Nobody's Perfik

     Robert Frost’s fog might have come in on little cat feet but the fog this morning along the eastern shore of Lake Michigan came rolling in like a 1933 Oklahoma dust storm.

     We had the windows open and the fog invaded our house.  It was so foggy that my spoons of cornflakes were deposited everywhere but in my mouth.  We’ll have to wait for it to clear before we can see well enough to clean it from the floor.

     My shirt feels funny – I think it‘s on backwards but who’s to know?

     Fog as thick as pea soup?  It’s more like silly putty but not nearly as much fun. It was so thick the foghorn at Big Red Lighthouse sounded like a seal playing a bicycle horn on the Sullivan Show. .

     I felt my way across the room and turned on the TV but the satellite must be shrouded-in.  No signal.  I fumbled and found the radio – same deal.  The CD player works fine but I had to crank it up to #10 for the music to cut through the density. It sounded like I was listening through ear muffs. Kenny G sounded more like concerto for tuba. That in itself, was a vast improvement.   

     The fog is reminiscent of a Sunday morning during my college days – only that fog existed only between my ears.

     With school cancelled, kids are outside playing in the fog.  Mothers tethered them to the house with clothesline so they wouldn’t wander off. Instead of snowmen, they are making fogmen.  It can be rolled into balls, stacked one upon the other, the eyes, nose and mouth can be formed with lumps of coal suspended in the thickness.

    That’s how foggy it is.

     For serious football fans, there are two seasons of the year.  One is Football Season and the other is Waiting for Football Season.  We know the end of football season is celebrated with the traditional showing of lavishly produced corporate commercials, an occasional celebrity nay-nay and, oh yes, a game that is identified by roman numerals. And it has come to pass this game represents the only remaining practical application of roman numerals in our lives.

     Sports fans know the main reason we now learn about roman numerals in grade school is historically based.  With that important database we can one day reminisce about past Superbowls.  It is much cooler to say, “Da Bearss in Superbowl twenty did gud” than “Da Bearss in Superbowl XX did gud.”  Therefore it was providential that in 1953 I learned my roman numerals in Miss Losey’s fourth grade classroom.  Consequently this year I automatically knew we had Superbowl XLVI which meant it was Superbowl 487 or something like that.

    Being one who can find interest in and focus on the trivial without an official diagnosis of Asperger’s, I have been wondering about those roman numerals and their origin.

    Roman numerals. Why?  How?

    Immediately I bypassed our local research librarian, who nowadays also has to mop the floors, patch the roof and work the nighttime drive up window at BurgerWorld,  and went directly to Google to find what I am about to share. First I learned there are six letters used in roman numerals – M, C, X, L, V and I.

     So why only six characters for those roman numerals when today we have ten in our system? One can only speculate. 

     Before there was WalMart and Sams people did not have as much stuff so fewer characters were needed to keep track of it all. People did not need to buy 75 rolls of paper towels at once and they certainly did not need a handy 20-pak of snow tires or a 55-gallon drum of Chanel No. 5. As for personal hygiene, they had their frankincense and myrrh to hold them over until the invention of deodorant.  If a family had more than the maximum allowed six kids, the extras were donated for the local pagan sacrifices to the god of fertility on the second Tuesday of each month. If a family had more than six chariots, they were sent packing to mountain regions where the cold and light air would cure them.

     Conspicuous consumption (except for their infamous orgies) was out and minimalism was in. 

     How did those letters come to be?

     We’ll start at the top first – It all happened under the reign of Emperor Willoughby I or, in Arabic terms, Emperor Willoughby 1 or in plain English, Emperor Willoughby the First. Since he was the one to invent those numerals, when first elected he was only referred to as plain ol’ Willoughby having been elected on a populist ticket as a member of the Aw Shucks Party. But after being in power, it went to his head. It was inevitable his ego would swell and get the best of him with all those gifts, the lavish lifestyle and the harem.  He got to taking himself way too seriously; proclaiming himself the First and then adding all those other numerals for the masses to use for quantitative thinking.

     “M” – was after Emperor Willoughby’s beloved kindergarten teacher, Miss Minnie, who made a great impression on him. She taught him the discipline of waiting his turn although as emperor, that no longer had significance but he did keep a special place in his heart for her – hence, the M. 

     “C” – was in honor of Emperor Willoughby’s new eyeglasses “because I can now cee!  er…see!” but, of course this revealed a sad fact even the peasants could figure out – in spite of Miss Minnie’s best efforts he could not spell – but who is foolhardy enough to criticize an emperor. It was not the thing to do.

