BISTO AT THE DELI

(Coffee for Battlestar Gallactica)

Weren’t we just chatting yesterday about grammatical errors at stores? 

Sure we were.  Check out yesterday’s blog post, and you’ll see it.  In that post, I openly admit to defacing a deli case in a grocery store because someone had written in neon pen that the deli sold hot dog’s.  I don’t know what part of the hot dogs they were selling, so I scratched off the errant apostrophe.

Today I am at a different grocery store, standing at the deli counter, deciding what kind of turkey to buy.  I notice a sale on one particular variation of the store brand, and I have to look at the sign several times because I simply haven’t heard of this before.  I mean, there’s oven roasted turkey, honey cured turkey, turkey breast, turkey loaf, etc.

This, though, is BISTO TURKEY.

Bisto?  Bisto.  Hmmmmm, store brand Bisto Turkey.

I can tell that my head is tilted slightly to the left, and I can feel the semi-quizzical expression on my face.  Do I dare?  I mean, should I?  I honestly don’t know what Bisto Turkey is nor what it looks like nor from whence it came.  But, it’s my turn at the deli.  No one else is here, and I’ve grabbed my number – #1 – so I do not have time to debate my options. 

Bisto Turkey is on sale!

It’s not like anyone else is here to catch my blunder if I screw it up.  Is it BEE-sto?  BIH-sto?  Be-STOW?  Kind of like the time the woman at the deli asked for Paul-ish ham instead of Pole-ish ham. 

Sweat starts breaking out across my brow.  Okay, to be honest, I have just come from the track where I walked-jogged two miles, so I am still sweating profusely, anyway.

That’s when I notice it.  Yup.  Right there in the deli case is a hunk of this on-sale turkey, still in its wrapper, clearly marked:  “BISTRO TURKEY.”  Bistro.  Bistro!  That’s what I thought, but the sign … oh, the stupid sign …. The store-printed, manufactured, official sign clearly and without question says BISTO.

I pull out my cell phone to take a picture, but the deli clerk is standing right in front of me and the Bistro Turkey, so this whole idea seems awkward.  “If you don’t mind,” I say nonchalantly, or as nonchalantly as one can be when taking random pictures of deli meat in cases, “I don’t know what kind of ham my son wants me to get, so I’m going to show him this picture to prove there’s more than one kind of ham.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire!

I point my phone in the general direction of the ham, but I aim for the Bistro Turkey.  Yes, I am the pervert taking pictures of processed meat.  Sick, sick, sick person.  Sick, sick, sick grammar nerd.  However, I am a person obsessed.  This grossly grammatically negligent label is obviously something that was mass-produced.  Other stores must have also marked their Bistro Turkey as Bisto Turkey.  Everyone will be confused.  There will be rioting in the streets. 

In the end, I get my pound (“A little over okay?”) of Bistro turkey, and all is right with the known universe.  I don’t berate the deli clerk, I don’t send a manager to the case to review the correct spelling of the word bistro, and I don’t attempt to fix the sign of my own accord.  I’d say I’m over it, but, obviously, since I am posting my blog about it, I guess you can say I’m still somewhat obsessed about it all.

At least I’m consistent.

FEELING SASSY

“Hey, you’ve got a smart mouth!”

I know, I know.  Not like I haven’t been hearing that my whole life, and by “smart,” no one means “intelligent.”  I can’t help myself.  I have a naturally sassy wit and an exceptionally rapid-fire brain coupled with an extremely trigger-sensitive set of vocal chords (or fingers, if I’m in Cyberland).

Take today, for example.  A good and kind friend spends a large chunk of her day trying to determine if flyers about rescuing stray cats are real flyers or some kind of scam to get animals for bait or experiments or just for cruelty and sick fun.  Someone surreptitiously delivered said flyers around my friend’s urban neighborhood, and there is no information about this supposed rescue organization anywhere online or through any local shelters or animal hospitals or police stations. 

Very shady.

Later in the day (still today, for it cannot yet be tomorrow until I post this, then tomorrow will be today and today will be yesterday), this same friend helps to rescue a stray cat near her apartment.  She (my friend, not the cat) has connections with a real and honest organization, the Melrose Humane Society (which keeps autocorrecting to Human Society – go figure), so she summons the real rescuers to help.

Me?  I recommend she call the name on the creepy and suspect flyer, the seemingly fake organization I have hence named the Dorchester Soylent Green Kitty Factory.  Here’s a bit of our exchange (paraphrased for clarity, of course).

SHE:  Melrose Humane Society just picked the cat up.

ME:  I thought you'd sell it to that Dorchester Soylent Green Kitty Factory.

SHE:  BAD HELIAND!

ME:  Hey, you're the one who posted an ad for strays then gets one the same day. Don't be poking the bear.  Let me know if it's a legit rescue organization or if I have to stop eating the kitty animal crackers.

