Cinnamon rolls

I knew I had one potato left so the idea was use it for French fries. Problem was Jennifer threw out my oil. (But she left the jar.) 

I have the jar of beef tallow whatever that is. 

I am ready. I have my pot, have my oil, go for the potato and its old af. 

It's like a movie. I want to make French fries but Jennifer throws out my oil and the one potato is so old that it's growing new plants. 

It's been adorable watching everyone conform to suggestions they've gleaned from the press about how to get along during Coronavirus. Everyone walking around with paper medical or craft masks or with handmade masks made from handkerchiefs but still walking together so that everyone looks like a gang of ne'er-do-wells. They know that they're not protecting themselves. They're protecting us from them. So, thank you. You're all lovely. 

My neighborhood of Denver is similar to a town of zombies right now. Walking just a few blocks I'll encounter only a few people such as living dead. They don't want to talk. And I do look like a bum. The outsiders do not want to talk. The insiders are talkative as ever. You could not have planned this more ironically. On the sidewalk I am approaching a man and a woman wearing masks and walking next to each other. Our trajectories have us intersect at the precise tightest spot that was designed as afterthought. We are walking the way designers planned for us. They planned to compress us. The new sidewalk-work compresses sidewalk traffic mindlessly. 

We'll meet on the little sidewalk ramp that replaced the curb step from the sidewalk to the street. You see the designs change; old gray sidewalks, new red ramps. They made the old sidewalks handicapped accessible.  What's weird is they got cute about it and made the ramps more narrow than the sidewalks so foot traffic is narrowed considerably. For some weird reason having to do with maths and statistics as we are walking our separate paths in separate directions on the sidewalks the only three people within blocks will intersect on the little red concrete pad brought together more tightly as a chute for water more so than a ramp for wheelchairs. (Go narrower for the wheelchairs ... ¿)

It was just so weird. For the city. To instruct us all to separate while having already designed the city physically to direct us so that three lonely dots go boink right on their little red dot. Literally red. A literal dot. The woman wasn't having it. She walked w-a-a-a-y around on the grass just to avoid me. Well, I do look like a bum.

I forgot the goddamn cinnamon.

Pork and sausage egg rolls

Look what I found in the freezer.

Sausage and cabbage. That's what it tastes like.

A friend called today within the Denver containment sphere and he said that Cheryl asked how I am doing as she does every time and the guy goes, "Hmm. I don't know." 

Hadn't seen him in a year. 

He said that Cheryl always asks about me. 

I only met her three times.

Over twenty years ago.

The first time we were at Elitch Gardens and we had the best spontaneous date. Right off we found ourselves sitting in teacups. They're not so innocent. They whip around. I started singing "Whip it." We sang it together throughout the ride and thereafter, it was the song for the night, the song worked for other rides too, but we didn't know the words so we made them up. That's why it sounded a little bit suggestive and profane. Cheryl thought that was hilarious.

Wake up! Whip it out, whip it up, whip it into shape. 

She laughs like a little girl whenever we sang that. She laughs and sings it the second and third time I saw her.

That day, that singing, that making it up to fit left a lasting impression. 

It's something the girl doesn't get elsewhere. 

The singing.

Elsewhere, another time, I was sitting on a sunny backyard porch with friends having cocktails. I am speaking to a musician, but I forgot that, and I imitate a guy singing a song while playing a guitar. In normal language I go, 

"Strum strummy strummy.
Strum strummy strum strummy s-t-r-u-m strum."


The guy cracked up laughing and never stopped. I didn't think it was that funny but it's been "strummy strum strum strum" ever since. He's a philosopher, tall, genuine messy cowboy type, a serious musician, instruments all over the place, plays different kinds, reads music, member of some church choir. I forgot all that momentarily and I was just talking. I used the words, "strum" and "pluck" as onomatopoeia for playing a guitar, as a voice that modulates to fit the music. I exaggerate pathos through music. I give voice to my air guitar. Apparently the serious musician had never heard anything so ridiculous.

