The Alfredo Experiment

Let the record show that Val is not a big fan of pasta. It is rarely served in her kitchen, and then only upon the request of her house men, with Hick being the sole one of those in residence at this time. It was easy enough to boil up some spaghetti, and mix together a sauce from Ragu and Save A Lot pizza sauce and canned mushrooms and minced garlic and hamburger and fresh-ground black pepper, with two packets of Splenda to cut the acidic properties. That's when all three guys were under the homestead roof. But to make it just for Hick...well...he doesn't get spaghetti very often.

However...

A couple weeks ago, I was trying to think up new foods to make for supper. Hick will never voice his requests. I have to spout out a list, and say I'm making an item, to judge his response. If he's not enthusiastic, I switch to another dish. This one, I didn't run by Hick. It's a pointless exercise, really. He always eats what I prepare.

I got to thinking about when I was working, and it was Teacher Appreciation Week, or maybe Parent Conference Night, when catered food was brought in. Pasta House was pretty common. Even though Val is not a fan of pasta, you can bet she elbowed her way to the trough (actually, the counter of the teacher workroom) to get her fair share. One item I enjoyed was the flat noodle with white sauce and chicken and peas and mushrooms. I'm sure it has a name. But I don't need a name to make it.

Of course Val doesn't make white sauce. She's not a Michelin chef. I don't know what kind of noodles those were, but I got the closest thing I could find at Walmart, which happened to be a flat egg noodle from the bottom shelf of the pasta aisle. I also grabbed two jars of Alfredo Sauce, because it's white, and I didn't know how much I might need. Plus, I got canned white meat chicken, and frozen sweet peas, and canned mushroom pieces and stems. Hick loves his mushrooms. So I got a big can.

I boiled the noodles as noted on the package, adding some butter and minced garlic to the water and a can of chicken broth. Once drained, I stirred in some more butter, the Alfredo, the chicken, the thawed peas, the drained mushrooms, and some shredded parmesan cheese.

That made a lot more than I expected. So we're eating it for several days.

I must say, this is actually a tasty dish, though not the noodle I was looking for. Hick has no complaints, and even declared it "good."

This did not even take a full jar of Alfredo Sauce. So the one that smashed on the garage floor was superfluous.

Pretty sure Hick will be fed this again, after a proper interval has passed from the leftovers.

Val's New Career: Saucebroker

Last Saturday was not a good day for me. We'd just returned from Oklahoma on Friday night, and I had to do some grocery shopping. I got off to a late start. The weather clouded up after I left home. Hick was at his Storage Unit Store, unavailable for grocery carry-in duty. While I was in the middle of Walmart (having forgotten my glasses in T-Hoe), looking for items that were depleted, like my favorite Chicken Bacon Ranch pinwheels for lunches...The Pony started texting me massive blocks of...um...text...about a scary dream that he'd been wanting to share with me. He's like Hick. He can see through the phone, and choose the most inopportune time to contact me.

I let him know that I might not be responding right away. "I'm in Walmart without my glasses. Respond later." Still, I could hear those messages chiming into my phone. When I got back to the car, and had loaded the rain-soaked grocery bags into T-Hoe's rear, I sent The Pony another text.

"Can I call when I get out on the road? Or are you busy?"

It would be so much easier just to talk to him, rather than type two-fingered on that tiny phone keyboard. And I could be on my way home at the same time. It was NOT convenient for The Pony.

"I'd rather you not call. Canker sore that makes talking hurt." [DON'T JUDGE!]

What in the Not-Heaven???

"Is it really because you're staggering day-drunk? Heh, heh."

"Nope."

Not that I expected that of The Pony. Genius, yes. But The Pony hasn't developed a taste for alcohol. I went on towards home, making my final stop at The Gas Station Chicken Store for my 44 oz Diet Coke.

"Leaving for home with my soda. Soaked like when we ran in Steak N Shake on our visit out there. It will take forever to get home and get these groceries put away. Later, I'll text you."

"OK."

"Rain all morning. About half as hard as on the trip to get Dad's TIP. I hope I can get over the creeks."

