humor

Dining

~ Lee Swanson ~ 3 Comments

Something’s happened at the restaurant.  I keep seeing people look through the menu, then turn to their server and say “I’ll do the black linguine.”

Do the black linguine?  Really?  Not order, not eat?  Do?  Given the connotations of the word, watching someone at your table do the black linguine risks your appetite, not to mention the restaurant’s reputation and liquor license.

Where did that come from?  What happened to “I’ll have the black linguine,” or just “the black linguine please.”  But do?  Generally speaking, the meal should be done by the time it gets to the table, shouldn’t it?

That’s just the most recent of the many annoying things people say at restaurants.  Why do servers come by and look at your nearly empty plate and ask “are you still working on that?”

“Actually, no, I’m not working on it at all.  I’m eating it.”

I worry that the question may become “are you still doing that?”

And who thought it would be a good idea for the server to introduce himself to the patrons. “Hello, I’m Donald. I’ll be your server.”

“Hi Donald, I’m Lee.  Want to have a seat?  Let’s get to know each other. Can I read your screenplay?”

What am I supposed to do with that information?  Can I stand up and call to him across the room?  “Donald, oh Donald, be a dear and bring more scotch over here.”

But the one that aggravates me most is when they come to clear your table and decide they have to do play-by-play on your eating habits.  “Wow, you really cleaned that up.” Or “you didn’t leave anything on that plate did you?”

Is there something wrong with eating all the food I’m paying for?  “Were you planning to serve the leftovers to someone else?  Just take the plate and go away……Donald.”

Wining

~ Lee Swanson ~ Leave a comment

You can tell a lot with a bottle of wine.  Not as much as you can tell after a bottle of wine, but close.

Say, for instance, you’re invited to someone’s house for the evening.  It’s the expected and accepted practice to bring a bottle of wine.  The expected and accepted reaction is to raise one eyebrow, smile quietly and say “well, thank you very much.”  This generally means that even though you don’t know wine from wine vinegar you need to pretend to know.

Some people see it as a gift and put in on a shelf in the corner.  That’s the last it will be seen.  These people we’ll call Receivers.  Others see it as a contribution to the evening and open the bottle and pour it.  They are Sharers.

A Receiver can become a Sharer, but not in the same evening.  Not until the next time he has a party, when he brings out the wine you brought him last time and shares it.  A Sharer, on the other hand, cannot become a Receiver, unless inundated with wine from guests at the party.

I’m not about to pass judgment on which is the appropriate response.  The problem, if there is one, comes when a Sharer gives a bottle to a Receiver.  The Sharer spends the evening walking nonchalantly in and out of the kitchen looking for the wine bottle he carefully selected and wondering why it isn’t open yet.  If he’s particularly bold, he will move the bottle out of the corner and put it next to the box wine that is being served.

The Receiver, on the other hand, figures that if the Sharer wanted to taste the wine he would have left it at home and drunk it on his own time.  It was given to the Receiver to do as he pleases and it pleases him to open it when he can have more than five drops in the bottom of a glass after passing it around to everyone else in the room.  Or he’ll take it to make a good impression at someone else’s party.  The Receiver, after all, usually chooses wine by the color of the label.

By the way, that’s also the extent of what I know about wine. And that’s why I’m a Sharer when it comes to wine. I’ve seen people snort, swirl, squint, swish and spit wine trying to decide if it is worthy of walking around with while they mingle. Whether they approve or disapprove, it all tastes disturbingly like wine.

Now if you want to talk single malt scotch or brandy, we can have an intelligent conversation.  I know, brandy is just wine on steroids, but in the process it can turn into a nice grownup beverage.  And if you drop by with one of those bottles and expect to have a glass or two, well, you better bring a bottle for yourself.

Painting

~ Lee Swanson ~ Leave a comment

It is fortunate my career path did not cross with a house painter.  I’m not a good painter.  It’s not that I dislike painting; I tolerate painting.

Because I am not a good house painter I need to be an exceptional house taper.  Blue tape is my friend.  I know there are those who say it is easier to go ahead and paint and then scrape the windows afterward.  And they may be right.  But when I’m done painting I want to be done with painting.  So I tape.

Today’s project was the frame of the back door.  Painting took about twenty minutes.  Taping took three and a half hours.  I laid out drop cloths and taped most of the house, all of the patio and half the yard.  This is just the way I paint, a method gained from painful experience.

There’s a certain knack to taping, if I say so myself, particularly when painting a door frame against a stucco wall.  The important thing is to establish a good seal to keep the paint from seeping under the tape.  If the tape isn’t tight you may as well not have taped at all.

So with all the self-assurance of a bicyclist with training wheels, I opened the paint can confident that I could get paint on the door frame, all the door frame and only the door frame.

I succeeded.  A primer coat and a finish coat.

Then I made the mistake.  The same mistake I’ve made before.  I’m anxious to see the results.  With paint-splotched blue tape all over the place I can’t really see what a good job of painting (or taping) I have done.  And I want to see the perfectly straight line at the edge of the door frame.  Want so desperately to see it that I start to strip the tape off before the paint is dry.  The paint on the tape is, I think, the last to dry.  In moments, the paint is on the hands I took such care to keep clean.  And the tape is balled up into one giant sticky mass of wet paint that leaves its indelible mark on everything within half an acre.  It’s as though the tape, having done its job to perfection, realizes it is about to be cast aside, receiving no credit.  And it strikes back.

If only I had been able to wait I wouldn’t have to spend an hour scrubbing my fingers, my hands and my arms up to my elbows.  Worse, I wouldn’t be taping the door frame next weekend while I paint the spots on the stucco where the tape, having become a paintball in every sense of the word, attacked the wall like an adhesive graffiti tagger.  Why did I bother taping?  I knew somewhere deep in my subconscious that I would make the mistake again.

I want to blame the tape, but I do blame the paint.  If only it weren’t so boring to watch paint dry, none of this would have happened.

Save The Date

~ Lee Swanson ~ Leave a comment

Stricken by drought and unprecedented high temperatures brought on by the global warming hoax, the future of the humble but beloved date is in doubt.  Already a brown color that is distasteful in anyone’s description of a fruit and rather badly shriveled, it is hardly what one would choose to eat unless stranded in the desert.  Now, even there the date is smaller, harder and rarer.

Native to the deserts of Northern Africa, the date palm grows in oases fed since biblical times by underground springs.  Now the springs are sprung and the date palm is falling on hard times.  This can only mean bad things for the date and those who make their living selling it at exorbitant prices to starving nomads—not to mention what it means to the nomads and lovers of date nut bread.

What’s more, the winds have changed and are no longer favorable for the date palm.  As anyone who has studied the date knows, male and female flowers are produced on separate date palm trees, forcing the trees to pollinate in public to bear fruit. This was once accomplished by the wind, but without what can only be described as palm tree artificial insemination, it now takes multiple “date dates” to produce a date.  Those who care deeply about the date help swab the receptive stigma of the female with the potent pollen of the male.  While this would seem to be embarrassing for the date palm, we have been assured the trees enjoy the process, and many people who travel great distances to participate in the ritual find it extremely self-gratifying as well.

Today we’re happy to report there is hope as an ever growing number of people are becoming aware of the necessity to save the date.

Plan now to be in the Coachella Valley on August first as people from around the globe gather to draw attention to this cause and save the date.  Join hands with date lovers from every continent at the Date Shake Shop in Indio and form what can only be called an International Date Line.

Save the Date – Save the Date – Save the Date – Save the Date – Save the Date

A Cause You Can Sink Your Teeth In