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1,000 Ways to Die (If You’re Stupid)

Dumb and Dumber

Dumb and Dumber

Note: Comments and sharing welcome (unless you have nothing good to say, in which case, keep your mouth shut.)

I’ve been reading about our national parks, otherwise known as “Scenic Places Where Idiots Go to Die.” I should provide a little context here by conceding that I am not a thrill seeker or a death defy-er. I am a rule follower and a safe-and-sounder. I view guard rails and bright yellow signs not as a challenge but as a helpful reminder: Here there be dragons. Because of my risk aversion, I will never be rich and famous. I will also never be a crumpled heap at the bottom of a 3,000 foot cliff.


Like the Little House books, only deathier!


Yes, he’s furry and adorable. But he is not your friend.

Weighty tomes like Death in Yellowstone, Death in the Grand Canyon and Death in Yosemite enumerate the many and sundry ways it’s possible to get yourself killed in these natural wonders. I bought Death in Yellowstone at gift shop at the entrance of the park and spent the rest of the trip afraid to leave the car. Yet avoiding grisly death would seem baby simple: don’t stick your face into the hole from whence comes the boiling-hot geyser. Don’t offer a grizzly bear a Hershey bar. Don’t back the DeSoto over the edge of the cliff when trying to get out of the parking lot. (All of these are real instances of death in Yellowstone.)


What part of this is hard to understand?

Stories of fragile mortality tend to begin something like these:

“The current was running fast the day the young man stepped into the river a dozen yards from the highest waterfall in the continental U.S. …”

“No trace was found of the missing hiker, other than his pup tent pitched next to a 900’ cliff …”

“He set off into the trackless wilderness wearing flip-flops and carrying a can of Diet Pepsi …”

“When the roll of film in the camera found with the mauled corpse was developed, it revealed he was shooting photos of the grizzly’s cubs from a distance of 10 yards …”

Dude! There's a bathroom in the visitor center!

Dude! There’s a bathroom in the visitor center!

It’s not really surprising that an absurd number of young males die by falling off the precipice they were urinating off of, because … men. (Insert eyeroll emoticon.) How about the guy who thought he’d give his toddler a good scare by pretending to fall over the guardrail at the Grand Canyon. I’m pretty sure she was indeed scared – and scarred – by the sight of him toppling a mile into the abyss. Also, stylish sandals are not appropriate gear for climbing Half-Dome in Yosemite (unless your aim is to leave a smartly dressed corpse).


This looks like fun. Let’s bring the kids!

Bizarrely, people seem to feel a need to come up with irrational explanations for such incidents. There’s a guy who has made a career out of postulating that the many dozens of missing persons in national parks and forests were kidnapped and enslaved by Bigfoot. The comment section of YouTube videos like “Top 10 Strangest National Park Disappearances” offer many additional possibilities: UFO abductions, government conspiracies, gateways to alternate dimensions.

Here’s another possibility: people are stupid and reckless.

In obituaries, the line “She died doing what she loved” is never followed by “crocheting an afghan.” In our culture, ‘tis deemed nobler to die young with the twisted remains of your wingsuit around you than to expire in your own bed at an advanced age.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I was very nearly one of the statistics so meticulously catalogued in Death in Yellowstone. In my defense, I had, as they say, fallen in with bad companions. My traveling buddy is an inveterate wildlife junkie who will go to any lengths for her fix.

(No trip to the Black Hills with her could be complete without the following conversation:

“Let’s do the Wildlife Loop one more time.”

“It’s 11:30 at night.”

“A lot of the animals are nocturnal.”

“Yeah. The ones that eat you.”


I was with her on the aforementioned trip to Yellowstone National Park. One afternoon, after a torrential rainstorm, my animal-loving friend decided we should take a side trip on the Old Gardiner Road, hereafter referred to as the “Yellowstone Death Trail.” Formerly a stagecoach route, it’s a narrow, one-way dirt ribbon of road that runs five miles from the Albright Visitor Center to the Roosevelt Arch at the original entrance to the park. Guidebooks helpfully inform you that, “Park managers typically close the road to autos during and just after wet weather.”

Yeah, unless you get to them before the park rangers do.

The draw for my driver was the promise of elk, mule deer, bighorn sheep, bison and pronghorn antelope as well as scenic vistas of the Yellowstone River as you climb the rugged hillsides and twist around hairpin curves. It must be beautiful, if you traverse it with your eyes open. I did not.

The thing is, this trail tends to get very, very muddy when wet. And for those of you who aren’t familiar with mud (city slickers), it tends to be very, very slippery. So as my friend white-knuckled the steering wheel, guiding us ever so slowly up the slick inclines and around the skiddy curves, and as the van’s wheels sashayed alarmingly close to the edge of the cliff edge with every turn, I placed my hands over my eyes and said Hail Marys. I swear to God it’s true. By the time we reached the end of the road (where a “trail closed due to wet conditions” sign was helpfully posted), I’d made my peace with my Maker – including asking forgiveness for the Very Bad Thoughts I had about the person who decided going this route was a good idea. Here’s what I DIDN’T see on the Old Gardiner Road. Pretty!

And the wildlife we risked life and limb to see? Obviously I didn’t see any with my eyes closed. But my traveling partner reported not so much as a chipmunk along the trail. Because even rodents are smart enough to stay off the Old Gardiner Road after a rainstorm.

There’s a big family reunion this summer in some place called Lava Hot Springs, Idaho. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be in the cabin crocheting an afghan.



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Tales from the Dark Side

12802924_sAt a recent check-up, I was discussing my insomnia with my doctor. “You should try doing something relaxing before bed,” she counseled.

“Does watching YouTube videos of people draining purulent cysts count?” I inquired.

Her response was equal parts disgust and astonishment: “You are the third person this week to tell me you watch those things!”

Our name is Legion, for we are many.

drpimplepopperAs anybody who spends even a minute online knows, gross-out videos are a thing, the dark underbelly of YouTube that counterbalances all those adorable kitten vids. The undisputed queen of the genre, dermatologist Dr. Sandra Lee, boasts more than 1 million subscribers to her YouTube channel, Dr. Pimple Popper. Her vids of excising cysts, popping boils, squeezing blackheads and burning off people’s unsightly growths regularly rack up views in the tens of millions. She’s creating quite a little empire built on pus.

Probably the most renowned – dare I say revered? – video is the classic “Operation Kill George,” which takes the viewer on a magic journey of discovery, from horror to triumph, from the profane to the sublime. More prosaically, it shows about a gallon of yellow-green goo being squeezed out of some kid’s back. To date, the video has racked up nearly 22 million views.

By contrast, my own most popular video, an homage to Bruce Boxleitner’s performance as Bob Beldon in “Cedar Cove,” has garnered a paltry 1,184 views. But then, Bruce does not extrude any bodily fluids in my vid.


