400

I’ve been off the computer and internet for a week. No one of any significance emailed me. I didn’t suffer from any withdrawals and no one seemed to miss me.

Hit Lake George on my first day off from pulling gates to keep “guests” off the bridal path where the horse parade to enter the track at the Saratoga Race Course. It was good to paddle from Bolton Landing to the Narrows across the deep blue waters. For the first time in a week rain wasn’t in the forecast. I docked my kayak at Glen Island and enjoyed a quiet picnic under the flag pole. Few boats cruised the lake under fluffy clouds and a light wind. Later, I struck up a conversation with the store clerk posted on the island. She reported a significant reduction in business.

The economic downturn has impacted the track too. Attendance is 25% off from last year's numbers. Granted the weather has not cooperated. Opening day and the weekend resembled a typical Microneisan afternoon downpour, except the rain last all day.

I enjoyed the rain. As a security guard less people means less problems. Good thing too. I’m contending more with my two yahoo co-workers from New York City who have a propensity to walk off the post at the most inopportune times. Quick to yell “union”, and thinkin' they are being “played” both are primed to vote for Obama, but I seriously doubt either are registered. It is this fact that may save the country yet.

My assignment is to relieve six people for their breaks. We get an hour. By the time I get everyone in, the temptations of fried Saratoga Chips and the sweet smell of cotton candy leaves me hungry and ready to put my feet up in a very quiet break room. I bring my lunch and avoid spending an hour’s wage on food.

You can tell a lot about an employer by the condition of the break rooms and employee bathrooms. I try to keep my forearms off the table and not lean on the day old newspaper strewn about the wobbly wooden table engraved with the initials of former employees and their lovers. I’ve gotten stuck and have had to peel the paper off the table a couple of times. The smell of popcorn burnt in the microwave and leftover tacos and salsa lingers in the air. Thank God, someone had the foresight not to place a garbage can in the tiny room that houses a set of mismatched chairs, an empty Coke machine and a refrigerator that I’ll never look in.

Two Weeks Later

On Saturday, I sat through a boring eight-hour class on the duties and conduct of being a security guard for the New York State Racing Association. The instructor was more interested in tell jokes and entertaining the class with state trooper war stories. I prevented myself from nodding off by watching others fall asleep. At the end of the day I score 100 on the twenty five multiple choice questions and wasn’t too surprised to be standing in roll call the next day with those who had taking naps and scored 70. I probably could have pulled at least 80 if I had not sat through class.

Yep, I am a security guard at the race track for the next six weeks. Got the badge and everything.

Material, material, material...

Break

I'm on the road to Tennessee. After two years, I'm going to take a blog break. Might not be too long. Check in later.

Ketchup

When they started to make wide-mouth ketchup jars, like mustard, didn’t you wonder why in heaven’s sake that wasn’t done years ago? But then, we would have never known what “anticipation” felt like if it wasn’t for Carly Simon. Personally, I don’t care for the stuff, but strangely, I do know that it tastes pretty good on a Gala apple. One of those experiences gained on a road trip in West-by God-Virginia.

The Neighbors put on a heck of a Fourth of July party on Friday. If not one of the best parties I’ve been to. Ketchup came in squeeze bottles and I wolfed down two hot dogs. It’s official. It’s summer and this coming week we are going into the 90’s. Yeah.

In New York it is illegal to buy, sell, transport, possess, set off or even think about fireworks. I was raised in the Empire State and fireworks were illegal back in those days too. One day a kid from Fowler Lane boarded the school bus with his hand all wrapped up. Word had already spread about what had happened. He blew part of his thumb and forefinger off fooling around with firecrackers. Although illegal, we managed to acquire them. Someone always had an older brother. The contraband came from neighboring states or Canada.

Getting a hold of a sparkler or firecracker was just as much of a summer ritual as picking berries, laying in the hay fields, hiking the ravine or tearing down the hill on your bike toward Danda’s , the mom and pop small store on Route 9 where for ten cents you bought a YooHoo before making the ascent toward home. Man, what an innocent childhood.

In the middle of that little dirt road I grew up on – safety precaution, didn’t want to burn down the house – my brother, sister and I ignited firecrackers. We got away with it because Dad was at work and Mom was deaf, and the three of us swore secret allegiances to each other.