I did make it over the creeks, the big one just coming up to pavement level, and the little one already gone over and receded. I pulled into the garage. Sighed heavily. And took an armload of grocery bags to the side porch. Of course I had to dole out some cat kibble to the dogs. They're usually good when I set down the groceries, but I never completely trust Copper Jack. He might start foraging in my bags, or just pee on them to show me who's boss. He hasn't. But he might. I always bring the bags to the side porch, then get my purse and soda and mail to carry up the steps to unlock the door. Then I can make several trips out to bring those bags into the kitchen. It saves me some trips up and down the porch steps.

I went back to T-Hoe's rear for more bags. I had four looped over my right arm, and two in my left hand, when it happened.

"This is when I cry." I sent The Pony a text after the fact. And after the cleanup. No, that's not spilt milk.

It's spilt Alfredo Sauce. The checker had put TWO jars of it in one bag, along with a double-can pack of white meat chicken. She did not double-bag. The whole bottom of that bag ripped open while it was on my forearm. I was overwhelmed. After such a taxing morning, soaking wet from the rain, I now had a crisis on my hands.

I needed to get all those groceries inside the house, so the dogs didn't think they were a treat. But every moment I was out of sight of that Alfredo, the dogs might be licking it and ingesting broken glass.

I put the other bags on the porch beside the first set. The dogs had scattered, so I didn't know exactly where they were. Jack goes in the garage to look for the cats who occasionally get in there. He gets under A-Cad and I can't see him. I didn't want to close him in with the Alfredo glass. I got the keys out of my purse, and took a couple of the lighter bags over my arm as I unlocked the kitchen door. I grabbed the broom and dustpan from the laundry room, a Walmart sack and two paper plates for scooping glass, and hurried back out. Jack and Copper Jack were milling around the groceries, looking disinterested.

Did you know that Alfredo Sauce is virtually unsweepable? It's true. I ended up scooping it with the two plates, jar and all, into the Walmart bag. The remaining Alfredo did not go onto the dustpan well at all, making a kind of paste that hindered the sweeping of the glass. So I picked it up by hand, while stepping around T-Hoe to look at those groceries and dogs. I got every piece of glass I could see, under T-Hoe and outside the garage. I tapped the broom bristles in a puddle, to try and clean up the Alfredo so the dogs wouldn't want to lick the concrete. Oh, and in the middle of this whole process...I felt a little...um...indisposed...and had to run into the house (grabbing a couple more bags that I could juggle with the broken jar bag) and into the bathroom.

The dogs behaved themselves, and I finally got the mess cleaned up and the groceries inside. Of course I had to be extra careful with the bag containing my big jar of olives and a large can of mushroom pieces and stems and three bags of egg noodles.

Can you imagine the world of hurt I would have been in if my OLIVES fell on the concrete and broke? That would be a lot of bending to pick them up by hand.

It took 40 minutes to get my groceries in and put away. I was dripping with sweat on top of the rain water. I finally got to text The Pony about his dream.

But I DID still have a spare jar of Alfredo Sauce for my planned culinary experiment. It had to wait a week, though. I might share it with you.

The Write Shadow

Thursday, June 14, 2018

Let the record show that Val is not a happy camper. Not much of a camper at all, except when she's forced to rough it. Like now, at 8:47 p.m. Thursday night. No power. No computer. No internet. No lights. No water. No working toilets. No TV. No books. Just candles, pen (free from the counter of my credit union), and a mini notebook.

A storm rolled through around 6:30. I was happily typing a letter to The Pony on New Delly in my dark basement lair. The power flickered 3 times. New Delly ran repairs to restart himself. My Word! It recovered my untitled Pony letter document! No sooner had I typed ONE SENTENCE about the power going off 3 times, and put in the period...when the power went off AGAIN! Heh, heh. "Make that 4 times," I was going to say, like the true wag that I am. NO. Make that 7 times.

Yes, the power again did the on/off thing. No sooner would New Delly start running that black screen with the countdown to restart after an improper shutdown...than he would be improperly shut down again. I was powerless (heh, heh, isn't THAT ironic) to shut him down. Because first I had to wait for New Delly to come back on. Which he couldn't, because he kept being improperly shut down. He's on a surge suppressor. But I don't think all that improper shutting down was good for his health.

I grabbed my little flashlight that I keep at my left elbow in a pile of music CDs and Germ-X and paperclips in an upside-down light bulb holder. That got me out of the lair and up the stairs to the main living area. The rain was pouring down outside, but at least I had a bit of natural light.