Milking Marco: A Love Story

Also legendary is the saga of an older, shirtless gentleman named Marco at what appears to be a backyard family picnic. A woman – his daughter, perhaps; half the fun of these videos is creating a backstory for them – spends the better part of 10 minutes essentially milking the old guy’s ginormous back cyst. A crowd of children stands nearby, offering breathless commentary like a Greek chorus while the cameraman dramatically gags and retches in the background. A note of poignancy is introduced as the camera pans to a wooden cut-out of Bambi leaning against the back fence.


The popping video world is a fiercely competitive one, and its loyal viewers are discriminating and vocal critics. In the voluminous comment sections of these videos, I have seen zit pops dissected frame-by-frame like the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination, with fierce arguments about whether the cyst sac was fully removed or left behind to rise again.

Armchair poppers offer advice and pass judgment on everything from the lighting to the quality of the camera work to the audio (usually people screaming, cursing and vomiting). They wax lyrical on the breathtaking drama unfolding before their eyes: “Just when you think it’s done, the evil maw spews more gunk!”

The experienced popper watcher will know the lingo, can discuss with confidence the difference between sebaceous cyst, pilar cyst, pilonidal cyst, boil, furuncle, carbuncle, dilated pore of Winer, or a plain, old zit (We call them comedones, yo). Outrage is expressed at the absence of sanitary conditions (“Where are the gloves? Can you say GANGRENE?”) but it’s all for show; everyone knows that the drunken-frat-boy-with-a-pocketknife-on-the-tailgate-of-a-pickup-truck popping video is the very BEST kind, as it’s sure to be messy. (Sandra Lee often disappoints by excising an entire cyst intact, demonstrating that her skill as a physician is not matched by cinematography acumen; we’re here for the money shot: the eruption of goo.)

So what, exactly, is the appeal of these horror films*? Daniel Kelly, author of Yuck: The Nature and Moral Significance of Disgust (note to self; check Amazon for Kindle version), postulates that although modern humans have insulated ourselves from the sources of disgust that our primitive ancestors encountered frequently – e.g., rotting corpses, piles of excrement – we are still programmed to respond to them. Why so many of us respond with delight is not clear.

Another researcher, Nina Strohminger (author of The Hedonics of Disgust; who knew there was a whole branch of scholarship devoted to this?), suggests that “negative sensations are interesting, particularly when you’re in a context where they can’t hurt you. You’re probably not going to step in dog shit just for the experience, but maybe you’d click on a link to watch someone else doing it.”

Um. No. Actually, I wouldn’t.

The most persuasive, and simultaneously appalling, explanation comes from our old friend Dr. Pimple Popper herself, Sandra Lee. She notes that her viewers have reported experiencing an “autonomous meridian sensory response,” described as a “pleasurable tingling sensation experienced by some in response to certain sights, sounds, and smells — or put more bluntly, an ‘orgasm of the brain.'”

Wow. I knew I was a lonely spinster, but I didn’t realize I was THAT lonely.

Dr. Lee says a lot of her viewers find the experience of watching her videos relaxing, and often enjoy them before bed to help them get to sleep.

Ha! You see, I AM normal. Perfectly, entirely normal and not at all ghoulish or depraved. I’ve got a doctor’s note to prove it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to watch “Herman the Cyst Won’t Be Missed” for the 100th time. (The lighting is terrible, but the spew  is CHOICE.)

Read an article on this phenomenon here.







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When the Moon Hits Your Eye*

* (the world may be coming to an end)


J. Alfred Prufrock measured his life in coffee spoons; I measure mine in pizza slices.

As an American of the Boomer generation, many of the important milestones of my maturation have been accompanied by junk food, of which pizza has been the most prominent player. Much like an alcoholic turns to drink in times of celebration and sorrow, I tend to seek the companionship and comfort of pepperoni.

tombstone logoWe didn’t eat much pizza when I was a kid (this is perhaps why my memories of childhood are so sketchy; I had no melty mozzarella to attach them to) – pizza was not the sort of thing my meat-and-potatoes papa would identify as “food.” Occasionally, when Dad was out of the house, we’d be treated to this exotic wonder. As far as I knew at the time, pizza came in only one form – frozen and wrapped in cellophane – and was available in only one brand: Tombstone.

(All my life I’ve rather bizarrely associated pizza with the Wild West because of this brand name. While doing research for this post, I discovered that the familiar cactus-festooned logo of my youth was the cruelest sort of misdirection; Tombstone pizza was not named for the famously lawless town that hosted the shoot-out at the OK Corral. Nope, it commemorates the cemetery across from the pizza joint in Wisconsin where the brand originated in 1962. And now I am left to question everything I thought I knew about the world.)

It really wasn’t until I reached high school that I realized pizza was something that could be ordered at a restaurant; that, indeed, there were restaurants DEDICATED to the making and serving of pizza (I was a sheltered child). It was a big deal in the early 80s when nearby Alexandria got a Godfather’s Pizza. To be honest, I was never crazy about their style of pizza; the sausage pellets reminded me uncomfortably of dog kibble. But the place had one big draw: Bart Hoffman, perhaps the cutest boy in school, worked there. I can still visualize the night he gallantly delivered a pitcher of Diet Pepsi to our table, in exactly the same way Prince Charming would have, if he had worked in a pizza franchise.

Chaucer_ellesmereCollege was really more about pizza than anything else. If Bemidji State University had offered a degree in pizza studies, I would have summa cum lauded it. It would have been at least as useful as my actual bachelor’s degree in English, medieval literature field of emphasis. As it was, since pizza wasn’t even invented until the 17th century, I was denied the opportunity to contribute to pizza scholarship through my  proposed senior thesis, “Than Longen Folk to Go to Pizza Hut: Canadian Bacon as Metaphor in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.”

Did I say pizza was invented in the 1600s? That seems rather late. Surely the first thing Kubrick’s 2001 Odyssey hominids would have done, after beating bones against stones – and subsequently against each other – was create a tasty melted cheese and processed meat dish to celebrate. And since pizzas are round, it would have led by extension to the invention of the wheel. Instead, homo sapiens had to wait another two million years to develop a way to get pizza delivered.

According to the always infallible Wikipedia, pizza originated as a way to feed the starving rabble of Naples, Italy. True, some would argue that the ancient Greeks ate pizza, subscribing to the woefully misguided notion that any flat piece of bread with something on top of it constitutes “pizza.” (Some cultures are still struggling to grasp the nuances of true pizzadom; in Germany I was presented with something called pizza that comprised a square of crust with anchovies on it. No tomato sauce. No cheese. Cooked bait instead of Canadian bacon. Not pizza. And this, children, is why they lost the war.)anchovies

The Italians may have discovered proto-pizza, but it was up to us plucky, industrious Americans to import it, and subsequently export it to the world. It seems the 19th century Neopolitan contingent of the huddled masses yearning to breathe free brought their ‘po folk staple with them, and the rest of the huddled masses didn’t know enough to be ashamed to eat it. And so pizza began to make its way into the national psyche. The first printed reference to pizza on these shores was in 1905. However, it really took off when American G.I.s occupying vanquished Italy decided pizza was the ultimate spoil of war.  Pizza became a thing in the U.S., and its popularity rapidly spread around the world – which must have irked the people of Naples, introduced to this “new” dish from America that THEY invented.