     “L” – for Livonia – his long-lost love last seen being carried away on the shoulders of undercover Greeks who’d crashed one of Willoughby’s iconic Barbecues and orgies.

     “X” – was proclaimed on a low energy day. It was all Willoughby could come up with.  He was so wiped out from the day of the “L” all he could do was scratch an X on the scroll when asked to proclaim a numeral for ten. Among the city linguists it also became shorthand for the word, “whatever”.

     “V” – On the day Willoughby was scheduled to satisfy the long anticipating hordes by proclaiming a numeral for five, his hearing had been failing. When asked for his answer, to what he thought he was a sensitive political question that he’d rather avoid, he just smiled and held up his “Victory” sign with two fingers forming the V. It was a strategy later adopted by US President, Richard Nixon.

     “I” – was designated for one.  Willoughby was challenged in grammatical correctness and never did figure out when to use “me” or “I”.  But he did know that “I” stood for himself, and being rather egocentric, as most emperors were in those days, he proclaimed “I” to mean one. Simple.

     So there you have it, roman numeral fans.  I’m sure that when the Superbowl rolls around again next year, the XLVII will bear special significance and might even win you a bar bet or two and then you can thank me via Paypal or cash.

 On the last morning of the last day of April.  Rain…moderate to hard to drizzle.  Forty-six degrees.  It’s the kind of cool damp that absorbs into the flesh yet stops short of the bone.

The puddles at the end of driveways mirror all the above in the breezeless dawn.  The rain ebbs and robins resume their worm hunts and territorial skirmishes. 

A half-submerged bright green tennis ball calls across the street to a soaked stuffed teddy bear lying on the lawn. Each is out of its element and perhaps causes a child inside its nearby house to feel a little incomplete.  

My rain jacket lives up to the “waterproof” printed on the cuff.  The rest of me is not so labeled and my lower half squishes along.

The neighborhood hawk is on the prowl for a hot breakfast. Vole for appetizer?  Baby bunny?  Even a dove limited in both defensive quickness and apparent intelligence would do.

Down the street a berm of bushes frames the base for a stand of trees. A multitude of greens, browns, burgundies and yellows are muted by the grey sky. On another day, the clear blue and morning sun at a low angle from the east lights up that same scene in a way that even Kinkade could never imagine and ruin.

Unique mailbox presentations are a thing in this rural area.  One is plastered with pseudopatriotic flags and NASCAR decals. No name – just a number. The house it represents has crushed beer cans decorating the uncut grass next to the dirt driveway under a 15-yr. old Chevy Pickup perched high on a redneck suspension.  Its gun rack and rust spots offer other uninviting clues.  I walk a little faster by that joint. Hatfields?  McCoys?   

Another mailbox is perched on the header of a purple V8 engine right where the carburetor would sit. High on the gable end of that person’s pole barn is the front nose of a ’52 Studebaker. Pretty spiffy.

The adjacent field of blueberry bushes soaks up the rain and smiles at the fact there was no overnight frost. These acres and acres with row after row of sweet, antioxident potential resemble burning bushes ablaze each spring and again in the fall.  In the intervening summer, road stands pop up offering their harvest for $1- $2 per pint. Cold cereal floating in blue milk or fruit-filled pancakes rule those mornings.

It was a nice morning to walk, to get into the rhythm of foot meeting pavement and for some quality thinking time.

Dear Diary,

Today is a good one – a rare one indeed.  I had no place to go and nothing to do so I made it up as I went along.

Got up, ground the beans and made some coffee – good stuff.  Lovie got up and joined me in the living room and we sat, stared and watched the birds at the feeder while we sipped and got our joints (skeletal connections, not smoking materials) moving for the day.

Then she joined me for my morning walk – it is up to 2 miles a day now, along the edge of the blueberry fields, on the bike path and down to Ransom Street.  Then we turn back and take the long way around to home with the bright morning sun in our eyes as we turn to the east.

One guy along the way mounted his mailbox on top of a Studebaker V8 complete with exhaust manifolds – it is painted purple.   He has the front nose of a car attached to the gable end of his pole barn.  He must be a cool guy with some serious time on his hands.  

Lovie’s been after me to make a few cards – anniversary cards for our daughters and a birthday card for Lauren. It seems every time I find the resolve to begin them, I interrupt myself with other things such as playing Eager Beaver Adventure Park on Webkinz or checking email to see if anyone is trying to reach me. 

