Foolish Questions

Well, I guess I should devote a few spare words to the laetsts food craze sweeping the Intratubes - Fried Beer.

Frankly, I'm disappointed.

Yes, I know that I have, in the past espoused the fervent belief, backed up by a lifetime of research, that all the best stuff is deep fried. Preferably, battered and deep fried. With cheese sauce on top. And a sprinkle of kosher salt.

But somehow, for some reason, I'm just not feeling the love here with regards to deep fried beer. I'm not sure what the problem is. Sure, there's the starchy outer shell, which after frying is sure to be crunchy and oily. But inside it's beer, man. And I just don't think that's right.

I'm not a strict constructionist in the American mode, believing that the only good beer is a light, almost transparent lager, which is cooled to a temperature that is exactly 0.7 degrees above freezing (and has negligible flavor, the better to prevent interference with efficient alcohol absorption). I have, at times, when living however temporarily among the natives of the English Isles, imbibed a beer that is neither transparent nor served at a temperature that is within spitting distance of the normal conditions above the Arctic Circle. The beer in question, which to be honest is actually best described as ale, might even be construed to be just cool, slightly below the ambient temperature in the barroom or 'pub' as the locals are wont to describe their drinking establishments.

So, compared to the average American, I think I can say that I have rather expanded horizons when it comes to imbibing beer, and I can also say with pretty perfect authority that consuming any beer, even Guinness, immediately after immersion in a vat of boiling oil is just not cricket. Now having a beer on the side of a mound of whatever deep fried snack food you care to clog your arteries with - I'm right there with you, buddy, and are you going to have that last fried Ding Dong? Flamingly hot beer squirting into your mouth after you bite down on these beer raviolis - I'm going to pass.

Now beer popsicles, that's something worth trying!

I don't know why we have discussions like this at the kitchen table. We could talk about literature, or art, or even about the latest Lindsey Lohan shenanigans. OK, not the last - that would really put me off my feed. But we frequently enter philosophical realms, trying to determine the worst final words one could utter or the exact definition of primi piatti (yes that was an actual discussion last night). Perhaps it's all a modern version of debating how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.

Anyway, we came up with some examples of undesirable last words:

"I wonder what this does?"

"Oh, crap!"

"Oops"

"That's odd."

"I got it, I got it!"

"It's probably just a rash."

"What could go wrong?"

"Hey honey - get a picture of me with this bear!"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure there are no poisonous snakes in this state!"

"The water does not look that deep."

"Hey, watch this!"

"Are you sure the electricity is off?"

And of course, the ever popular "Yes, I can do that with my eyes closed!"

I fear my last words will probably be something in the 'oops' category. Maybe a combo, like "oops, followed immediately by "Oh, crap!" or "Sonofa..."

Mary's final words I imagine will be "Didn't I tell you to read the instructions first?"

I thought I'd continue with the engineering theme for a while, because they say 'write about what you know' and also 'a penny saved is a penny earned', and lets not forget 'never pat a burning dog'*. To these we should add 'don't fool around with microwave emitting magnetrons while you have a chocolate bar in your pants'. Wives get very unhappy when they have to clean melted chocolate out of pant pockets. I've heard this from other people.

Gizmodo has a list of ten greatest accidental inventions of all time. I fear I must quibble a bit with their designation. While I think that Play-Doh, and the Slinky are admirable products, I don't really think they qualify as greatest inventions. The world would, it's true, be a somewhat sadder and greyer place without the joys of Play-Doh and Slinkies but somehow I think we would manage to soldier on. On the other hand, microwave ovens, man! Do you remember what it was like to have to make popcorn in a hot air popcorn maker? Of course you don't! That's because Percy Spencer (you did read the article, right?) sacrificed his chocolate bar in his quest to bring us the ultimate popcorn maker and left-over warming device. Not to mention the fun we now can have with marshmallows (please note that I'm not advocating placing marshmallows in the microwave to see what happens, as the results are terribly hard to clean up, unless, of course you can do it and not get caught), not available to our distant ancestors, cooking their food over open fires or at least an electric range.