Pop, pop, pop. The resonating explosions lingered in our ear drums. That was the extent of the experience. The acidic odor of gun powder. The lingering trail of gray smoke. Mike made sure we stayed clear of the smoke; otherwise, we’d come home smelling suspicious and what Mom lost in sound, she made up for in scent.

After living in Tennessee and Florida where any fool can find any sort of fireworks at pop-up roadside stands, fireworks seem like a harmless holiday ritual. Granted, like I said any fool…and accidents happen. But then any fool can buy a car, a bottle of Ketchup, a lawn mower or a Tickle-Me-Elmo. Last year, I sat outside my condo and watched the neighbors across the canal blow off so many fireworks it looked like a New England fog rolled in. A drive down Highway 19 treated motorist to a long display of rockets red glare.

Friday night, I sat back on the neighbor’s lawn enjoying an impressive arsenal. Under the close supervision of parent, kids stood holding their sparklers. Not since the French and English pre-revolutionary war skirmishes on the corner of Gailor and Parkhurst roads has there been that much gun powder in the vicinity. And not since Mr. Stroup entertained the neighborhood with his Canadian contraband had I seen that much explode in the sky over the hills of Kings Station.

The two guys on detail periodically paused. “Listen. Listen…what was that?” one would ask.

The other replied, “Those sirens aren’t coming up here.” And they proceeded to fire off a few more rounds to the delight of the crowd.

After one particularly long barrage the sheriff finally pulled into the driveway. He politely asked if we were done. He assured us he didn’t want to come back. The message delivered. The following night, our neighbor finished off his rounds.

Julie's Request

Fresh Rhubarb Pie

This recipe came out of a very worn, tattered and stained Betty Crocker’ Cookbook, page 353.

For the Filling:
For mild flavor, choose your rhubarb early and pink. If it is, do not peel. Cut into 1 inch pieces. For an eight inch pie cut three cuts, three cups for a nine inch. Amount of sugar for the rhubarb depends on the tartness. I don’t have a clue as to how much this might be, but after looking at other recipes I’d say about a cup. Mix coat rhubarb with sugar in bowl and set aside while preparing the crust.

Mom’s Pie Crust: (Found on an index card in her own hand)
2 Cups all purpose flour
2/3 cups shortening
¼ cup plus 2 tsp chilled water

The Technique:
Sift flour and then measure 2 cups. Cut shortening into flour using two knifes. The shortening should be about the size of peas and small lima beans (more peas than lima beans). Keep it cold so keep your fingers off. Put mixture into refrigerator to chill. By the tablespoon, add chilled water. Don’t use frozen water like I did. I dropped a few slivers of ice in the dough. It doesn’t help. Gather lightly into a ball with a fork. Keep hands off dough. Divide into two, making two balls. Okay you can use your hands at this point, but the less man-handling the more flaky the crust and that is what this is all about.

Before rolling ball form a small indentation with thumb into the ball of dough. Why? I am not sure, but those are mom’s instructions and you don’t mess with perfection. I think it helps rolling the dough out in round shape.

Do all this dough rolling (not rolling in the dough) on a floured cloth pastry and roll the dough in one direction from the center to the outside. Rotate the pastry cloth if needed to get a round crust 2 inches larger than the pie pan. Fold in half and lift into pan.

Temperature: 425 in a preheated oven

Time: 40-50 minutes.

Rhubarb Cheese Pie

Mom had this recipe in her box. However, I don’t remember it.

For the Filling:
1 cup sugar
3 tbsp cornstarch
4 cups rhubarb, ½ inch pieces
4 Pkgs (3 oz each) cream cheese, softened
2 eggs
Grated rind of 1 lemon
1 cup sour cream
½ cups slivered almonds

Preheat oven to 425. Roll out pie crust and place in a pie pan. In sauce pan mix ½ cup sugar and cornstarch. Add rhubarb and cook, stirring until thickened and tender. Pour into pie shell and bake for 10 minutes.

In a bowl beat the cream cheese, eggs, remaining sugar and lemon rind. Pour over the rhubarb. Reduce oven temperature to 350, return pie to oven and bake for 30 minutes until set. Remove from oven, spread with sour cream and return to oven for a final 5 minutes. Cool and sprinkle with almonds.