The phone rang and it was a robocall from some healthcare place in area code 701.  I hung up on the robot who’d introduced herself as “Patricia”.  I love caller ID – it is really worth the extra $5 per month.

The mail came and that always is a time of excitement in the realm of senior citizenry.  The New Yorker Magazine came and I immediately checked the cartoons – there are a few really good ones and particularly topical considering the magnitude of the publication. But, dear diary, as I was telling Lovie, the arrival of the mail today was rather anticlimactic since the two things I’d ordered online recently have already gotten here in the last week – a set of fireplace tools and a new rain jacket – a red one.

I went out back and began to putter around and tossed a few fallen branches into our campfire thingee.  Then one thing led to another and I had a really nice fire going for a few hours – I have to get rid of those old cut up red pine logs that have been stacked out there for years.  I made a pretty good dent in them today. 

Sitting, thinking by the “campfire”… is a good way to pass a pleasant late morning that melded into early afternoon. 

Lovie came out and began her annual assault on the yard, turning the remnants of the chaos wind and winter left behind into the lovely orderliness of a large shade garden.  Ours is a sandy, acidic soil so planting of rhododendrons and azaleas take prominence.  There will be new light patterns this summer as we had 20 more trees removed last fall.  The red pines that were planted by CCC workers in the late 30s have reached the end of their life expectancies and will have to go in the next few years. Each one is about 60-feet tall.  We’ve had about 40 removed so far and there’s probably a hundred more to go.

Lovie was getting into her “zone” with gardening activities so I figured that if we are going to have dinner that is not spelled p-i-z-z-a, I better go in and get busy. 

Rebecca called and asked if we would like to have house guests age 11 and 13 for two nights in early June while she and Bob go to a wedding in Portage. Done deal – we’ll pick them up at the McDonalds in Chesterton – about halfway for each of us.

Lovie gave me some advice for dinner and I turned a two blobs of the sourdough in the fridge into small loaves of bread.  The loaves ended up looking like a few of my favorite parts of the Venus d’Milo statue.  

I mixed up some ground turkey for meatloaf later. That is sitting in the fridge now as the flavors “marry” (as they say).  Actually, I think they are just casually dating with a few fumbling attempts at reaching second base.

It’s a pretty normal day.

The International Dish Network (IDN) proudly announces an innovative program that merges the Food Channel the Travel Channel and the Animal Planet Channel to present: 

“Cats Around the Globe – Purrrty Good!”

“Whether one eats cat or not is one’s personal choice, and I don’t want to sway anyone one way or another.  But if you do, there is one obvious cooking tip: Always remember to remove the bell from the cat’s collar before cooking.”

-         Mike Royko, Chicago Sun-Times, Nov. 27, 1980

“A cat will not explode in the microwave if you pierce it first.”      – anon.

Whenever perusing the classified ads, one can find the “To be given away” column.  What does this section always offer? Cats.  Absolutely free – and how can one beat that in this day and age of high cost of feeing one’s family.  Opportunity knocks?  Not quite but it certainly does purr.

Animal shelters are overrun with them and urban areas are teaming with tabbies.  Cats might be the most underused resource in our midst…and when combined with the Colonel’s secret blend of eleven herbs and spices, they can be finger lickin’ good!.

Local sourcing is the watchword as “Cats – Purrrty Good!” takes us on a culinary and gastronomic adventure that few have ever considered.

Show 1 – “Medallions of Morris”

This classy recipe is served at only the most discriminating tables.  It requires only USDA Prime cat.  No substitutions, please!

Prime cats can be found in some of the better suburban neighborhoods.  Gated communities are a good bet for hunting them.   

Choice of procurement vehicle is important for two reasons.  First, to avoid suspicion of your intent when trolling the ‘hood, and second, to avoid creating alarm among our very watchful and introspective prey.

If you have access to a foreign luxury car (Lexus, Mercedes, BMW, Range Rover, etc.) easier access to the better areas is gained. If that is not an option, try a faux service vehicle disguised as a landscaping service truck (only effective spring through late fall), Fed-Ex/UPS van (very popular and productive around the Christmas holidays) or a carpet cleaning service.   

Directions:  Park your vehicle in a prominent neighborhood…tie a 6 to 12 oz. piece of fish to a string and suspend it from the rear bumper.  When our little friend approaches, (preferably Angora or Siamese for that highly desirable exotic flavor) befriend it!  Take it for a ride!

Since cats are rather small, about 1½ cats makes a modest but satisfying serving.  For heartier appetites, add one cat per plate.