I passed the time by having a not-tasty supper of a cold cheese sandwich, an individual can of Beanie Weenies, with an individual mini ice cream for dessert. And water that I could still get out of the faucet. The well doesn't work with no electricity, you know. I had one flush each from each of our 3 toilets..

Of course I tried to report my power outage to the electric company. That means I had to use my cell phone, because the house phone doesn't work without electricity. Seems like the old rotary phones used to, but not my cordless Panasonics. I had to use my flashlight to look in the living room closet for a telephone book, a 2009 being the most recent I could find. Since my Sprint doesn't work well in the house, and rain was sluicing down outside on the porch, I had a tenuous connection at best.

It took me 3 tries to punch in all my information and find out that my outage had been reported, 54 households were without electricity, a crew had been assigned, and no time of restoration was available. There was a major delay when I had to end the first call, and take my flashlight to look for an old electric bill showing the account number, since the automated system refused to recognize any of the 4 possible telephone numbers I could have used to link to my account.

I had the bright idea of driving to the end of the driveway to set the trash dumpster upright again, since I didn't want marauding critters or the Crazy Rottweiler or Killer Poodle to rip open the bags before the trash truck came at the crack of dawn Friday morning. Just one problem. T-Hoe was in the garage. Trapped by a door that doesn't open without electricity. Oh, there's a pull rope, but it hangs over T-Hoe. I used to have Genius climb up to get it for us when he was still riding to school with me, on the odd day that power was out when it was time to leave for school. This old Val ain't doin' any climbin' to grab a garage door rope.

The main storm moved on, and the sun began to set. Taking away my ambient light.

At least the sunset was pretty.

Hick was at an auction. He sent me a text to provide information he got from the local property owners' Facebook page. "There is a power line down at Buddy's old house it was on Facebook." Buddy's old house is two up from us. Just on the other side of Copper Jack's house. Funny that I'd not seen any electric company trucks go by, while I was sitting in the La-Z-Boy doing absolutely nothing.

I got out the matches and lit 3 candles, coughing often from their impurities flooding the air as they burned. I had a Cranberry, a Banana Nut Bread, and an Apple Wreath. They smelled a lot better than my supper. I was hoping they didn't heat up the house. Temps have been in the low 90s, and of course the air conditioner won't work without electricity. Nor the dryer, for my clothes that were sitting in the washer waiting for it.

At 8:15, I heard gunshots. Either The Purge was starting, or a lot of my neighbors threw in the towel and gave up the ghost. Lots of shots. Big booms. Like maybe a gun that could bring down an elephant. I guess people have to find a way to entertain themselves. I had the bright idea to write up a blog post in my little notebook. It was kind of hard with the flickering candle, it being in just the wrong position, and casting a shadow on the portion of the page where I tried to write.

At 8:45, I saw a power truck go by. At 8:55 it went back towards town. Further efforts to find a restore time (which necessitated a return flashlight trip to the kitchen to look up the account number again) did not give me any new information.

At 9:30 p.m., MY POWER MIRACULOUSLY RETURNED!

Too bad Hick had been at the auction. Too bad for me! Great for him. He didn't even have to experience the outage. If he'd been home, he would have hooked up the generator, to at least give me my New Delly and my TV and a light.

The next morning, I saw that our down-the-hill neighbor had experienced a tree malfunction. At least their limb didn't land on the power line. Or their house, of course.

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Friday, June 15, 2018

Let the record further show that our electricity went off AGAIN tonight. At 4:45 p.m. Right when I was going upstairs to make Hick's supper before he left for the auction. The only good thing about a power outage at that time is NO COOKING FOR VAL. Hick said he'd get something at the auction. Hopefully not Auction Meat. But more like a hot dog.

Hick called me on his way out of our compound. Over on the hill by HOS's (Hick's Oldest Son) house, a limb had fallen on a power line. Hick knows the local guy who works for the electric company. He stopped to talk, and found out the guy had reported the outage, and called for a crew. You never know how long that's going to take. And neither did the electric company's automated line that gives estimates for a restoration time, after you look up your account number and call them.

This time, it was back on by 6:07 p.m. And Hick had opened up the garage door, in case I wanted to escape in T-Hoe.