But hey. Capitalizing on other people’s good ideas is what we’re all about. It’s as American as … pizza pie.

To celebrate American ingenuity and pizzan awesomeness, I present a dish that unnecessarily innovates on an already perfect food by making pizza, already a hand-held food, even more hand held. You’re welcome.

Tuscan Tomato Flatbread Pizza Turnovers (Okay. These are really just little calzones. Sue me.)




Tastefully Simple Sun-Dried Tomato Flatbread Mix
Tastefully Simple Garlic Infused Oil
Tastefully Simple Mama Mia Marinara Sauce
8 oz. can tomato sauce
Shredded mozzarella cheese
Mini or regular-size pepperoni
Sliced black olives or other pizza toppings of your choice
Grated Parmesan cheese



Mama Mia Marinara Sauce Mix

Mix together tomato sauce and 1 Tbsp. Mama Mia Marinara Sauce

Preheat oven to 375° F.



Use a biscuit cutter to make the circles.

Use a biscuit cutter to make the circles.

Prepare flatbread dough as directed on package, using Garlic Infused Oil. After allowing dough to rest for 30 minutes, roll it out with a rolling pin. Use a 4” circle cutter to cut out circles of the dough.



teeny little pizza

teeny little pizza

In the center of each dough circle, place a tablespoon of tomato sauce. Then add a sprinkle of mozzarella cheese, one or two pepperonis and a few black olives.

Fold one side of the dough circle over the other half, forming a “turnover.” Seal edges with a fork.

Brush tops of turnovers with Garlic Infused Oil and sprinkle with grated Parmesan cheese. Place turnovers on a greased or parchment paper-lined cookie sheet.

Bake 7-10 minutes, or until bread is golden brown; you may wish to broil them for the last minute or so to increase the golden-browniness.

Remove from oven and eat, using any remaining tomato sauce for dipping if desired.

Melts in your hand, AND in your mouth!

Melts in your hand, AND in your mouth!



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Who are you calling SENSITIVE?

disappointed baby

I’m a Highly Sensitive Person. That’s a real thing, by the way, not just what your mother calls you after she suggests you’ve gained a little weight and you start to cry. Our always reliable friends at Wikipedia describe an HSP as, “a person having a high measure of the innate trait whose scientific name is sensory processing.”

Um. Okay …

More helpfully, Wiki offers attributes of HSPs: “having qualities of low risk taking, need for quiet (usually alone) high motivation to avoid overstimulation, preference for deeply meaningful conversations, greater awareness of subtleties in emotional and non-verbal communication and a sense of being different and not the ideal.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

A website called reports that HSPs tend to possess the following “not the ideal” characteristics:

  • Easily bothered by sudden or loud noises
  • Troubled by disorder in the environment
  • Unduly affected by the emotions and states of other people
  • Deeply troubled by conflict or violence
  • Sensitive to foods, smells and environmental chemicals
  • Poor physical health
  • Emotional instability
  • Practical problems (difficulty making choices)
  • Relationship trouble

Nevertheless, the website assures me, most HSPs are “otherwise normal.” Hurray!

Apart from the item on disorder (squalor is my natural habitat), this is a pretty fair assessment of the World of Keri. Apparently the culprit is my amygdale, those almond-shaped bits of brain tissue responsible for feeling stuff. And wanting stuff. The amygdala is the villain in the following little melodrama that plays out in my life every single day.


My Nemesis

Amygdala: Gimme a cookie.

Neocortex: You don’t need a cookie. You’re fat already.

Amygdala: Gimme a cookie.

Neocortex: You know if you have a cookie, you’ll hate yourself afterward.

Amygdala: Gimme a cookie.

Neocortex: Seriously, you’re not even hungry!

Amygdala: Gimme a cookie.

Neocortex: You are SO not getting a cookie.

*sound of cookie crunching in my mouth*

Neocortex: I hate myself.

Amygdala: Gimme a cookie.

I gather that this overactive amygdala is also responsible for the paralyzing mortification – something others might term prudishness – that I experience over basic bodily functions. I firmly believe that feminine hygiene products should be sold in lots of 10,000 so you only have to buy them once in a lifetime; I have been known to circle the check-out area of WalMart for 45 minutes until a female appeared at the cash register, ‘cause there ain’t NO way I’m putting my Kotex on the conveyor belt for some teenage boy to smirk over.


Modern science is working hard to solve some of the problems of the overly sensitive.

For me, the “walk of shame” isn’t being seen wearing yesterday’s clothes after a night of illicit passion. It’s being caught exiting that out-of-the-way, single-unit restroom I seek out when I have Serious Business to do. I can read the knowing contempt in my observer’s eyes: “She just pooped in there!”

As a freshman in college, I accidentally passed gas loudly in front of a dorm mate and spent the subsequent four years avoiding her. Tricky, since her room was next door.

I think I inherited this brand of squeamishness from my Dad. The sight of a brassiere accidentally fallen out of a clothes basket onto the basement stairs was like an electric fence for my pops. Unable to touch the thing or even step over it, he was barred from his downstairs workshop until I came home to retrieve the offending article.

Something similar occurred to me one summer when I rented a basement room in my campus’s Catholic Newman Center. Upon bringing my basket of delicates to the little laundry room off the communal kitchen, I was horrified to discover a pair of the resident priest’s boxers left in the washer.

Cue the theme from The Exorcist.

Of course I had to flee back to my lodgings and wash my scanties out in the bathroom sink, as it was unthinkable to mix my unmentionables with any article of clothing that has contained a clergyman’s manhood. That must be, at the very least, a near occasion of sin.

Honey BooBoo

Yeah, Honey Boo Boo. We know.

An excess of empathy is another delightful effect of my disordered Lizard Brain. For years I haven’t been able to watch much television. Reality shows are a mine field, because I cringe at every awkward thing the classless denizens of those programs do – and everything they do is awkward. (The Bachelor? Real Housewives? Mama June? Oh, my God. Kill me now.) Game shows and sports competitions are also out, because I feel so bad for the losers. And for the next few months I may just move into a cave somewhere, because everything about the political process, with its inherent conflict and contention, makes me want to crawl under a table and assume a fetal position.

Especially this year.

Scut Trumpfus

Scut Trumpfus

Most of my life I honestly thought all people had these hang ups cognitive challenges. Isn’t everyone paralyzed by grief when Charlie Brown doesn’t get a Valentine from the little red-headed girl? Turns out, no, they aren’t. Because Charlie Brown is a cartoon and doesn’t actually have feelings to get hurt. But he would be heartbroken if he were real, and that’s good enough for my wonky gray matter. I weep over it every year.

sadMarsRoverI’ve learned that the capacity to feel empathy for non-living objects (and even abstract concepts, like mathematics*) is actually a thing: science calls it Einfühling. It’s what explains my desperate need for NASA to send a rescue mission after Curiosity, the little robot rover that continues its unrelentingly lonely trek over the surface of Mars and (OMG, I can’t even) sings Happy Birthday to itself once a year.