Show 2 – “Bar-B-Cat”

This is another fine example of how the food of peasants has made its way to the tables of sophisticated gastronomes. It also offers a way to get maximum enjoyment from the less expensive cuts of ingredient.

Procurement – no need to travel across town or out to the ‘burbs for this one!  A vacant lot in the inner city will do nicely provided it has an assortment of natural habitat for our furry friends such as stripped and abandoned cars, discarded mattresses and major kitchen appliances. Ideal time for trolling (see fish method above) is between midnight and 4 a.m.

Vehicle choice – be careful here. Nothing too fancy…no suburban station wagons or SUVs.  Pickup trucks are a definite no-no.  Get an older multicolored GM car – the more rust, the better.

Dress appropriately for this stealth operation – absolutely NO Eddie Bauer, LL Bean or Lands End togs.  Ralph Lauren?  Forget it!

Instead, look for oversized team logo wear – NBA graphics in the city are as effective as camouflage is in the woodlands.

A word of caution – these cats are no strangers to the challenges of city life and require special handling. As the “bottom feeders” of the feline world, “well done” are two words of caution.  If your palate calls for medium to rare, animal shelters are a better bet but if so, remember, you will risk losing that gamey flavor so desirable for good Bar-B-Cat.

Future programs are in the planning stages to present:

KatKabobs – A Mediterranean Specialty

Cat Fried Rice, a San Francisco Treat.

Garfield Goulash of Budapest

Tabby Tapas from the midnight Bistros of Barcelona

Feline Franks of Philly

Sylvester Soufflé of Epcot

     Our son, Matthew is what could be called a “Foodie”.  He’s an excellent cook, is interested in what one eats and where it comes from.  He is a primary creator, partner in and the general manager of a fine successful restaurant.  He recently told us he’d discovered the advantages of using a pressure cooker when quickly rustling up some grub at home for his three daughters.

     That got me to thinking – always a dangerous proposition.

The thinking led me to, where else? – The internet and Google where I learned more about pressure cookers. 

    I read terms I’d originally heard but not understood in high school science classes – terms like specific gravity, pounds per square inch (PSI), explosions and the like.  In the ongoing modern miracle of lifelong learning, fifty years later, high school science began to mean something.  This melding of science and need might have practical application by satisfying the growling in my belly and soothing the junkyard dog side of my personality.

     I ran to my magic machine and began pushing a few buttons and entered a few numbers.  “Voila!” a few days later a box was delivered to our front door via Fed Ex.  This is, indeed, a wonderful time and space in which to live.

     When Lovie and I came home from our Christmas shopping outing  prompted by the receipt of yet another 20% off coupon from JC Penney’s, there stood the box.  I feigned ignorance (one of my greatest skills gained from decades of experience and deep study of the school of method acting) and wondered aloud, “What in the world could this be?” In the back of my mind, the pipes were singing the tune, “Boy! Those Fed Ex folks are FAST!”

     We carried the box inside and gently placed it on the kitchen island.  Lovie immediately knew the origin of this box since I’d failed to disguise myself as the initiator – method acting can only take one so far.  Handling the box with requisite respect, we began to open it with the care and skills usually reserved for diffusing unexploded WWII bombs found in the fields of the English countryside.

     When the contents were revealed, Lovie remained silent except for, this PG version of, “What in the world possessed you to order this?” 

     I blamed Matthew. “It’s HIS fault!” I responded. It is getting harder and harder to blame things on the children since they left home long ago and live so far away. Go figure. 

     The Swiss-made pot was accompanied with a user’s guide in French and German, a cookbook in English and a few safety items that I’d ordered that the website had termed, “Necessary Accessories”:  Accessory Number 1 – a Kevlar vest, once size fits all;      �
Accessory Number 2 – a helmet with a pull-down face shield made of the same material used by NASA for space shuttle windshields. I love technology!

      Inside the front flap of the French/German users guide was a boxed-in paragraph in boldface, underlined in red that, under normal circumstances, Lovie would be able to read but tears of excitement blurred her vision.  So we contacted the local high school foreign language department chairperson who read it for us.  

     So, there we were, standing in the kitchen staring in awe at this powerful item of great potential.  The pressure cooker could, on a good day, cut the cooking time of soups and stews by 66% or it could potentially lead to skin grafts and replacing and repainting the kitchen ceiling on a less than good day.

     It’s going to take a few sips of liquid courage to take this to the next level. Recipe number one in the cookbook may very well lead us to “Split pea soup from scratch in 15 minutes!” 

     I smile to myself, “And all for the low cost of $202.95 plus shipping and handling.”