflower; the last caddy to be chosen. Finally, a little old man, emerged from the clubhouse, handed me his bag, and asked: “Have you caddied before?” He wasn’t too happy to find that he’d hired a novice. “You’d better keep up with me then.” he snapped. My first realization was how heavy his golf bag was, I suppose my patron deliberately added fifty pounds of ballast to his bag, for my edification.

When we reached the first tee, he waited impatiently for me to produce a tee, a ball, and to hand him his driver. We were in trouble, I didn’t know a tee from a driver, we both knew it was going to be a long, long day.

After being yelled at for nearly four hours, I wanted to grab the clubs, the added ballast, and my antagonist, and pitch the works in the next convenient pond. Lucky for him, we’d run out of water hazards, and had reached the 18th hole.

I'm the doofus on the left. A school photo at about the time of this episode.

I spotted Don, near the caddy stand, waving the greenbacks he’d earned. I placed the bag in the rack, and was happy just to end my misery…at least the physical misery.

My employer disappeared into the clubhouse….hopefully to get my pay. I felt that $3.00, was little enough for what I had gone through, and hoped for more, but when the guy reappeared, instead of a fistful of greenbacks, he reached in his pocket, produced a coin, and flipped it to me. It was a fifty-cent piece. Without a word, he grabbed his golf bag, walked to his car, tossed the bag in, and left in a cloud of dust. Hitchhiking home, I spent most of the time, thinking what punishments I’d like to mete out to my erstwhile employer.

Once in a while, when I’ve finished a particularly ugly round, and I toss my clubs back into the car’s trunk, I remember the fifty-cent tip, and my first introduction to the game of golf, and I know that I have no one to blame for my lousy score; but myself—the caddy.

My, my, my, what is it?

And, dear readers, here’s another stumper for you to identify.  A Laurel, and & Hardy handshake for the correct guess.

Your spouse isn’t quite so sure that your decision is the right one, she probably remembers a few earlier attempts to tackle projects better left to the professionals….and after making a mess of things, she called a pro to undo your mistakes.

Forget the past; it‘s a new day, and a new project. “It’ll be a snap, honey, all I need is a couple of things from the hardware store, and I’ll have it done in no time.” I admire positive thinking, but, I’ve found myself in similar situations, and my children learned many expressive words from my DIY projects. And, they learned that there was never a project, that required only one trip to the hardware store.

I recall a time when popcorn ceilings were all the rage, and I was re-doing our basement recreation room. We wanted such a ceiling. I had a quote from a pro for the job, but, as you can guess; I opted to do the work. “It’ll be a snap, honey.” I said to an already skeptical spouse. What I can tell you is this: It was a job straight from hell. Never in my life, have I created such a mess. Nowhere in the instructions did it say I had to eliminate all of the lumps in the plaster mixture….at least when I read them the first time.

The infernal, "popcorn" application gun.

I mixed the gunk up in a garbage can, and from that, loaded the hopper on the application gun. When I tipped the gun back to spray the ceiling, several quarts of popcorn plaster poured out of the open top, and all over the applier, (me) and the rest on the floor. The lumps in the gunk, continually clogged the gun, and I had to stop every couple of minutes to clear it. By the time I finished the job. I had exhausted my cuss word lexicon, and had ruined the floor, my watch, clothes, and almost ruined the rented equipment.

When the gear was returned, the garbage can cleaned, and the popcorn ceiling had dried, the finished project looked okay, however, we had to have carpeting installed, because we were unable to remove the residue from the tile floor.

The folks who bought the home from us a few years later, probably took one look at that popcorn, and said in unison: “That’s got to go!”. And, they may have decided to get an estimate from a pro, and, subsequently, studying their options, the man of the house no doubt turned to his wife and said: “Don’t worry honey, I’ll do it myself……..it’ll be a snap”.

In another stunning display of nephewtism, my nephew Brian correctly guessed the gadget of a few weeks ago as a bottle opener, he flunked the test on last week’s gadget, that is an 1895 check imprinter.

It's got a musical name.

This weeks will be awarded another wonderful, virtual prize; a virtual chocolate brownie, iced, with dollops of chocolate icing. Virtually.

Dead fish or houseguest?

How do you know when you’ve overstayed your welcome? Possibly one indication would be if you find your luggage packed, and placed on the curb, ready for your departure—- whether you’re ready to leave or not.

We spent a few days with our daughters in Texas. I soon noticed that nothing is as it was in our home in Loveland. For instance; when I got up at three in the morning, and headed for the bathroom, I discovered that the linen closet was where the bathroom should be. Stubbed toes are a frequent consequence when searching for a strange bathroom in the dark.

