Mprovising

Current Mood: ditzy

On the way home, I made a quick dash into the Farmers' Market.  I needed a handful of potatoes, some fresh herbs, a bundle of collard greens, and few pieces of fish for dinner.  Earlier today, I had clicked on the "Dining" link along the bottom of the New York Times site and watched someone called "The Minimalist" throw together mashed potatoes and monkfish.  The dish seemed simpler than waiting for homemade soup to be served off the stove, and I'd seen monkfish prepared a couple times on The Food Network.  How tough could it be?

I grabbed a basket, found just about everything I needed, and took a number at the fishmonger's counter.  You can find almost anything that swims in those cases, and while I was waiting to be served, I strolled around to see what was on ice.  My curiosity was rewarded with some amazing sights, and my walk ended in front the recognizable monkfish fillets.  There was a brief description of the flavorful flesh, along with several tips for preparation.  I was going to be out of the market in no time at all, and I had a bounce in my step.

Then, something below the description caught my eye.  For some reason, a picture of the monkfish was displayed under the fillets, and it was a deal breaker.

I wandered over to the butcher's counter, grabbed a steak, and wondered what might have been.

Current Mood: confused

Last November, the company notified 640 employees that their identity information did not match government records. In January, federal agents arrested 21 workers at the plant, and in August, helped by information the company provided, agents arrested 28 more, many at home.

Mr. Pittman said cooperating with immigration officials “serves our goal of 100 percent compliance 100 percent of the time.” But for many families, the cooperation has come at a price.

Current Mood: pleased

There are plenty of great reasons to own your place, but one of the biggest drags has got to be repairing things that break.  I'm not completely averse to calling in the calvary for the really big jobs like installing a new heating and air conditioning system or replacing the hot water heater, but most of the time, I end up playing the roles of project manager, unskilled tradesman, and gopher as soon as something breaks.

Last week, we had a quote for a job from a plumber for more than a thousand dollars in repairs.  A few years ago, I might've gotten a couple more quotes and stroked a check, but what's the point in having all those strange tools that seem to collect over time, unless you take advantage of the opportunity to use them once in a while?  Besides, if someone is going to charge you a thousand bucks to fix something, there probably aren't many things you can do to make the situation worse.

So, I grabbed an armful of tools and tackled the problem, which involved my crawling into dark and dusty corners of the house that aren't seen very often.  I set up a couple lights, took a closer look, and went to work.

First, let me say that once plumbing goes awry it's filthy business to put straight.  A section of piping had to be removed, which put plenty of those specialty tools into action.  I will not attempt to describe the smell, but as the first drops of fetid water began seeping out the opening I was creating, I'm glad I didn't have my cell phone and the plumber's telephone number at hand.  It was touch and go for a few seconds, as I began the realize what the next few moments of intimacy between the house and the owner were going to entail, but I persevered.

Before it was all over, I was covered in some of the same stuff Andy Dufresne must have crawled through to get out of Shawshank Prison, and I felt something of the liberation and relief wonderfully depicted by Frank Darabont.

Since I'm probably the only person I know who posts to Live journal and owns a set of golf clubs, I feel compelled to weigh in on the side of golf.  With some determination, training, and a little luck, almost anyone can start a mower, fill an ice tray, or flip a pancake, but none of those things compare with the feeling of crushing a small dimpled ball off the tee.  I'm not saying that catching the pancake at just the right moment isn't great, but if you miss it, you just slip it into the middle of the stack.  Releasing all of the potential energy from a backswing with some semblance of control . . . it's a thing of beauty, and those last forever, if Keats was correct.

Let's say you're not a Tiger Woods wannabe, with twenty-first century drivers in your bag that would put most airplanes to shame; you still have to contend with dog-legs, water hazards, and bunkers that dare you to misjudge the distance . . .the wind . . . the club . . . or your own swing.

For now, my favorite course is just about any executive with plenty of par three holes.  It's not the because I can thread a ball down a narrow fairway with any accuracy.  Seeing the green in front of me without any creeks, sand traps, or rotating windmills allows me to relax at the tee, forget about overswinging, and drive through the ball with authority.  It's tremendously gratifying, made even sweeter by my inexplicable tendency to hook just about every thing I hit.  What can I say, I'm a dead pull hitter.

The wino selling used balls at the third tee of the course I play is continually treated to an underwhelming display of my use of thirty-year-old golf clubs.  My irons are blades from an age long before engineers began broadening the sweet spot by playing around with unusual metallic alloys.  I replaced the grips, but shafts are original; the seven iron has a wicked curve, where the previous owner must have pulled a Judge Smails at some point.  I paid $25 for the set to some guy who who seemed to be planning for retirement by unloading all kinds of stuff on Craigslist, and immediately upon leaving the Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had somehow just been cheated into paying more than the clubs were actually worth.  If I played more often, it might be ironic that my clubs are still better than my game.

I'm wandering from the point, I guess.  Most of you are more concerned with the waste of natural resources and non-point source pollution from fertilizers, pesticides, and herbicides than my Rosencrantz-and-Guildenstern-Are-Dead-esque predictability of putting the ball on the left side of the fairway off the tee.

I can't defend the decision to use water to keep lawns green in the midst of a drought.  Even the economic argument some public officials offer regarding the cost associated with re-sodding fields for schools withers under the harsh light of our drought.  Still, if you've read The Botany of Desire, you might expect a question like, "Any of you enjoy french fries?"  How do you feel about Russet potatoes in general?  Where do you stand on the irrigation debacles in Washington or Oregon?  Do you still eat blue berries, green beans, or apples?

The dominant agricultural model at work in America for decades has been to keep crops pretty and raise the yield with almost no thought to the environmental consequences.  Draining and polluting ground water, genetically modifying plants; and feeding livestock previously butchered livestock pieces is pretty nasty, but I eat more than my share of the harvest.

Still the obscene excesses of watering golf courses in a drought seems like playing the violin as the city burns down around you, but excess is everywhere in America.  Just this morning, I read that Allen "chair-throwing, bowling alley brawler, hit 'em when they're down AND you have numbers on your side" Iverson is suing the builder of his two million dollar 15,000 square foot home at the Country Club of the South for six million dollars in damages.  That's obscene, and if Mr. Iverson's attorneys are reading this note, please understand that it was never my intention to impugn the character, motives, or behavior of The Answer.

Current Mood: cranky

Listening to the radio this morning, walking by the water cooler, and firing up the "Internets" just a few minutes ago, I've overheard people complaining about some Caveman Show that didn't quite entertain them last night.  America, you've asked, no, more accurately you've begged for the Caveman Show for years.  I mean what in the hell was ALF, My Favorite Martian, or the show with two cousins living together (with one of them constantly surprised by American cultural mores).  America, you love the one trick pony sit-com.  You celebrate the banal by rewarding predictable writing, static characters, and laugh tracks with loyal viewership,  high ratings, and millions of dollars in ad revenue.

So, please stop complaining when some twenty-something television executive has a misfire by offering you something you usually devour!