The Next Best Thing to Having Cents

Sorry, people! I tried! Tried to find pennies this week for the Saturday Centsus. The best I could do was a blue spot I noticed as I went into Casey's on Friday morning. Not a coin. Gum. I figured that out, because when I came back to T-Hoe, I was checking a text from Hick, and I stepped on it. The aftermath was not pretty, though it WAS colorful. Smelled like spearmint.

Maybe I was trying too hard. Sometimes, you just have to let go. The pennies will find you.

I don't know how much more let-go I can get than slumbering like the non-living. As you well know, I go to bed around 3:00 a.m. Sometimes later! I sleep deeply for about two hours, then nature calls. It's still dark when I get up (the first time). I don't turn on a light. There's a faint glow through the frosted french door louvers. Those doors face out toward Poolio's solar light, on the deck down below porch level. There's also a slight illumination from the living room, due to the kitchen undercabinet lights we've left on since the boys were still young 'uns. So it's not like I'm stubbing my toe.

Wednesday night (technically early Thursday morning), I'd been dreaming about a trip with my cousin who bought my mom's house. Dream-Us had gone to a charity function by car and by prop plane. Dream-Cuz was driving us back to the airport in a snowstorm when my mom drove up in a sedan. We put her in our back seat, and she said she'd just driven two hours (?) to make sure we got home safely. Dream-Cars were sliding off the road, and Dream-Cuz carefully went around them. We both commented that somebody had just stopped to help those people. The third Dream-Wreck we passed had people strewn a distance down the snowy road. Our car started to slide backwards, but Dream-Cuz got it under control and slowly crept up an incline. Dream-Mom had a conniption. "Go back! You have to go back!" She was quite adamant that we return to help those people. Dream-Us did not. Dream-Cuz went to the airport, and he and I got onto that little plane to return home. Dream-Mom did not accompany us.

It's just a dream, you see. Who knows what our minds are up to while we're sleeping? There were a couple of details in it that were in news stories I'd read before bed. About all I could gather from that dream was that apparently, even in my dreams, I don't really care about helping people. I was still thinking about that as I dark-walked back across the bedroom to the foot of the bed, on the way to my side by the french doors.

I normally fix my gaze on Poolio's solar light through the frosted french door louvers, and navigate my way back, following it like the North Star. This time, a glint on the floor caught my eye.

I have recreated the incident during evening hours, with the light on, to get this picture. Seems that Hick had done his laundry, and stacked a pile of overalls and jeans on the floor without putting them away.

Let the record show that I picked up my rightful dime, and laid it on the mantel of the fake electric fireplace on the wall by my side of the bed. In full daylight, I saw that it had been face down. I don't associate finding dimes with my mom. More with my dad, seeing as how we found them all over the house in the months right after he died.

I'm sure this one got away from Hick when he put his change on the dresser over by the bathroom door. I don't know why it couldn't have been a penny! He puts those in a giant red plastic Coke bottle bank. He does it with the lights on, though. Several hours before he goes to bed, because he likes to lounge around in his tighty-whities in the La-Z-Boy. So he had several opportunities to spy that dime and re-claim it, between unloading his pockets, trips to the bathroom, and walking from bathroom to bed.

It's mine now, though! A 2006.
_________________________________________________________________________

For 2018: Still Pennies # 46, 47, 48.
For 2018: Dime  # 9.
For 2018: Nickels still at # 2.

Since 2017 (the beginning), this was still Penny # 124, 125, 126.
Since 2017 (the beginning), this was Dime # 15.
Since 2017 (the beginning), this was still Nickel # 2.
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Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday #104 "I Saw What You Did Last Tri-Century"

Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday again. I have 150 words to convince you to fake-buy my fake book. Val takes a page from history this week, and gives you historical fiction revealing the afterlife of America's first President. I cannot tell a lie...okay...I can easily tell a lie. You'll love this one! Stop throwing your dollars across the Potomac, and get this fake book about the father of our country. It would make a great Father's Day gift, don't you think?

I Saw What You Did Last Tri-Century

George Washington is TICKED OFF. He has carried a grudge since childhood. A grudge against a former friend who chopped down the Washington family cherry tree. Oh, he saw everything, with that all-seeing eye. But George took the rap. Got his hatchet taken away for his trouble, too! Now that he doesn't have to be a man of character, George is bent on revenge.