Interesting divertissement. Ever wonder why a stove is also called a range? Apparently at one point a stove referred to a device that had one hot spot or burner. A range had multiple burners, possibly a reference to an 'arrangement'. Moving on....

All hail engineers! We rule! We're also a strange people, what with our insistence on measuring stuff, calculating weight distributions, and all that graphing. And don't get me started on Electrical Engineers. But we do have our good points. For instance, we can hook up your surround sound system to your big screen TV and even get rid of that blinking 12:00 on the DVD display. Afterwards, of course, don't feel really obligated to invite us to stay and watch the football game with you and the other guys. We understand. And besides, there's a Babylon Five marathon on this afternoon, so its all good.

Our newest, and not by any means biggest, engineering marvel comes to us today via Consumerist. Inside we find a Boeing engineer who has constructed a complete and totally functional living space in a mere 182 square feet. Which in engineering speak is 16.91 square meters. Which in normal human speak is really small.

I love this kind of thing. Of course, I'm an engineer or was an engineer or will always be an engineer in my heart of hearts, (or is it hearts of heart and does it make any difference?) depending on which way you swing, philosophically speaking. Obviously a pico dwelling like this is not for the claustrophobic. I, on the other hand would really like it. Maybe not all the time. Or most of the time. Or more than a few hours, here and there. But I would like it. I like multifunction stuff be it Murphy beds, Leathermans, or pens that also double as micro sound recorders.

Anyway, just thought I'd throw this out there as a little idea of what would happen if you allowed us engineers to design your living spaces. They'd be efficient, compact, though perhaps not well suited for those of you who think life requires sufficient space to hold out your arms to their fullest extension, while not oriented precisely in an ESE direction, 20.3 centimeters from the front door. Those people will just have to try and live their wretched lives in a big echoing mansion with just tons of wasted space on all sides. Sorry. Oh, and your microwave display is still blinking 12:00.

We recently went to a ball game here with the Colorado Rockies, the first game in fact that we've attended since we moved to Colorado. We're not exactly huge sports fans. Actually we're not any kind of sports fans. We like the sitting outdoors, eating hotdogs, and drinking beer thing. Watching people hit balls with sticks and run around is just the ambiance as far as we're concerned.

First, the ballpark food run down (priorities, you know). Shockingly standard food items for sale in the main. No fish tacos, or garlic fries, or grilled salmon sandwiches? What the heck?

Well, there is the Denver Cheese Steak. I didn't even know there was a Denver Cheese steak. And no wonder - it comes in steak or chicken versions. Correct me if I'm wrong here, but doesn't cheese steak come with - steak? Perhaps I'm being too much a purist. Nope, pretty sure I'm not.

I have a confession. Yes, it is yet another confession. Yes, I have a lot of confessions. I'm a lapsed Catholic. It's our thing. We never get over that whole sit in a dark cubicle and tell a man who wears a robe your innermost secrets. Wow, when you write it down like that it sounds really, kind of, skeevy.

Anyway, this isn't really a confession, as a much as it is a cry for help. At least that's Mary's stance. Me, I think it's just thinking outside the box. If I wanted help I'd just say - 'help'. But in this case I'll just say - 'cheese'.

I want to buy a cheese wheel. A really big cheese wheel. Like one the size of a monster truck tire - that kind of cheese wheel. I think it would be awesome. I'd put it on top of the kitchen table, which providentially is round. And they say I don't think ahead. I'm not sure who 'they' are, but they're always around. Of course, since the size cheese wheel I have in mind is something like two feet thick we'll have to change out the kitchen chairs for bar stools. Mary doesn't like sitting on bar stools. I'm still not sure how I met her, since at the time I was a firm supporter of sitting on bar stools and did it every chance I could. So anyway, she'll probably have to go eat her meals in the dining room. Me, I'm going to sup on top of the cheese wheel.