He laughed hysterically and painfully. He choked on his breath. He was having a hard time controlling his breathing. Laughter kept taking his air. He kept laughing and choking. He could exhale but not inhale. His inhale-switch was turned off. He could no longer breathe. His exhalations became smaller and smaller and smaller to nothing. He didn't know where the exhaled air came from. The edges of his perception turned black. He knew something was wrong. He sat there and wavered. The dark margin broadened and his window to the room shrank quickly. It closed. He tipped over sideways onto the sofa and passed out with his face on the sofa in front of his laptop. Now that his mind is out of the way, a tiny inhalation happened. A second inhalation occurred automatically. A third partial breath. A full breath. The darkness cleared to light. His laptop appeared in front of his face. He returned to his room, to his place, to his time. He sat there swirling, awake and sideways, the weight of the room filled his space. He sat up. His breathing became normal.

He laughed again. Inhaled. 

Laughed again. Inhaled.



What was so funny? Was it funny that I treated air guitar so tenderly and seriously? Who even does that? Who even expects such accurate fret work and strumming and plucking action as part of a conversation? Or was it funny that I was so bad at it? Was I making fun of the genera of music? Was I making fun of the guitar? Making fun of playing the guitar? Was I making fun of music that comes out of guitars? Singers generally? Whatever ran through his mind, probably cruelty, something bleakly negative certainly, it was disabling for him. 

Apple waffle

You get yourself an apple and peel it round and round in one long peel.

It's a contest that we have with ourselves.

I don't know why I always buy whole pecan halves. I always break them up. 

Same thing with shrimp. I make a point to get big ones then end up chopping them to bits. 

The raw batter tastes better than the cooked waffle.

So how do you think about making a pancake batter?

Well, it will have certain things like like an egg and sugar and butter, and either baking powder or baking soda depending upon how acidic, and flour of course, duh, salt, vanilla. And some kind of liquid to thin it like milk or cream or buttermilk or like in this case apple cider.

And cinnamon.

And apple.

I tested with paper pH test strips. A tablet of paper strips similar to matches. It turned out neutral. There was no change. Surprisingly. So I used baking powder. Which is baking soda with its own combination of acids to activate it.

And that worked. 

Ham spread

Deviled ham spread!

It's the kind of ham that comes in a chunk and wrapped in foil and with its own brown sugar in another package for you to make your own sauce. Spiral cut. It's already cooked. The thing was so big that segments were frozen in packages like this one. 

The pieces are chopped then processed in two batches by the miniature blender that came with one of the immersion blenders. It is a ridiculous little blade. Yet it works in seconds for things like this. It is a handy little device. And it is always right there at hand.

That there is what you call a lagniappe. It's a small present added to the deal that you're making, a free toaster for opening a bank account for example. Michael Moore showed a famous one in his distorted way, a free rifle for opening a bank account. We see him walk in empty handed and we see him walk out of the bank carrying a rifle. The audience applauds. Ack shully that process took more than a week, I think. Moore had to wait for his gun but he shows himself walking out immediately after his first interview at the bank.

But a rifle really is an odd lagniappe. 

Twice as much mayonnaise was added as shown. I had to open a new jar.

Then, after the first little round, I got tired of the bread. It's the end of the loaf and I am totally over this bread. 

So I scraped off the ham filling with a Saltine. 

And that was excellent. 

So the rest was eaten on Saltines and the bread just sat there uneaten on the plate. 

A cold wet piece of bread.

What a way to go. 

What a spectacular loaf of bread to begin with but what a pedestrian dull way to go. 

Both the ends of the loaf were discarded and this last slice is also discarded. That's a lot of bread to waste. 

What do you think this is over here, a bakery? 

I never had Deviled ham. I never had anything in those little cans. 

Oh man.

I forgot pickle relish.

There is still quite a lot left. I'll add pickle relish to that. 

Macaroni and cheese with serrano chiles and applewood bacon

I have two jars of liquid cheese sauce intended for chips. It's very good in things like this. But today I wanted to open a package of Tillamook sharp cheddar cheese. A B├ęchamel sauce is prepared and then altered into something else, possibly a side-mother sauce, an aunt sauce. The butter and flour roux is arrested and forced to combine with new liquid and it does that fairly instantly. I used vermouth to combine them into sludge then milk was added and blended with a whisk. Then cheese. And that's two things right there, alcohol and cheese, that turn a B├ęchamel into a sauce that is a lot more complex. 

And a  bit weird.

You've got to be careful. This sharp cheddar and vermouth sauce is not that great. Maybe better luck next time. This is where American cheese works very well. One of the jars of liquid cheese sauce by itself would be better.

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