SHE:  You know you’re going to Hell.

ME:  Not until September when school starts again.

Another friend posts online about grammar awareness, targeting English teachers correcting syntactical errors in grocery stores.  Hahahahaha  …. Ummmm …. Guilty.  I somewhat proudly yet somewhat obsessively admit to being at the store deli and seeing a punctuation error on the display case.  The store is selling HOT DOG’S.  I stare at the words and stare and stare and finally lean forward and scrape away the unnecessary apostrophe with my index fingernail.  I mean, seriously.  What part of the damn HOT DOG are you selling, anyway?  And, if it’s still in its natural casing, does that mean I have to order it uncircumcised? 

Ew.  Just ew.

Finally, another friend (holy crap, I have three friends – it’s almost like I’m popular … almost … okay, not even remotely, but humor me) posts a picture of what looks like a gathering of alien pods.  Turns out to be bitter melon.  She very politely poses the following question in her post –

SHE:  My current culinary conundrum - bitter melon. Talk to me food people. What does it taste like - what do I do with it.

(Other people respond with helpful and thoughtful suggestions.)

ME:  You hold bitter melon up to the cucumbers and bitterly scream, "THIS ... THIS is your future, you old crone!"

ANOTHER PAL:  I thought if you remove the seeds it’s not as bitter.

ME:  That explains why post-menopausal women are so freaking happy.

This same friend posted an honestly curious picture about a Japanese restaurant that only serves stuffed animals.  The picture has a bunch of fluffy toys with plates full of pancakes in front of them.  Me?  I go right back to the old standard – a picture of a rabbit with pancakes on its head.  I don’t know why.  I mean, I know people are posting serious questions and serious topics, but my brain doesn’t work that way.  My brain misfires and goes off like a frigging July 4^th firecracker; BOOM!  Sparks and smoke and debris every damn place.  It’s like a giant clusterf*** inside my skull.

I cannot help myself.  I have a smart mouth sometimes – too often – and I get myself into trouble.  I have stopped counting how many times people tell me I’m a straight-shooter when I say these things out loud.  “We always know where we stand with you,” they say.  I don’t know what that means.  Why wouldn’t you want to know where you stand?  Would you rather be lost?  Is this just a semi-polite way of telling me I have verbal diarrhea? 

And how come I know how to spell diarrhea without needing Spellcheck?

I know, I know.  Go stand in the corner.  It’s okay.  I’ll munch on some soylent green kitty animal crackers and consider repenting.  Maybe it will help me be less bitter.

I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM ...

I have been on an ice cream kick lately.

Nothing too terrible.  I mean, I'm not sitting in front of the boob-tube with a giant spoon sticking out of a carton of mint chocolate chip or anything like that.  It's just that it's summer, and, well, it's ice cream season.

I start last week with my sister.  On the way home from a day out in the scorching sun and walking ourselves miles and miles and miles all over Concord and Sudbury, we decide to stop for frozen yogurt.  This is a wonderful idea except that one of the yogurt dispensers is busted.  This shouldn't be too big of a problem since they have about a dozen more flavors to choose from, and I am happy to see that the wedding cake flavor functions.  But, I am quite upset to see that brownie batter fro-yo isn't offered today, so I bemoan that sad fact out loud.

"Yeah," the kid working the counter responds, "that's the one that broke."

A few days later, my friend returns from her second cross-country trek of the summer.  She is craving a burger, so we go out to eat.  After this, even though I am stuffed, I am craving an ice cream.  We go to a local homemade ice cream stop near her house and decide that we must get something outside of our usual comfort zone, so no chocolate chip cookie dough and no native strawberry.  We both end up with a flavor called Death By Chocolate.  It is yummy, and, yes, we are still alive but barely after eating it.

Today my pal is craving ice cream.  I could go either way, but the more she mentions "soft serve" and "chocolate," the more I am dying for a soft-serve ice cream right here, right now.  After all, it's a hot day.  We deserve a treat.  The problem is the nearest Dairy Queen is right smack-dab in the middle of the town in which I teach, so this is a no-no.  Then I remember another soft-serve ice cream place with portions larger and better than DQ, a place called Dairy Maid.

Across town we go, weaving through the back roads and exploring parts of the nearby town.  We make no pacts about comfort zone or anything like that.  We both order kiddie-sized cups, which holds more than enough ice cream.  My pal orders chocolate soft serve, and I cannot decide so I order a twist soft serve ice cream, half vanilla and half chocolate.

We sit in the car, for it is too hot to be out in the direct sun, and we suck down the soft serve as if we haven't eaten ice cream in days.  Granted it has only been twenty-four hours, but, truly, the time does pass slowly.  Hopefully, this ice cream expedition (from frozen yogurt to hard ice cream to soft serve) will satisfy my ice cream cravings for a few weeks.