How can the rest of you live with that? Are you monsters?

There are ways, I’m told, of blunting the effects of the too-avid amygdala, through medications or “self soothing techniques” (I’m picturing myself sucking on a pacifier). I don’t know … maybe, in this increasingly hard-edged world, it is my role to take on all the feels so the rest of you aren’t burdened with them – kind of like John Coffey in Stephen King’s The Green Mile.

But when bugs start coming out of my mouth, I’m done.


John Coffey purging the bad stuff.

*I have no empathy for mathematics. Die, math! DIE

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It’s Not Easy Being Green

‘Tis almost March 17, and since I’m a quarter Irish (I know that’s true, because analyzed my spit and said it was absolutely so), I’ve decided to celebrate a little-known episode in my ancestral homeland’s history. With apologies to the Irish, and to pagans (who have the right to worship whatever they want, yo), and to ducks everywhere, I offer:

celtic book

“How Ireland Got Its Green On”:
A Folk Tale

This story, children, takes place long ago, in the time steeped in magic and mystery before St. Patrick brought the Christian religion to the pagan people of Eire. In those days, the native Gaels worshiped many gods derived from the natural world around them. But though they were a people of great faith even then, the whole polytheistic animist thing wasn’t really working out so well. For in antiquity, Ireland was not the verdant, fertile isle it is today. Instead, it was a vast, stinking swamp where the people had to subsist on cakes made from mud and pond scum, and everyone, from the tenderest babe to the most wizened elder, went to bed with wet feet every night.

As you can imagine, life was very hard (wet feet being among the most disagreeable states known to man), and it is from these dark times that the Irish developed that persistent streak of melancholy that shadows an otherwise cheerful people still today. Thus, when St. Patrick arrived on the island promising eternal salvation and dry feet, the Celtic tribes were inclined to listen.

Yet there were some who clung to the old ways. One of these was my own ancestor, Ádhamhnán, “the timorous one.” He was not brave in battle, nor clever with his hands, or even particularly bright. But Ádhamhnan (let’s just call him Ham) had one quality that made him stand out from the other soggy villagers: He had a real thing for ducks.

So great was his passion for these noble birds that he claimed tunnag lach, the Great Duck God, as his personal lord and savior. The fact that the Gaelic people didn’t actually have a Great Duck God in their pantheon was of no concern to Ham. Like I said, he loved him some ducks. The rest of his clan, who knew darned well there was no such thing as a duck god, mostly gave him a wide berth.


Ordinary duck eggs

One morning, as Ham was slogging through the swamp, he came upon a wondrous thing: a duck’s egg like none he had seen before. It was not the pale, dull green of most duck eggs, but rather a vivid, glossy hue that fairly glowed among the dank brown and gray clumps of the putrid-smelling bog.

Let us not dwell too much on where this object came from and how it came to be in the middle of an Irish swamp; God’s ways are mysterious.

“How blessed I am!” Ham declared. “Clearly this is a gift from Tunnag Lach! Now at last my clansmen must recognize the mighty power of the duck. And perhaps they will make me their chieftain!”

Ham carefully wrapped the magic egg in some rushes and brought it back home. For many days he kept the holy object next to the hearth in his tiny hovel, offering it gifts of finest mud cake and quacking to it reverently. He invited his neighbors and kinsmen to come worship it, saying, “Truly, this is the egg of the Duck God, and I am his chosen one.” And though the people had always known Ham to be full of duck excrement in the past, it was true that this egg he’d found was the damndest thing they’d ever seen.

And so the villagers began to wonder if Tunnag Lach were not indeed the one true deity, and felt a little sheepish for doubting Ham in the past. (Though by “sheepish” I actually mean less sheepish, in that they turned away from Caora, the All-Powerful Sheep God they’d pinned their eternal salvation on in the past.)

Duck God

Tunnag Lach!

Ham, now high priest of the Duck Cult, bid the people to gather up all the duck feathers they could find, with which they would construct a towering shrine to their new lord. (Ham wasn’t any smarter about architecture than he was about duck eggs.) They created a pile of duck feathers that was fully 20 feet high – and soon thereafter only two feet high, after the inevitable rain shower compressed the edifice into sodden mush – and placed the holy egg upon it. “Behold!” Ham declared. “Here is the magic egg that will give birth to Tunnag Lach, the great duck god who will dry out this land and deliver us at last from the curse of moldy feet!”

Why Ham believed a waterfowl would be inclined to solve their wetness problem isn’t clear; the guy, as you’ve no doubt figured out by now, had some funny ideas.

Anyway, High Priest Ham was just about to sacrifice a local kid who had the misfortune to be born with webbed toes, when suddenly a tall, imperious looking fellow appeared in their midst. It was St. Patrick himself. He had heard of the village’s blasphemy and came to set them straight.

“There is but one true God!” Patrick proclaimed, “and He didn’t come from an egg!”

“Lies!” Ham retorted. “For look here! It is the magic egg of Tunnag Lach. Let him who does not fear the Quack die by the Quack!”

St. Patrick


Then Patrick, who had been around the block a few times, stepped forward and grabbed up the sacred egg. “You’re a moron,” he said by way of righteous chastisement. “This is no egg.” And drawing out his knife, St. Patrick smote the egg. The crowd gasped in horror, then murmured in confusion, as the saint held up not the grisly remains of a Divine Duckling, but two halves of a pulpy fruit. He held one half out to Ham. “Take and eat of it,” he said, “that you may know the truth.”

41456730_sAnd so Ham did take the piece of fruit and bit deeply into it. Then he made a pained expression and a ghastly coughing, choking sound.

“That is your penance,” the holy bishop intoned solemnly, “for worshipping a false egg, and for leading others into error.” Then he addressed the crowd, which had fallen back in awe.

“In sorrow shall you eat this fruit … and in joy,” he proclaimed. “For one day you will learn to make tasty desserts with it.”

Then St. Patrick took the seeds from the fruit and cast them on the ground. And everywhere the seeds fell, strong trees sprung up and spread as far as the eye could see.

And that, dear ones, is how Ireland came to be covered with lush, green forests of lime trees.*


These trees, though indisputably green, are most assuredly not lime trees.

*Ireland is not covered with lime tree forests.


In honor of this miracle, I present a traditional St. Patrick’s Day treat. (Nobody in Ireland has ever eaten this).


Key Lime “Duck Eggs” (adapted from this recipe)




Tastefully Simple Key Lime Cheese Ball Mix

1 8 oz. pkg. cream cheese, softened

3 cups Tastefully Simple Twisty Grahams, crushed (I crunched them up in a blender)

4 cups Golden Oreos, crushed

¾ cup all-purpose flour

1 pkg. green candy melts

1 pkg. white chocolate chips

Sprinkles and sanding sugar (optional)



Using an electric mixer, beat together the cream cheese and Packet 1 of the Key Lime Cheese Ball Mix. Gradually add in the Twisty Graham and Oreo crumbs and flour until well mixed.

Meatballs? Nope. Naked duck eggs!