With his ability to look at everybody who handles a dollar bill, George is seeking descendants of his arch nemesis. Once he finds them, his wrath shall be released. George will not stand for a foe to prosper. Not even in a boat crossing the Delaware. He's ready to sink his false teeth into this task.

Will George get his revenge? Or will he wig out and sign off on it? (135 words)

__________________________________________________________________

Fake Reviews for Val’s Fake Book

Richard Milhous Nixon..."Just like I am not a crook, this Thevictorian gal is not a writer! She has a sweaty upper lip, too. A sure sign of deceit. I think Thevictorian should resign herself to not fake-writing any more, for the good of the country."

William Jefferson Clinton..."I'm going to say this again: 'I did not fake-read the fake book of Val Thevictorian.' Oh, I would've given her a roll in the hay. She's my type. But I most definitely can't recommend her fake books."

Gerald Rudolph Ford Jr..."I am adopting a new attitude towards this fake author. I think we should pardon her less-than stellar efforts at putting pen to paper. Thevictorian is welcome to come to the golf course and watch me play. Any time."

Betty Ford..."I'll drink to that!"

George Herbert Walker Bush..."Read my lips: no new fake books from Thevictorian! I swear, that gal's fake writing is so soul-sucking, she could dim 999 of the 1000 points of light."

Barbara Bush..."I look more like George Washington that George Washington looks like George Washington! Yet Thevictorian didn't write about ME! From glancing over this fake book, I think she must be illiterate."

Franklin Delano Roosevelt..."Thevictorian is a dame who shall live in infamy! As a fake author, she has no leg to stand on! I propose a new deal, which shall allow me to declare a Fake Book Holiday, and shut down any fake authors I deem appropriate. Of course Thevictorian tops the list."

James Earl Carter Jr..."I have never lusted in my heart for one of Thevictorian's fake books. I wouldn't buy one if the price of it was mere peanuts!"
  
Ronald Wilson Reagan..."Thevictorian, tear up this book! I believe this fake author has been practicing Thevictorianomics, not charging tax on her fake books. Rather than achieving a trickle-down situation where more people can fake-buy her fake books, she seems to have only given us a watered-down form of fake literature."

Nancy Reagan..."Excuse me as I smooth down my red dress. Don't I look good in red? Now, where was I? Oh, yes. When it comes to Thevictorian's fake books, JUST SAY NO!"

John Fitzgerald Kennedy..."Ask not what Thevictorian's fake books are about...ask what's up with Thevctorian! If only she had been ahead of her time, we could have sent her to the moon, and saved ourselves from over a hundred of her fake books. On the brighter side...she wasn't around to sing Happy Birthday to me."

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis..."I tried to read Thevictorian's fake book. I really did. I was a book editor, you know. But unfortunately, Thevictorian's fake writing was all Greek to me."

George Walker Bush..."This fake book is an article of crass production. The best use for it would be soaking up floodwaters from a massive hurricane. Let me paint a picture for you. Thevictorian may have fooled us 103 times...shame on her. Fool us 104 times...we can't be fooled again."

Abraham Lincoln..."Perhaps Thevictorian could adapt this fake book into a fake play. I'd let her use my Presidential box to watch it from the balcony."

Harry S. Truman..."The fake book stops here! I'm making sure that Thevictorian is stopped from putting out any more fake books. I'll give 'er Not-Heaven if she won't!"

Hillary Rodham Clinton..."I had planned on having my own face on currency some day. And not something so deplorable as a dollar. I imagine Thevictorian will be sorry she didn't make this fake book all about ME. Accidents happen..."

Salvager VALi

Val doesn't claim to be an artist. In fact, if Hick bought a storage shed with the paintings of Val inside, abandoned by their owner, not even worth paying $50 a month to keep...he would throw them on his burn pile. Not haul them 60 miles to the city, to consult an expert who has appeared on Antiques Roadshow.

However...Val has a knack for making life imitate art. Some items in her kitchen this week were reminiscent of the Salvador Dali work: The Persistence of Memory.

I took pictures of my kitchen items separately. But if I'd been a bit more patient, I would have stuck one into the other, and called MY work The Indulgence of VALedictory.