Eighty-two Words

Three years ago when I embarked on my marketing campaign for The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin, I started this blog. It’s about nothing in particular. And it has been more or less an exercise in writing.

I’m coming up on blog number 400. Some have been lengthy. Others nothing but snaps. If on average I have written 600 words for each blog entry that would put the writing at 240,000 words. Or three novels worth!

Now that is depressing.

Turtles and Immigrants

Good deeds come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. There are people like Earl Morse who recognizes that not all World War II vets can make it to DC to see their memorial, so he makes it possible for them to go. Then there are the little good deeds, like holding a door open for some one, or helping a person put five gallon pails of paint into a cart or picking up a dropped piece of paper for someone.

I was on my way to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get my non-drivers ID so I could work at the track, when I saw a snapping turtle trying to make its way across Route 9. The turtle was the size of a hub cap and had an attitude of a spring bear. I veered around the reptile and pulled over. The turtle caught a major break.

I trotted back to get the creature out of the path of traffic before someone got seriouly hurt. (Hit that thing and no telling what the cost of a front end alignment might be.) Suddenly, I felt a little like Steve Urwin, approaching a croc. With a car barreling down on us I took a few steps forward to pluck the thing up and it took off as fast as a turtle can take off, which was surprisingly faster than I had expected. No time to wonder just where to grab the thing. I scooped it up with a heft. It must have weighed ten pounds. Its legs retracted into the dark brown shell, but his head raised back mouth agape.

Not to panic. I stepped to the side of the road. There I stood with a huge snapping turtle in my clutches wondering what to do with the thing. I looked behind me and scanned the direction from which it came. Nothing but the Jeep dealers pavement. Normally, this would be a great opportunity to inspect the specimen. Note the sharp spiked curve of its shell, take a closer look at the mouth, flip him over to see with underside. However, he smelled awfully peculiar. In fact, the odor was nothing short of gross. I held him away from me, expecting a shower to turtle pee.

Suddenly, I wanted to get this guy across the road as quickly as possible. He probably felt the same way. And just as suddenly there was a huge wave of morning commuters. He was growing heavier and smellier by the second. One car after another zoomed by, a few drivers rubbernecking the sight of a woman standing on the side of a busy road holding a turtle.

A gap. I scurried across, thankful that the big guy had the patience of an angel. I’m sure he thought the smell sooner or later would get him released. I nestled him down in the weeds about 20 feet from the road. I made sure to face him in the direction he had been headed. He took off. All but the smell.

Fortunately, I carry wipes in the Jeep.

So that was one good deed. You know the saying one good deed follows another. Returning from the library, I saw a man standing at a bus stop hailing an oncoming bus. Except the bus blew right past him. In my rear view mirror, I saw him jump into the road waving madly at the bus that grew smaller by the second.

The short man looked like a guy someone would accuse of being an illegal alien – not that I’m stereotyping anyone or anything. Since I had just applied for a job and seemed to have gotten it without even opening my mouth and now considered myself part of America's hourly and abused workforce, I identified with my stranded fellow-coworker. And I couldn’t believe the driver never stopped.

I wasn’t going anywhere but home, and had no plans except to take the cat to the vet and pick a quart of berries. I swung the Jeep around. I cruised down the street looking for him. He was walking at a fast clip, carrying a small backpack (Does he look like a turtle?). Obviously, he was going to work and was going to be late.

How do you approach someone walking down the street while you are cruising in your car? If some guy passed me and asked if I needed a ride, I’d politely decline and think the worst.

The guy still clutched a dollar for fare money. “Hey, I saw the bus pass you. You need a ride?”

In an accent from somewhere in South America, he said yes and thank you. He had been on his way to work at a hotel on South Broadway. He wasn’t angry about the bus; he was grateful I offered him a ride.

I hit every light on Broadway green. We passed the bus and I joked, “You’re going to be early.” Before he stepped out of the Jeep he told me his name was Mario.

Today I saved a turtle and a job, or at least ,prevented a guy from being late and getting a good chewing out from his boss.