Dirty clothes are another problem. We didn’t want our hosts to have to do our laundry, but where do you store the discards until you can borrow the clothes washer for a few minutes? Within a couple of days the guest room resembled one of our son’s bedrooms eons ago when they were teens. The room smelled better, but the clutter was still there.

Our possessions were in one suitcase or another. When I asked my wife where a specific a article of clothing was, she said that it was “in the suitcase”. It would help if she were a little more specific; I.E. Give a size, or color of the bag, for instance. Suitcase living is not what one would consider ideal.

Benjamin Franklin said: “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” I hope that when I’m a guest at one of my offspring’s homes, that they (the offspring) can ignore the smell, and tolerate me for just another day or two. A little strategically applied air freshener might help.

A few years ago, we hosted a couple who spent most of their time regaling us with stories of their mis-treatment by their children; or what they perceived to be mis-treatment. After five or six hours of this, I’m afraid I zoned out. I began to hallucinate. I dreamed I was being held hostage, and was being tortured by a very experienced dungeon master. When I came to, I found I wasn’t hallucinating.

Next on the irritant list were the naps. I nap too, but when I do, I’m usually sprawled in a chair, with my head bobbing, my mouth agape, with possibly a quart or two of drool dribbling onto my shirt. According to my wife, I make sounds including gasps, gurgles, and snores, that would waken the dead. I am an accomplished napper. However our male guest took napping to a new level. No chair coma for him, for he suited up in his pajamas and went to bed. I guess that’s ok, providing one is planning to be laid up for several months, but for a thirty minute nap? It might be considered excessive. And you’d think one nap would suffice, but several naps, continuing right up to bed time?….well, I’d had it. I was ready to help them pack. Mentally, their bags were on the curb.

Then there were the dietary restrictions. “No tomatoes!“ one of our guests yelped, “they give me gas.“. My wife is a patient soul, and she took it in stride, leaving out, or adding what our guests demanded. “I love tomatoes.” I said, but my salad was served without. They stayed for only 36 hours. Thirty-six hours that to my reckoning, equaled a two- week stay.

If you still plan to visit, I have two suggestions; bring some air freshener, and please, save your jammies for bedtime.

We cool, way cool.

He was in a fix, because he had several hands full of food, and was in dire need of an extra to hold up his pants. Frankly, I was quite impressed with his dexterity, yet I wanted to yell: “Pull up your pants!”

His britches struck him somewhere below the waterline, in fact, I thought I saw daylight occasionally between the top of his pants, and the lowermost part of his torso. I was extremely thankful he was wearing underwear, which I suppose were also a fashion statement.

The scene brought to mind another young man about his age, a half century or so ago.

Me.

I wasn’t immune to faddish dress, and as I wanted to be accepted by my peers, I guess I made a few concessions to good sense, and wore what “everybody else” was wearing….. the 16 year old fashion plates.

First, I want you to know that having ones pants defy the laws of gravity is not just a phenomena of today, for I too, wore my jeans lower than what would qualify as a waistline. However, we wore ours on the crown of our hips…not resting on our thighs. We rolled up the legs of our jeans; to show off our argyle socks, we knew that would be difficult, if ones cuffs were mostly being dragged through the dirt. And, we wore narrow suede leather belts to hold our jeans up.

Our shoes weren’t left out of the trend either. Florsheim shoes were the requisite, if we could afford them….I couldn’t. Blue suede, was the finish of choice. The boys who could, took those high dollar shoes to a shoe shop, and had the soles “wedged”….eliminating the heels by adding layers of leather to the rear of the sole, until a comfortable height was achieved. Next, heavy horseshoe taps were added, making the walking wearer sound like the entire Buckingham Palace guardsmen on parade.

If we wore short sleeved shirts, the sleeves were rolled, forming a cuff…way cool. For effect, a shiny watch chain was added, (the longer the better) hooked onto your belt, and disappearing, into a pocket. It could even have been attached to a watch…but seldom was.

Our hair also deserved special attention, and a well greased, “D.A.” was the ultimate.

Not me, but could have been.

The trick was to comb the sides of your hair back, coming together at the rear….similar to the way a duck’s wings meet, forming a “Duck’s Aft”. (I think we used another word.)

So, as the young fellow waddled towards his table, I thought that things really haven’t changed that much since I was a teen. I remember stumbling out the front door to head for school, and my mom yelling: “Pull up your pants!”.

Nope, things haven’t changed.

A gizmo from 1895.