Meatballs? Nope. Naked duck eggs.

Roll the dough into 1-inch, slightly elongated “eggs.”

Place in freezer for 30-45 minutes

In separate bowls, melt candy melts and white chocolate chips.

Dip eggs into the green candy melts or white chocolate and place on a baking rack to allow excess chocolate to drip off.

While chocolate is still wet, sprinkle with sanding sugar, sprinkles (try shamrocks in honor of the saint!)


Allow eggs to dry, then drizzle with alternating color of chocolate.


Tasty Duck Eggs (low on protein; HIGH on sugar)





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The Devil Made Me Do It


My Dad’s hero

My Daddy was a gadget-lovin’ man. He’d see an ad for something in the back of, say, VFW Magazine, and pretty soon a parcel would arrive in the mail. There was the electric food dehydrator (our basement is a kind of shrine to Ron Popeil). One time he got a meat slicer that you stuck to the counter with suction cups; it didn’t cut any better than a knife, and took up a whole lot more room in the kitchen, but it was cool.


Gadgets fascinated Dad the way magicians did. He’d watch David Copperfield or Doug Henning vanish an elephant or jet airplane or the Great Wall of China, and he’d shake his head, marveling, “How did he do that?” (My mom, unswervingly sensible and straightforward, dislikes magicians for the same reason; she can’t figure out how they do it, and resents the feeling of someone putting one over on her.)

orange juicer

The Amazing Orange Juicer

I have an early childhood memory of standing next to my Dad in some big department store, both of us transfixed by the smooth patter of an in-store demonstrator. The guy was shilling knife sets, but that’s not the show we were there to see. As a free gift with a set of these knives, you got a gadget. It consisted of a short, curved blade that pivoted on a metal skewer. He showed us how you stuck the skewer in a potato, then turned the blade around and around until you produced a perfect coil of a potato – a Slinky in starch form.


But wait! There was more! You also got a very special bonus gift: an orange plastic device with jagged teeth on one end and a spout on the other. The pitchman demonstrated how to plunge the sharpish end into an orange and then, with just a gentle squeeze of your hand, pour orange juice straight into a glass. That day we went home with a new set of knives, which we didn’t need, and these two gadgets, which we absolutely did.

One Christmas all us kids got a new-fangled digital watch (this was the early 80s) that played “The Yellow Rose of Texas” quite loudly on the hour. If you set them just right, you could make several of them perform the song in a round. I can still see my mother’s mortified face when one of them went off during the consecration at Midnight Mass.

The fact that these treasures invariably turned out to be something decidedly less wonderful than advertised never deterred my Pop. His eyes would still light up at every new doodad with the same optimistic zeal that compelled him to laboriously transfer “You could be a winner!” stickers from one piece of paper to another as part of the endless ritual of Publishers Clearinghouse mail-ins. He kept sticking stickers and mailing them in until Ed McMahon presented somebody else with the Big Check on TV. And the next year, he’d do it all again.

itouchlessIt’s possible I have inherited my Dad’s useless junk mania. Case in point: my new robot vacuum. (I’ve written about my complicated relationship with robots before.) I’ve been hankerin’ for one of these things since the first time I saw one on a late-night infomercial. Finally, after pining as long as I could stand it, I ordered one. It’s been sitting in the back of my car for several weeks, waiting for a propitious time to make its debut. I knew my mother would strongly disapprove, as she says on an almost daily basis, “Don’t you bring one more piece of junk into this house.”

Party pooper.

Anyway, I brought the thing in on Saturday morning. As expected my mother was not pleased (perhaps because she’d spent the entire morning cleaning out a closet full of pieces of junk I’d previously brought into this house).

Full disclosure: the ostensible reason I bought this was to spare my 89-year-old mother the labor of having to drag out the heavy upright vacuum whenever the cats get into a tussle and leave tufts of black and orange fur on the beige carpet. The ACTUAL reason for the purchase was my desperate need to see these same cats riding the thing around the living room, like the videos you see on YouTube. I failed to remember, though, that those robot-riding Internet cats are robots themselves, or cunningly Photoshopped Chihuahuas – complacent and biddable in a way no real cat ever was.

The gizmo I bought is called an iTouchless. It’s a low-end model, because even I can’t justify paying $500 for a cat toy. I charged it up overnight and, after my riled mom had cooled down some, brought it into the living room on Sunday morning.

I set it in the middle of the room and let the cats circle it for a minute or so. They seemed interested, but not alarmed.


Making a new friend

“Apparently people give these things names,” I commented to Mom as I thumbed through the manual, trying to figure out how to make the thing go. I envisioned something like “Jeeves” or “Giles” or “Alfred” – something butlerish – but Mom had a ready answer: “Lucifer.”

This was either a prescient choice or proof of the old adage, “We live up to the names we’re given.”

It was time. I hit the “On” button and the show started. First Lucifer lit up and emitted a series of R2-D2-esque beeps that are just about worth the cost of the machine all by itself. The cats were intrigued. Then it started to move in slow, concentric circles. The cats … were largely indifferent. They neither fled in terror nor tried to play with Lucifer. Instead, in the way that cats are with things they don’t give a damn about (which is most things, frankly), they turned their backs on it and pretended it didn’t exist. True, Peep had to move a few inches to the left when the thing tried to suck up his tail, but even that affront didn’t really upset him.

Well, shoot. At least we got a cool, new vacuum cleaner, though, right? Hm. The slogan on the box Lucifer came in says, “Let iTouchless do the work while you live your life!” Apparently, the iTouchless people define “live your life” as “hover over the robot vacuum at all times to prevent it from destroying the house.”

With the unerring precision we’ve come to expect from 21st century robotic technology, Lucifer carefully avoided every speck of link, wad of cat hair and brownie crumb it was designed to vanquish. Instead, it crawled under the easy chair and stalled, beeping pitifully, until I fished it out. Next it tried to mount the legs of the rocking chair (perhaps it’s just really lonely?) and I had to thwart that forbidden love affair before both parties were irreparably damaged (emotionally, if not physically; these things never work out).

After 30 minutes, Lucifer’s battery charge was expended and the carpet was … not much cleaner than it was before. Still, it had provided half an hour of mild amusement (for me, if not the cats), so I’d say it was worth it. Likely I’ll now find a place for it in that closet mom was cleaning and start casting about for the next can’t-live-without-it toy. (I have my eye on a robot lawn mower.)

I think my Daddy would be proud.


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It’s a Litter Bit Funny

25299252_sWe Minnesotans tend to be humble; we’re so self-effacing, we’re practically Canadian. So it’s always a little startling to discover a native of the Land of 10,000 Lakes who accomplished Something Big. Today I found out that St. Paul native Ed Lowe invented kitty litter in 1947.

Okay, he invented it after he moved to Michigan, but still.

Kity-litter-brandApparently Mr. Lowe had his litter-al (see what I did there?) stroke of genius in the service of a neighbor, who had been using ashes for the purpose and ended up with sooty little pawprints all over the house. Back then, people used sand, sawdust, dirt and paper to attend to Mr. Kitty’s comfort. These substances, though, were messy and ineffective in reducing odors.