Oh, who am I kidding?  

GROWING SOMETHING OTHER THAN MOLD

I'm going to try to grow something other than mold.

I have managed to keep a houseplant (Pothos?) alive for well over a decade.  I finally repotted the poor thing into a better pot and gave it some fresh soil.  I also rooted a piece that was too long and added that to the container.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

During the horrid heat that we had recently, I damn-near killed the impatiens plant my son and daughter-in-law gave me.  I gave the wilted thing some plant food and lots of water and love, and it rebounded better than ever.  I felt (and still do feel) awful, like I neglected a member of my family.  I sat and talked to the plant for a while, apologizing for allowing it to get overly dehydrated in the summer sun.

I have a palm tree plant that I rescued from the clearance section of Wal-Mart last summer.  It was a sad little baby, much like Charlie Brown's Christmas tree.  I didn't have a decent pot for it, so I dragged out my deceased cat's old litter box.  I replanted it into this larger container, never expecting the little tree to survive the summer.  When it rallied, I brought it into my living room for the winter, a room that gets a decent amount of sunshine especially in the afternoon, again never expecting my little palm to make it to Spring alive.  I am pleased to report that the palm tree has sprung at least four new fronds this summer.  I am displeased to report that the plant is still in Dodger's old litter box.

A friend gave me some cuttings from her remarkable basil plant.  I tried rooting it in

water as per her instructions, and I even looked online so I knew to keep changing the water.  Just when I thought there was no hope, the dang cuttings started sprouting little roots.  Within two days of the first sparks of success, the basil had enough sprouts to put into soil.  I planted the cuttings today and moved them outside to get some fresh air and sunlight.

I'm hoping for something other than mold.  If it works, next summer I might even branch out to vegetables.  Who knows?  As long as I remember to water and weed, success may actually be in my future.

AS SEEN ON TV!

Apparently I am the one person in the known world who is incapable of successfully operating anything that is sold on via television.  The words “As seen on TV” usually warn me to steer clear of whatever product carries the label, but recently on a trip to The Christmas Tree Shop, I discover that I am weak.  I see those fateful words “As seen on TV” and I fall hard.

Yes, I buy myself the Veggetti Spiral Vegetable Slicer. 

I should know better.  After all, the brand name on the Veggetti Spiral isn’t Ronco or one of those other sell-it-on-television fake names.  This one is actually called The As Seen On TV Veggetti Spiral.  But, it is cheap money, and people rave about the damn thing, so why not, right?

I openly admit that I am a Veggetti Spiral failure.  I must be the only person in the known universe who cannot successfully spiral a damn vegetable.

Oh, you cannot say that I don’t try!  The Veggetti Spiral came without directions.  Apparently, those must be seen on TV, as well.  I search the Internet, even going so far as to watch a video on how to operate the contraption.  It’s mindless, really: Stick a vegetable in the open end, spin it around, and the blades create noodle-like cuts.  Voila!

Unfortunately, nothing is easy, and the zucchini I am attempting to spiral starts chunking and breaking into miserable pieces.  Just to make sure I’m not a complete imbecile, I break out the metal grater.  Nope, the zucchini is fine, and I seem to be fine.  I try the Veggetti Spiral once, twice, three more times before removing the remainder of zucchini and throwing the useless machine into the garbage. 

In the end, I julienne slice the zucchini by hand, saute it with onions and garlic and peppers, toss it with some balsamic vinaigrette, add tomatoes, feta cheese, and some fresh basil, and I have the most incredible dinner.

Damn the Veggie Spiral!  Damn anything As Seen On TV!  The forces are against me, but I still manage to make the vegetable dish I set out to in the first place.  I may be the only person who is Veggie Spiral idiotic, but I’m smart enough to accomplish two things this evening:  #1- I make a tasty dinner; #2 –I vow never to buy anything touted “As Seen On TV” ever again.

ART WALK

Today’s adventure involves a trip to Brookline, New Hampshire, to hike Bear Mountain. 

Getting there is no easy trick as I encounter a roadblock not even a mile and a half out of my driveway.  I keep forgetting that there is road construction near the high school, my cut-through to the major highways, but also my way to avoid the interstates and pretend I’m on a leisurely road trip. 

My brilliant idea to cut through back roads sours when I hit every flipping red light from here to Lowell (feels like every red light in the whole world).  Driving down the boulevard along the Merrimack River, the only “highway-like” part of the ride, some thug in a black Cadillac keeps running into my lane at fifty miles per hour almost as if he is purposefully trying to run me off the road.  He’s a city dweller, though, and I lose him as I drive across the bridge and embark on my country jaunt.