Well, gadget fans, not a single guess last week. So, I’m offering the most fantastic virtual prize ever, for the correct identification of this weeks stumper.

An absolutely delicious, virtual, chocolate cream pie to the winner. Virtually.

It's old, and, it's expensive.

My wife and I had dinner one evening, in a fancy Houston restaurant. In the entryway, in a glass case, next to the hostess’s podium, was a bottle of wine. It was comfortably cushioned in red velvet; a spotlight accentuated it’s rather tatty label. A card revealed it’s vital statistics, as detailed as a window sticker on an Aston-Martin. It was old; that I can tell you, and, it came from France, from a super special vintner’ who had been laid to rest many eons before.

The one object in the case that really got my attention, was the price tag. It deserved closer inspection, at first glance, I thought it read: $2400. At second glance, it still read $2400. I quickly checked my billfold, to see if I may have had an extra couple of grand, but discovered I was $2375 short.

As I recall, we settled for something less; a glass of house wine, which seemed perfectly adequate to my uneducated palate. In fact, I must confess, I really wouldn’t know a good wine from a great wine; average, is good to me. Many years ago, someone offered a soda pop-ish sparkling rose’, labeled: “Crackling Rose’ ”. I’m almost ashamed to tell you that we liked it. In fact, we really liked it, but, at five dollars a bottle, I considered it expensive. Too expensive for a young couple of our means to enjoy at every meal.

We drank run-of-the-mill rose’ and bought it by the gallon……you know, it’s cheaper that way. If someone would have offered door-to-door wine delivery, I would have probably signed up.

I’ve always had a knack for improvisation, and it didn’t take long for me to come up with an acceptable solution to the five buck libation. I’ll bet you’ve seen a soda siphon a time or two, but in case you haven’t, they are heavy glass or metal containers that are charged with carbon dioxide gas, (from a thumb-sized cartridge). One can fizz up almost any liquid, from water—it’s usual application, to, you guessed it; wine. Yep, I’m afraid I made my own crackling rose’ using Gallo’s finest bulk wine. However, I did add a touch of sugar, for taste.

At this point, I may have lost a fan or two, but you can probably tell, I’m one without sophisticated tastes, and, my homemade, artificially enhanced, garden variety, crackling wine, was just fine.

Is it soda pop, or soda siphon?

In Utah where we lived at the time, it was acceptable to BYOB; even if it was a soda siphon.

I recall one evening when my wife and I, and another couple, went to a nice restaurant, and I furnished the wine. I carried the siphon to the table, and when the waitress arrived to take our order, I asked for a wine bucket. When she returned with it, I placed the siphon in the ice. She looked a little puzzled. “What is that?” she asked, pointing at the thing in the bucket. I explained, and she said: “Oh……I thought it was your oxygen tank.”

Should you decide to invite me for dinner, and you plan to include wine in the menu, it’s OK with me. I’ll even give the cork a sniff for you, but, just so you know, a glass of diet beverage, vintage 2012, is what I prefer.

Hmmmm

Here’s a gizmo for you gadget detectives to define. It may be old, and it is odd. A magnum of the finest virtual homebrewed crackling rose’ to the winner.

I was too young to know I wasn't really Irish.

I might even be overheard singing an appropriate Irish tune, such as “When Irish Eyes are Smiling”, or “Danny Boy”. The problem with my singing is that unless I have my wife with whom to harmonize, the end product can induce the “Fight or Flee” syndrome in the listener. Not wanting to attract a barrage of shillelagh blows, should there be any musical utterance from meself, it would merely be a quiet hum.

A green suit, green derby and clogging shoes should complete the Irish look I strive for, for accuracy is appreciated by literary types, and rather than disappoint my readers, by showing up for the parade in a purple jump suit and a fright wig.

That’s how my last St. Patrick’s Day might begin.

In reality, it was somewhat less. Firstly, I missed the parade. It seems I wasted too much time searching for my shillelagh, and green derby. As far as the green beer is concerned, I can’t imagine anything more revolting, so I had to pass on that. As for the corned beef and cabbage, well, that was right up my alley, so, I placed my order, and waited with bated breath for it’s arrival. When the waitperson (note how politically correct I can be) finally showed up, he/she informed me that they were fresh out of corned beef, and, “How would roast turkey do?” As I mulled that over, he/she added somewhat under his/her breath that: “They’re out of cabbage, and would lettuce do”

And how was your St. Patrick’s Day?

And here’s a suitable gadget for you.

It's old, and it's Irish.

A steaming platter of virtual corned beef and cabbage for the correct guess.