As the primary meal purveyor in the Waring household, I occasionally find myself completely bereft of ideas for the evening meal. More to the point, I sometimes find myself rather wanting in motivational impetus to cook. This wouldn't be a problem in most parts of the country, but we live out in the sticks and when six o'clock rolls around I usually can't pop over to the nearest fast food place for a sumptuous repast served in paper bags, nor does anybody deliver pizza out here. Well, there was a local pizza joint that seemed promising at one point, but after we read in the local newsletter that the owners promised that they'd be back in business as soon as they cleared up that little misunderstanding with Board of Health, we decided against adding them to speed dial.

In a situation where your significant other will be sure to shortly begin to wonder where her next meal is coming from may I offer the following suggestion:

Movie Dinner Night!

Yes, you too can make your spouse happy and show him or her how inventive you are, while getting out of the arduous task of actually preparing a well balanced and healthy meal. If you're really good, you can serve what is essentially junk food with nary a complaint, indeed in many cases you be awarded with accolades.

In a little over or less than six weeks, I'm not much good with dates, and I don't like to tie myself down with a schedule or anything, I will be attempting my first summiting of Pike's Peak. Summiting is what we he-man mountain climber types say when we hike to the top of a mountain. As opposed to saying we hiked to the top of the mountain. It's important to know all the jargon, you see. And, well, technically it's also not exactly my first summiting per se, since we've been up there at least five or six times, because everyone who comes to visit us here in the Rockies wants to ride the Cog Railway to the top of Pikes Peak, and we usually go with them. The donuts in the gift shop on top are to die for.

Anyway, this time will be slightly different because I'm going to walk to the top. It'll be a monumental feat comparable with Scott conquering the South Pole, though hopefully with a little less hypothermia, starvation, and death.

Unlike previous hiking expeditions I'm taking a completely different approach to this one. Back in the day, which means when I was young and the birds sang and the sun shone, I was wont to accept invitations to treks across the American West with studied insouciance and perhaps, though I will deny it vigorously, a bit of naïveté. For instance, my preparation for a hike deep into the Grand Canyon from the North Rim (which is the opposite and less salubrious side then the one tourists are familiar with) was a program of steady and mildly excessive beer drinking and cigarette smoking.

Deep from the depths of American product promotion ideas come a new and horrifying twist on that perennial breakfast icon - the Poptart. Now, to be honest the humble poptart really isn't the worst idea for a breakfast food that anyone has ever devised. That would be this - the Jimmy Dean Pancake and Sausage on a Stick. And not just any pancake, but chocolate chip pancake. I'd still go with Poptarts ranking in the top five bads though.

According to the New York Times, and they should know since the story is about Times Square, which is really named after the New York Times, a little factoid that I thought I'd just throw in there. And not just to pad out the entry any. Not much. At. All.

Returning to NYT articles and better writing than you'll see here in a month of Mondays, there will be a new Poptart food emporium in Times Square. For reasons that escape me, and any right thinking person in the country. It's Poptarts. They're frankly crap. Even after you've toasted them. And let them cool down for ten or fifteen minutes because let's face it, you'll only bite into a Poptart fresh out of the toaster once in your life, and the scarring that you'll experience as the molten fake fruit and sugar lava streams agonizingly across your taste buds will encourage you to dunk them in a bowl of ice water before consuming from that point on.

Marmite stocks have fallen. Marmite prices have risen. Disaster stalks outside your door. Is it locked? Are you prepared? Can you be prepared for a potential disaster of this magnitude? Can anyone? Are there any more mock terror questions I can ask? Are there? Doesn't that beer on the left look cold and refreshing?

So over the weekend there was a news report that a jar of Marmite is now more expensive than a gallon of gas. Since we're talking British gas, that means it's really expensive, though we don't know how expensive because British gas is sold by the liter, not the gallon. Actually the litre. So even the Brits don't know how expensive Marmite is, but it's a lot.

This is really quite interesting because Marmite is the next best thing to edible industrial waste. Certainly the taste won't fool you into believing it's made from flower petals, orange blossom honey, and a sprinkle of fairy dust. It tastes like it looks. Dark, dark brown. Almost black. Gunky. Acrid and acidic. Well, those last are actually tastes as opposed to appearances. But take my work for it, if you were cleaning the traps at a large scale commercial recycling facility - Marmite is exactly what the stuff plugging the traps would look like. Maybe a little worse.