Val is a connoisseur of plastic forks. She prefers to eat with them, having an aversion to the metallic taste and feel of real forks, and even washes them for re-use. DON'T JUDGE! Spoons and knives don't give her the same vibe. It's just the forks. Besides, they're free with many fast food meals, and Val has a stockpile of them from when she was routinely having the Hardee's Chicken Bowl for lunch, before she switched over to Walmart Chicken Bacon Ranch pinwheels.

Who knew that plastic forks are not as good for flipping items in a nonstick skillet as Val thought they were?

In another gross miscarriage of Even Steven justice...Val was dealing with a garage emergency (an upcoming tale all its own) when her carried-in groceries toppled off the kitchen counter.

Apparently, individual ice cream cups that have been riding around in T-Hoe's rear at 94 degrees (even though ensconced in a Cardinals insulated zip-top bag and covered with Val's purple quilted parking-lot duty-coat) do not hold up well to a three-foot topple.

Let the record show that Val tried to salvage the fork, but those bent tines provided an unpleasant texture on the tongue. It was a sad farewell. The out-of-focus ice cream, however, was still delicious.

Hick Can't See the Cabin for the Trees

When I was leaving for town Tuesday, Hick said that back-creek neighbor Bev was coming over to meet him at his new Freight Container Garage, to look at some lamps that she might want to buy. He was in a hurry to get over there, and I was in a hurry to get to Walmart, so we didn't have long to chat.

Let the record show that Bev's husband was gone to work when she came lamp-shopping. That is unprecedented! They NEVER leave their home unattended, because Bev is sure that the Stick Road Man is creeping onto her property and up to no good. Since Hick put in a surveillance camera system for them, Bev has deemed it safe to venture a half-mile away (as the crow flies, and the Stick Road Man creeps) for ten minutes or so.

Bev ended up buying $20 worth of Hick's junk merchandise. Two lamps, some blankets and old t-shirts that she says she uses for her cats, and assorted crafty stuff. She's Hick's best customer.

Hick had spent the morning working over at Bev's house, taking down a deck made of plastic wood. He said he'd do it for the materials, even though I'm pretty sure they would have paid him to dismantle it, AND haul it away. Hick drove one of his tractors over there, and left it and his trailer, half-loaded with the half-taken-down deck.

Hick called HOS (Hick's Oldest Son) to see if he would be able to give him a ride back to our homestead. HOS said he was down at the creek fishing with his boy, but for Hick to give him a call when he was ready. Being Hick...he decided he wasn't going to bother with waiting for a ride, and when he was ready, Hick started walking home. I didn't find this out until the afternoon, though, when I got back from town.

I sat down to chat with Hick around 3:00, before he left for the auction, and he started rattling on about his morning, getting stung by a hornet while taking apart the plastic-wood deck. Held up the knuckle of his bad-finger, bemoaning the injury. I told him he should have put a paste of baking soda on it, and he said he didn't have any. I pointed out the box on the kitchen counter, and Hick said, "I wasn't home. I was over at Bev's, and I didn't have a ride back."

It's not that far. Our properties adjoin just across the creek. According to Hick, he almost became a statistic. One of those lost-in-the-woods people who have rescuers searching for them, and are never found.

"I started walking on a trail. The people who owned that property before had ridden their 4-wheelers along a path. But it's kind of grown-over now--"

"Wait. Didn't you just follow the land? You know it slopes to the creek, and then our house is up the hill on the other side."

"I know. I started doing that. I was looking for my cabin. But the trees were too thick. A lot of big ones blew over in that storm the other day--"

"Didn't you look for moss on the north side of the trees? Moss grows on the north side or our garage! All you had to do was keep going west."

"No, I didn't think to look for moss. I just kept going, looking for the cabin. I see how people get turned around in the woods! I came out on [Copper Jack's Human Daddy's] property. I saw his NO TRESPASSING signs." [Let the record show that Copper Jack's Human Daddy routinely poaches bow-hunts deer and turkey out of season on our property, WITH our permission, but restricts his own against trespassers.]

"At least you knew where you were."

"Yeah, I worked my way over until I saw my A-frame."

"But you had started out, thinking you would end up at your Creekside Cabin?"

"Yeah. I was a little bit off."

I'd say so. That Creekside Cabin is on our other 10 acres that adjoins the 10 acres where the homestead is located.