Job Interview

“We’ve got rocket scientists who work the first three weeks and figure they have made enough money to last them for a while.”

“It is only ten dollars an hour?”

“Yeah, like I said rocket scientists. Once they spend all their money in two days they'll come back, but by then... we don’t want them. They can go work for McDonald’s for all I care.”

At first I thought maybe I fell into the rocket scientist group. I was sure he was referring to my MBA from Michigan. Why would I be contented with a $10.00 job? At least I would have asked that if I was in his shoes.

Captain Campbell wasn’t the big burly security captain I expected. He had that warm wholesome fatherly face you’d see in a commercial for middle-aged men touting the benefits of Viagra. He had given his attendance speech before. Heck, I’d given it many times to hourly employees, except usually during a new hire orientation, not an interview at least not until I had sized the person up, asked him a few questions about previous employment. None of that happened.

I was ready to explain my employment gap. “Let’s see. In 2005, I sailed across the ocean and wrote a book, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. Maybe you've read it?"

"Not a reader."

"Well yes. Anyway. That led to publishing and marketing the book in 2006. In 2007, I started writing a novel and this year, I’ve done absolutely nothing on the book, so that is why I’m here applying for a security job at The Track for six weeks.”

Except he didn’t ask me that either. Instead he asked, “Ever work security before," while carefully printing my name on the tab of a manila folder?

“No, sir.”

“Well then, we'll sign you up for training on July 19. 9-5, bring something to eat. Can you work the Open House on July 20?”

“Kind of get my feet wet?” I asked.

“Sure, something like that.”

Yeah, and if he ever reads this blog I'll be fired before I start.

Mulberries

The road where I grew up was once a strip of overgrown dandelions, daisies, sweet grass and other assortment of summer weeds sprouting between two muddy ruts. Rabbits grew fat on the foliage and only took cover when Dad drove the Chevy up the hill from Grey’s. Other than the milk man and the occasional delivery from the Cook Coffee Man, there wasn’t much traffic, so the road was an excellent place to learn to ride a bike, play in muddle puddles or go sledding after a good ice storm, because it would take the county a week before they got around to sanding the road. Not even the school bus nor the mailman came up the road. As a kid, if I heard a car coming up the hill I ran out to the road to see who it might be. That was country life excitement. While I don’t go running anymore, the habit of looking out the window to see who might be coming is as ingrained as a reflex. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have any idea who is passing by.

Today, traffic is heavier and neighbors are as plentiful as the mulberries on the school house tree. Even so I didn’t expect to inconvenience many when I set a ladder up in the middle of the now paved road to pick the mulberries. The dark berries littered the road, staining the underside of any car that drives through them. Less than two minutes after I climbed to the top of the wooden ladder a pickup truck came cruising by. I had nearly a quart when the UPS truck came to deliver a package. Both vehicles slowed down, and gave wide berth to the women dressed in painter’s pants with her head buried in the upper branches.

I thought about gathering the ones that had fallen on the road, but discovered road gravel made them a bit gritty. It was impossible not to step on them. Envision that I Love Lucy classic. By the time I filled my bucket the rungs were awash with swished berries, my pants were splattered with dark stains and my fingernails looked like I had been working on an old car engine for eight hours.

In my search for mulberry recipes, had read that the stems tasted awful, and the raw fruit and leaves a mildly hallucinogenic. In truth, the only thing you’d end up hallucinating is that you’re dying of a bad belly ache. Taking great care, I removed the stems without totally mutilating the fruit. Took nearly an hour of tedious snipping the stems with a fingernail cutter while sitting on the back porch swatting horse flies. It was a pain in the butt, but much of that had to do with the concrete steps. I doubted if the results was going to be worth all the trouble. With a short shelf life, it’s not hard to understand why these berries are not commercially grown.

After all the hassle of harvesting and de-stemming the berries, I wanted a simple cobbler recipe. The dessert came out perfectly. Unlike raspberries the mulberry seed cooks up soft and isn’t such a nuisance to eat. However, I forgot to rinse the darn little things and occasionally the cobbler had the same grittiness as a New England clam. Obviously the ones I did pick up out of the road I didn't throw away.

Made me think I’ll go out and get some more for the freezer.