Katherine C. Grier, author of Pets in America: A History, says that similar materials were used in the 19th century, but people’s homes back then were already smelly and dirty, so they didn’t mind a little more stench. Ah, those were the good, old days.

For me, the most surprising part of all this is that pet cats had recourse to indoor facilities even as recently as 1947. Surely before the age of the cat-decimating automobile, both country AND city cats were indoor/outdoor. Frankly, if my own cats had access to the great outdoors, I’d damned sure expect them to take care of their business out there. Even the most ardent catlady must agree that providing the means for our furred friends to poop in a box, while convenient for Fluffy, is the least delightful part of cat ownership.

Recognizing this, and in no way influenced by the potential to make big money off gullible catladies, a robust industry in cat litters and cat litter accessories has developed. Being a gullible catlady, I have been conned into trying almost all of them. Here, for your benefit, is a brief overview.

Stone Age Simplicity

As noted above, there is the original clay-based litter first marketed by our pal Ed. It usually comes in a 40-lb. bag that you tear open and spill all over the linoleum, effectively making the entire room a catbox.

However, only members of primitive societies use such quaint and antiquated materials these days. It does have the benefit of being cheap. But in every other respect it’s a big, old fail. Doesn’t clump. Has no fresh, lemony scent. Doesn’t change color to help you monitor your cat’s urinary tract health. Seriously? This is the 21st century, people!

Poo Packaged for Your Convenience


Another option is clumpable litter. This is still clay, but a very special, space-agey type called bentonite. According to some site that purports to know such things, “approximately 987,000 tons of bentonite was mined in 2003” for this specific purpose. This raises the worrisome prospect that, like other vital natural resources such as fossil fuels, clean water and the ozone layer, earth’s store of super-litter may one day be depleted. The morning some cat lady scoops the last clump of Fresh Step into a plastic bag is the day civilization will fall.

(It’s equally possible that, before that happens the crust of the earth will collapse into its molten core under the accumulated weight of the non-biodegradable plastic buckets this litter comes in. Either way, when the end of the world comes, you know cats will be involved.)

Some experts have asserted that clay-based litters are unhealthy for cats, especially if ingested in large quantities. Seems to me, if your cat is eating its litter, it has bigger problems than what it’s pooping in.

The Circle of Life

14626514_sIf you’re some kind of hippie, “environmentally friendly” alternatives such as wood chips, shredded newspaper, wheat, even pebbled-up orange peels are available (Since orange oil is often the key ingredient in cat repellents, I’m not sure how this is supposed to be a congenial proposition for cats.). I recall a litter called Feline Pine that was being marketed heavily a few years ago with the added benefit of being “recyclable” as compost or a mulch around your ornamental plants in the garden.

Um … sure.

An Inconvenient Truth

37506678_sThere are new-fangled options that glitter like those sparkly vampires in the teenage angst movies. This is supposed to represent “extra odor-busting power” and “clump-and-seal technology.” I’m sure you’ve seen that classic commercial in which a catlady invites her friends over, then reveals she’s had a litterbox full of week-old excreta hidden under the coffee table all along. Her friends politely protest that they had no idea, suggesting the kitty litter involved here eliminates odors completely. But here is the painful truth, commercial catlady: Your friends didn’t notice anything different because your house always smells like cat doo. This is the reality of being a catlady, and it’s the reason your friends typically suggest you meet at THEIR homes for coffee.

It seems “lightweight litter” is the newest thing. “Lightweight” is advertising talk for “finely ground styrofoam that will kick up a toxic cloud of dust as you pour it.” It has an unusual texture that, in my experience, cats absolutely despise.

Doin’ What Comes Naturally11284906_s

The painful reality is a cat is likely to turn up its nose at any type of litter (even if it’s sparkly!) if offered an appealing alternative: the potted ficus plant in the corner of your living room. Easy and economical! (And let’s be honest, it’s not like those coffee klatch ladies were ever coming over again anyway.)


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A Brownie by Any Other Name …

old fashioned brownie

I am prepared to be open-minded when it comes to brownies. Except for the whole nuts thing. NO NUTS IN OR ON THE BROWNIES. Ever. Do I make myself clear? DO I?

I grew up in a simpler time. It was an era when your mom might say, “I made brownies,” and you would rejoice, knowing exactly what to expect: a long, shallow aluminum pan in which a gleaming, featureless plain of chocolate frosting rested. It would be just slightly set; a finger touched on the surface would leave a little divot. Touch it even more gently and you’d create just a perfect fingerprint. Many more crimes would be solved if the whole world were drenched in brownie frosting.


history lessonBeneath the frosting was a half-inch of wonderful. The consistency of the brownie was somewhere between chocolate cake and fudge. Dense and dark, it was the after-school snack in its purest, most perfect form. Plato’s philosophy of Ideal Forms would have made  a lot more sense if it had been about brownies, instead of shadows flickering on the wall of a cave. (What the hell are you even talking about, Plato? I’m going to go ahead and guess that Plato’s mom never made brownies for him. Probably because he was such a little smarty pants.)

blonde brownies

Back in the day, our one variation on the standard brownie was the “blonde brownie.” Basically it’s a glorified chocolate chip cookie. Which is in no way a bad thing.


It’s a different world now. Type the word “brownies” into the search box on Pinterest and you are presented with an endless catalog of baked confections with the word “brownie” attached to them. Keep scrolling; you’ll never, ever reach the end. Among the novelties listed one finds these truly alien species:

  • Lemon Brownies
  • Banana Bread Brownies
  • Neopolitan Brownies
  • Red Velvet Brownies
  • Apple Brownies
  • and even the absurdly decadent Toffee Caramel Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Brownies (which, I’m not going to lie, sound pretty damned amazing)

There are times when a woman needs to make a stand, to uphold cherished traditions, to fight back against those who seek to destroy our American Way of Life.

This is not one of those times.

Frankly, a country where I’m not allowed to put a layer of caramel in my brownies is not a country I want to live in. In this brave, new world of innovation, does it really matter if our brownies are brown, or white, or made with bananas? (Actually, that does matter. Bananas don’t belong in brownies; we’re not savages). Anyway, I’m pretty sure there’s a profound metaphor in there someplace.

And so, with that triumphant Declaration of Independence, I offer you …

Blackberry Cheesecake Brownies (adapted from here and here)

Tastefully Simple Truffle Fudge Brownie Mix
2 eggs
½ stick butter, melted

Tastefully Simple Blackberry Bliss Cheese Ball Mix
2 oz. pkgs. cream cheese, softened

¾ cup granulated sugar
5 eggs, lightly beaten
¼ cup milk (I actually used half-and-half, because I had some on hand and BECAUSE I’M NOT FAT ENOUGH ALREADY, OKAY?)
½ cup fresh or frozen blackberries, mashed

Grease an 8 x 8 baking pan and preheat oven to 350°F.

Mix Truffle Fudge Brownie Mix as directed on package with eggs and melted butter. Spread half of batter into the bottom of the 8×8 pan.