The most entertaining thing about driving through Tyngsboro and Dunstable and Pepperell would be the speed limit gamut.  In the course of mere miles, the speed limit changes from 45 to 25 to 35 to 30 to 40 to 45 and back to 25.  Some of these changes are not even posted, and I have to trust my GPS, and the cars both in front of and behind me riding my ass to help me gauge the correct speed.  And, please, don’t even try and push these limits because there are cops in every nook and cranny, and out here in the sticks, there are a lot of nooks and a lot of crannies. 

For some strange reason, every town along this two-state trip has built its fire station on route 113, my main thoroughfare to Brookline, NH.  Of course, wherever there is a fire station, the speed limit drops back to 25 mph.  Apparently the key to any good fire station is a slow passing zone.  I believe that I am still in Massachusetts when I see construction on the side of the road being overseen by a flagman.  Honest to goodness, a genuine flagman!  I didn’t realize I’d already jumped the state line, but I am wrong.  I am still in Massachusetts.  The police do every single minor and major public works assignment in Massachusetts because it’s a giant scam.  Then I remember that there are no available cops to be flagmen because they are all sitting in brand new cruisers along route 113 waiting to bag an old guy driving 27 in a 25 mph speed zone.

Driving along my merry way, I somehow get myself momentarily lost.  Honestly, this isn’t my first trip out here; I’ve gone this way several times on my way to and from Franklin Pierce College for lacrosse games.  I also need to admit that it’s an easy plan to get where I’m going: 113 to 119 to 13.  It’s not fucking brain surgery.  I end up cutting through farmland to route 130.  Okay, not on my planned directions, but it spills out right near my destination, so it’s all good, and I accidentally cut ten minutes off the commute.

The marvelous twist to this hike is that nearly two decades ago, Paul Andres purchased Bear Mountain, moved into a house at the summit, then turned the rest of the mountain into trails full of art.  More than seventy-five sculptures cover 140 acres of old ski slopes, new bike trails, and a combination of old and new walking trails.

The place is, in one simple word: amazing.

The contributing artists are from all over the world, but that’s not the most interesting fact.  The art is created out of granite and steel, all done during yearly symposiums right here on the mountain.  How they manage to get the stuff where it needs to go along the trails is a conundrum of epic proportions.  Some of the trails are remarkably tight, so even small cranes couldn’t fit.

These sculptures are weighty.  The largest, The Phoenix, weighs something crazy like eleven tons, and it appears as we break through the tree line from a trail right at the summit.  The views from here, even this far south of the Presidential Range (for we are barely over the Massachusetts border), are breathtaking.  I used to live in a nearby New Hampshire town (okay … village), and intermittent views of the mountains aren’t unusual, but this is simply spectacular. 

After hiking for about three hours and weaving in and out of trails, we still have not seen every single sculpture.  We have, though, seen many, perhaps even most, of the sculptures as I have taken one hundred photos by the time I reach my car in the lower lot.  We’ve also seen the owner’s house (from the outside) sitting as King of the Mountain amongst the sculptures, and we’ve seen the artist’s studio (from the outside – no artists are in residence right now). 

Near the studio a little way into the woods, a modern take on sculpture features a naked man in a fetal position.  Hey!, I think to myself remembering my weekend adventure to Walden Pond, it’s naked Henry!  We have found Henry David Thoreau fresh out of Walden Pond.  Okay, so maybe it isn’t Henry David, but it’s a little like déjà vu and is both hysterical and disturbing all at the same moment.

Joined by some people with small children, we stop to eat wild blueberries, and to examine mushrooms and moss.  The children and I touch the different statues, noting the strange textures and designs.  (No, I do not know these children, but, true to my Pied Piper self, I am a bit of a magnet.) Thanks to the addition of these little people with three-year-old legs, we stroll down the old summit road to get back to the lot, opting to avoid the steep trails down that somehow didn’t seem so bad coming up.

All of our cell phones are nearly dead, which is ironic since there is a cell tower on the top of Bear Mountain, a structure we passed twice on our hike.  I reach the car just in time to plug in as I have less than 7% battery life left.  Despite having two navigational systems, I still get lost on the way home, heading down 111 instead of 119.  No biggie.  Again, I accidentally cut time off my trip.  I only pull over once to allow a truck to barrel past me – I mean, I’m doing 32 mph in a 25 mph speed zone where I have already spotted multiple police cruisers; let the truck get the ticket.

Not four miles from my house, I consider shutting down the WAZE app on my phone but think better of it.  The app pre-warns me to police reported ahead, and I am able to avoid a ticket as he has bagged himself a primo hiding spot in a cul-de-sac.   

The hike is amazing, the art is better, and spending time with friends is the best.  These things are also exhausting.  It’s mid-afternoon when I pull into my driveway, and the only things on my mind are showering off the bug spray and taking a nap.  I can think of worse ways to end an adventure, but I cannot think of any better.