Using an electric mixer on medium, beat together cream cheese and sugar until smooth. Gradually add in eggs and milk. Add the Blackberry Bliss Cheese Ball Mix. When thoroughly mixed, pour half of the mixture over the brownie batter in the 8×8 pan.










The apparently shamelessly Photoshopped “layered” brownies that led me astray. Fraud! Fraud!

In some alternate reality where such things are possible, spread the remaining brownie batter over the cheesecake mixture.

FULL DISCLOSURE: While this sounded like a great idea in theory, and one of the recipes I consulted showed a brownie with a layer of cheesecake in it, anyone well-versed in liquid dynamics physics – or any human person who has interacted with the natural world – will tell you that you cannot spread a viscous substance over a highly fluid substance. You’d think I would have anticipated that.  In the end, I dolloped spoonfuls of the batter on top of the cheesecake batter.

Stir mashed blackberries into the remaining cheesecake batter and pour the batter on top of the brownie/cheesecake/brownie layers.

Bake for 50-60 minutes (I used the full 60), until set and brown at the edges. Note: Mine was still pretty jiggly in the center.

Remove from oven and allow to sit undisturbed on baking rack for one hour. Chill for 2 hours. Serve with tasty sauce (I used Raspberry Divine Sauce), fresh berries and whipped cream.


Though the brownie layer(s) are not visible in this photo, I assure you they are there. And delicious.






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My Thorny Crown


This is what wholesome looks like, yo.

You wouldn’t guess it to look at me now, with my grey roots and sagging bosom and well-marbled derriere, but there was a time I might have been described as reasonably attractive. At least I was tolerable enough to be crowned Miss Osakis in 1983 when I was 17.

Of course, the official party line of the Miss America Pageant Association, of which our dinky hometown pageant was an affiliate, is that these are not beauty contests, but rather a celebration of well-rounded, wholesome American womanhood.


Contestants were greeted by angry feminists with flyers on our way in to pageant rehearsals. Self-esteem builder!

To an extent, I validated that claim. I certainly wasn’t the most beautiful girl in the contest that year, but was absolutely the most wholesome – if by “wholesome” you mean, “never been on a date.” Contestants were encouraged to counter feminists’ complaints about the objectification of women by asserting we were competing for the academic scholarships, not the glory.

Pfft to that.

As I recall, the scholarship I won was $350, a piddling amount even in those days. Nope, I wasn’t in it to further my intellectual development. I entered the Miss Osakis Pageant for two reasons: to wear a pretty, long dress (I had no expectation of being asked to prom) and, most of all, to sing a show tune in the talent portion of the event.

This second point caused my parents some consternation. I’d never sung in public, never even belonged to a school choir, so they had no reason to believe I could carry a tune in a bucket. On the other hand, they’d spent good money on about 10 years of piano lessons, and though after all that time I still wasn’t very good at it, that marginal skill was at least a known quantity, less likely to humiliate the whole family. (My folks’ expectations for my success in this endeavor were carefully moderated; mom later confessed that all through the pageant, she prayed that at least I wouldn’t fall down. To be fair, I’ve never been very light on my feet.)

Despite my lack of vocal training or, as far as even I knew, talent, I had dreamed of belting out a Broadway Standard since I saw my first movie musical. My high school was too small to mount even a modest musical, so I knew if I were ever to fulfill this improbable fantasy, I’d have to create my own opportunity.


My big moment!

Long story short: One night in June, 1983, I pulled a shawl around my shoulders and tucked a basket of plastic flowers under my arm and sang my heart out, a rendition of “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly,” from my all-time favorite musical, My Fair Lady. Shocking even myself, I won the talent portion and the interview portion, and apparently scored well enough in evening gown to put me over the top. I have no doubt that I came in dead last in the swimsuit competition. Indeed, when I received the judges’ notes after the pageant (ostensibly to help me prepare for the Miss Minnesota Pageant, several months hence), one of the judges had observed, “Big, fat, heavy bottom.”


This was a gift from my sister in response to the judges’ harsh assessment of my ample ass-ets.

Thank you, sir, for that constructive feedback.

As noted above, our local pageant rather absurdly fed into the state contest. Back then it was held in Austin, MN – home of Spam, the queen of canned spiced meat. (Any similarity between glammed-up females strutting the pageant runway and tins of highly processed pork scraps rolling down an assembly line is entirely coincidental.)


Miss Osakis and Miss Minnesota. Spoiler alert: She became more successful in life than me.

It’s safe to say I was not competitive at this level, unworldly little dumpling that I was. That year’s winner was Lauren Greene, a statuesque virtuoso pianist whom you might recognize from her subsequent career as an anchor and correspondent for Fox News. Yeah, I fit in well with that crowd.

My most vivid memory of that experience is – wait for it – the swimsuit competition. Back in the day, there were strict requirements for pageant swimsuits: they had to be one-piece, fully lined and formidably cupped (no nipples, please). Imagine your mama’s bathing suit, assuming your mama was a teenager in the 1940s. And extremely modest. And Amish. These were not items you could pull off the rack at J.C. Penney. I ended up borrowing my predecessor’s suit. It was bright lavender and at least two sizes too small to accommodate my intractably “big, fat, heavy bottom.”

There are certain tricks of the trade in the pageant world. One is smearing your teeth with Vaseline to keep your lips from sticking to them when you smile! Smile! SMILE! for hours at a time. Another is affixing band-aids over your nipples in case the auditorium is unusually cool, and yours are somehow perky enough to overcome even the foam rubber cups (in which case, see your doctor). And to keep your bathing suit from “riding up,” there was double-sided carpet tape.

Basically, you stuck little squares of the sticky stuff strategically on your butt, then pressed the edges of the swimsuit to them to hold it down. Sounds foolproof, right? Alas, even 20th century technology had its limits. There must be some principle of physics, akin to the 1st and 2nd Laws of Motion, that explains the irresistible force of an elastic fabric stretched beyond its designed parameters.

What happened was this: When it came my turn to walk the runway in the bathing suit competition, I took one step on the stage and every carefully placed piece of carpet tape let go. This caused the bottom of my so-much-too-small bathing suit to spring up my a**, exposing a generous portion of naked buttcheek, dotted with wrinkled wads of carpet tape, to the 5,000 or so people sitting in the auditorium.

You’ll never really know what loneliness is until you’ve walked that long, long runway with your sticky butt on display, all the while trying to smile! Smile! SMILE!

I did not win the swimsuit competition that year.


Riding in a parade with the princesses. I later learned they hated my guts. Yay, sisterhood!

Anyway, despite this mortification, I honestly enjoyed my year as Miss Osakis, and was proud to represent my hometown. I got to wear several pretty, long dresses (as expected, I was not asked to prom), rode in parades and sang (mostly for dozing oldsters at the nursing home, but still). I even experienced my first kiss – albeit an unsolicited and deeply distasteful one – courtesy of a drunk Shriner who grabbed me and planted one on me at a parade. At least I got a little faux gemstone stuck to my forehead from that experience (it’s a Shriner thing, I guess).

I gave up my title the next year to the sort of girl pageants were created for: blonde, athletic, vivacious, the all-American dream girl. She played the timpani for her talent, which I can’t imagine went over very well at the nursing home, but whatever. Determining that this Platonic Ideal Form of the perfect young woman deserved better than the battered old crown that had been passed down from queen to queen since the 60s, they got Miss Osakis 1984 a huge, sparkling new tiara to adorn her golden tresses. (I’m not bitter. Really.) At least this meant I got to keep the old crown, with its associations of tradition and history. I take it out every once in a while, look at it and remember my brief, modest glory days. And of course, it comes in handy around Halloween time.


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The Mother of Invention

31352773_sWhoever invented bread was smart. Think about it. Making bread involves a series of steps that don’t seem at all intuitive to me. Wikipedia tells me that humans have been eating bread for at least 30,000 years.  It’s a little galling to think that grunting cave men were able to come up with something I’d have no idea how to do myself, if left to my own devices. I tried to imagine the set of circumstances in which some average cave person (let’s call her Cavewoman Keri) might figure something like this out.

22708846_sIt’s late fall, somewhere around 28,000 B.C.  I’m trudging across the Steppe with my cousin Oog, hunting and gathering. I’m irritable, because it’s hot and nuts and berries are scarce and Oog never shuts her irritating yap. Dumb as a mastodon, that one, but somehow she always ends up with the biggest hunk of yak meat. I think it’s because she puts out. Anyway.

After a few hours Oog and I decide to take a break and eat our grub. Our grub is literally grubs, by the way. We’re hunters and gatherers, duh. So we’re sitting beside a little stream in the middle of a stand of rushes, and Oog is yammering on about how pretty the tall grass is this time of year and isn’t life just great and I finally snap and say, “It’s a good think you love these weeds so much, because with all the lollygagging you’ve been doing instead of hunting and gathering today, we’re likely to have to eat this stuff all winter.”* To emphasize my point, I grab a handful of the seedheads and stuff them into my mouth.

Ugh,” I say, spitting it out after a couple of chews. “This sucks. Only thing worth eating is the bug that came with it.” 

“I don’t know,” Oog says, nibbling thoughtfully on a stalk. “I’ve had worse.”

Honestly, this girl would find the bright side of the inside of the cave bear that ate her. How she’s lived this long, I’ll never know.

I’m so mad that I pick up a rock and start beating the hell out of the little stack of grass on the ground in front of me. I pound so hard that the seedheads are pulverized into dust.

“Neat!” Oog exclaims, because she’s Oog. She scoops up the seed dust into a little pile.

“Quit fooling around and eat your grubs,” I say.  “It’s almost time to get back to the old h&g” (that’s how we refer to our day job, hunting and gathering). She’s not listening, as usual, so I scoop up a handful of cold creek water and throw it at her. Most of it lands on the pile of seed dust. And of course, that just makes Oog more excited. She stirs it up with her finger until it’s a puddle of white liquid. “Looks just like that stuff cousin Egah has been squeezing out of yaks,” she comments. I grimace in disgust; everybody knows Egah’s a pervert. Oog smiles at me. “I think you’ve invented powdered milk!”


Cousin Egah’s “special friend.” Every family’s got one.


I dip my finger into the goo, then my mouth. “This doesn’t taste anything like yak milk,” I growl, then blush as I realize I’ve just admitted to sampling Egah’s brew myself.

Meanwhile, Oog’s been adding more seed powder to the puddle and playing around with it until it’s a big lump of dirty gray mud. “I’m going to keep this,” she says, wrapping it up in some leaves.


What Oog does with her time instead of working for a living. Sheesh.

I just roll my eyes. Oog’s always doing stuff like this. Last week I caught her making shapes on the walls of the cave with wet clay. Gotta admit, it was kind of pretty when she got it done. But you can’t eat clay, any more than that lump of goo she’s so taken with now.


So anyway, we go back to hunting and gathering and yada yada yada, we’re back at the cave that night with the rest of the clan and nobody’s found diddly for fruits and berries and it looks like it’s going to be a long winter. Oog sets her lump of goo on a stone next to the fire and a while later I hear her gasp.

“Look at it! It’s growing!”

I look down at the pile of goo and see that sure enough, it’s twice the size it was. “It’s alive!” I shout and kick it into the embers at the edge of the fire.

“Aw, you’ve killed it!” Oog pouts and I’ve had just about enough of her for one day. I stomp out of the cave into the cool night air. Behind me, I hear the crowd chattering away. “Well, I’ll be damned,” comes the voice of my Uncle Crood. About that time, I start to smell something like I never have before. Something … delicious.

I look back into the cave and see that Oog has fished the lump of goo off the coals. Now it looks like a brown rock, and the delicious smell seems to be coming from it. It occurs to me that a person could put a piece of dried yak between two hunks of that stuff and take it with them to the H&G as a nice change from grubs, but before I can turn back into the cave with my suggestion, a giant sabre-toothed tiger jumps out of the darkness and grabs me by the neck. And so the invention of the sandwich is lost for 30,000 years.


The cat that set back the invention of sandwiches. Bad kitty.

My last thought, as he drags my twitching carcass into the weeds, is that Oog will probably get all the credit for this, when really I was the one who invented bread.


You’re welcome.

 Artichoke & Spinach-Stuffed Soft Pretzels (adapted from this recipe)



Featured Products


Salted Pretzel Roll Mix
1 cup warm water
2/3 cup baking soda
1 egg, beaten (for egg wash)
Coarse salt to taste (I used Himalayan Sea Salt)

Pretzel filling

Artichoke & Spinach Warm Dip Mix
1/2 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
8 oz. pkg. cream cheese
2 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled





Mix up Salted Pretzel Roll Mix as directed on package. Cover dough and let rise about an hour (this is longer than specified on the package).


Artichoke & Spinach filling ingredients

While dough is rising, prepare Artichoke & Spinach Dip Mix as directed on package, substituting mozzarella for Swiss cheese (unless you like Swiss cheese; then use that. Whatever.) Add crumbled bacon if desired.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Bring a large pot of water to a boil.

When dough has doubled in size, divide it into six equal pieces. Roll each piece into a rectangle.


Roll out dough



Spread dip mix along one side

Spread dip mix along one side of rectangle, then roll up into a log with dip encased inside. Be sure ends and seams are closed.


Dough logs filled with tasty dip mixture

Shape dough logs into pretzel shapes.


Ready for boiling

Gradually stir baking soda into pot of boiling water.


I think the boiling is supposed to give the crust a chewy texture. [shrug]

Using a slotted spoon, dip pretzels two at a time into the boiling soda water; boil for 30 seconds, then remove pretzels to a baking sheet.


Ready for the oven.

Brush each pretzel with a wash of beaten egg; sprinkle with salt.


So much delicious.

Bake pretzels for 15 minutes or until golden brown. Remove from oven and cool on rack for 5 minutes. Serve hot.

*approximation of stone age dialect






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