http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
2/20/04
When I got home Train Boy and I warmed our toes in front of the living room TV. He turned it to Cartoon Network, and knowing what was coming on, asked me if I liked Hotwheels. "Hotwheels are fast, they drive like Mom does." In no time at all we saw Hotwheels being driven at 300 mph, wheelies, jumps, spins- the laws of physics and common sense were suspended. He equates that with his Mom's driving. So it isn't just me.
Friday, February 20, 2004
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Lunch, Spit, and Butts
Okay, why wait. Here's one that's a little more fun. It's recounting lunch with the wife and kids recently.
We gave the kids a choice of where to eat lunch after church. As they've done so often lately they chose Hy-Vee. They have their reasons. Ms. Pikachu loves crab Rangoon and claims all of them for herself. Holy Wife and Train Boy don't want theirs anyway so it's an arrangement that really works.
Trainboy just wants something served with noodles. He thinks nothing is better than slurping up noodles. Superwife just likes Chinese anything so it works for her.
While everybody else got his or her food in the Chinese Express area, I got my conventional food in the conventional area. The woman behind the counter laughed and said she didn't even need the kids to tell her what I was getting anymore, she already knew. All right, I'm in a rut, but it's only because I like the rut- meatloaf, green beans, au gratin potatoes, and pea salad. Sorry, I just do.
While eating, Miss Pikachu made a great display of smelling her food. She declared, It smells like spit! Dear God. The Super Mom protested, Spit does not smell. With great enthusiasm, way too much for the subject matter, Ms. Pikachu explained, "Sure it does. Haven't you ever bit something, or licked something, and gone back to it later and noticed it smells?" I wasn't going to argue because I agreed with her. Not that I was going to admit it, because I know who can make me happy whether she can smell spit or not.
It wasn't long before the conversation got positively surreal. The SuperWife casually observed, "The butt holds both ends of a chicken together." What? I tried to understand it- this undecipherable wisdom. No fortune cookie had been opened, so it wasn't some bizarre Chinaman's idea of profound. But it couldn't have anything to do with the chicken almond they were eating could it? I couldn't see how. She was raised on a farm and helped raise and kill chickens, but good Lord how does anything like that apply? The kids looked like she'd just uttered words handed down from Mt. Sinai. The suspense was killing me; I had to know.
"Would you mind telling me what you mean by, "The butt holds two ends of a chicken together?"" She looked at me in wide-eyed amazement. All three of them started to laugh. I was obviously not in on the joke. When the laughter finally died down she explained, "What I said was, "A "but" holds two ends of a sentence together."" Oh. Having bad hearing can get you a laugh now and then. The kids are probably going to think I'm weird though.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Okay, why wait. Here's one that's a little more fun. It's recounting lunch with the wife and kids recently.
We gave the kids a choice of where to eat lunch after church. As they've done so often lately they chose Hy-Vee. They have their reasons. Ms. Pikachu loves crab Rangoon and claims all of them for herself. Holy Wife and Train Boy don't want theirs anyway so it's an arrangement that really works.
Trainboy just wants something served with noodles. He thinks nothing is better than slurping up noodles. Superwife just likes Chinese anything so it works for her.
While everybody else got his or her food in the Chinese Express area, I got my conventional food in the conventional area. The woman behind the counter laughed and said she didn't even need the kids to tell her what I was getting anymore, she already knew. All right, I'm in a rut, but it's only because I like the rut- meatloaf, green beans, au gratin potatoes, and pea salad. Sorry, I just do.
While eating, Miss Pikachu made a great display of smelling her food. She declared, It smells like spit! Dear God. The Super Mom protested, Spit does not smell. With great enthusiasm, way too much for the subject matter, Ms. Pikachu explained, "Sure it does. Haven't you ever bit something, or licked something, and gone back to it later and noticed it smells?" I wasn't going to argue because I agreed with her. Not that I was going to admit it, because I know who can make me happy whether she can smell spit or not.
It wasn't long before the conversation got positively surreal. The SuperWife casually observed, "The butt holds both ends of a chicken together." What? I tried to understand it- this undecipherable wisdom. No fortune cookie had been opened, so it wasn't some bizarre Chinaman's idea of profound. But it couldn't have anything to do with the chicken almond they were eating could it? I couldn't see how. She was raised on a farm and helped raise and kill chickens, but good Lord how does anything like that apply? The kids looked like she'd just uttered words handed down from Mt. Sinai. The suspense was killing me; I had to know.
"Would you mind telling me what you mean by, "The butt holds two ends of a chicken together?"" She looked at me in wide-eyed amazement. All three of them started to laugh. I was obviously not in on the joke. When the laughter finally died down she explained, "What I said was, "A "but" holds two ends of a sentence together."" Oh. Having bad hearing can get you a laugh now and then. The kids are probably going to think I'm weird though.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Apparently the audiologist did not fail completely. My older sister tells me she remembers our parents getting a call from the school informing them I might have problems but they should get a second opinion. The folks were distressed. And they did nothing, or at least they chose denial or wishful thinking.
Considering the number of times I had difficulty in class, it would have been a lot better if they just told me. As it was, I continued to make mistakes that made me feel inadequate academically and socially. Apparently my teachers were not informed. I don’t remember any teacher making any adjustment to accommodate me. We were always seated alphabetically and I always wound up in the back half of the class. Oh well. It’s over and done with.
Looking back at my childhood I have always remembered things that just didn’t seem quite right and told myself, “I am not going to do that to my kids.” I have managed to hold to it pretty well, and made my own mistakes instead. I’m sure the wife and kids could tell you all about them.
And I think “Sink or swim” is a fine philosophy as long as you’re not sinking.
Enough of self-absorbed stuff. Tomorrow will be fun again- Jello, movie reviews, the kids driving me nuts, maybe all of them.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Considering the number of times I had difficulty in class, it would have been a lot better if they just told me. As it was, I continued to make mistakes that made me feel inadequate academically and socially. Apparently my teachers were not informed. I don’t remember any teacher making any adjustment to accommodate me. We were always seated alphabetically and I always wound up in the back half of the class. Oh well. It’s over and done with.
Looking back at my childhood I have always remembered things that just didn’t seem quite right and told myself, “I am not going to do that to my kids.” I have managed to hold to it pretty well, and made my own mistakes instead. I’m sure the wife and kids could tell you all about them.
And I think “Sink or swim” is a fine philosophy as long as you’re not sinking.
Enough of self-absorbed stuff. Tomorrow will be fun again- Jello, movie reviews, the kids driving me nuts, maybe all of them.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
2/18
Warning- this is not a ‘happy’ post
As I neared the end of the workday, in the quiet after the public was gone, I couldn’t help noticing ear noises. I never gave them a second thought until a claimant called up a few weeks ago and complained his brain tumor was giving him ear noises. Having to listen to them made me wonder if my tumor had actually announced itself long before it was obvious.
Think. The first really unusual one was in tenth grade English class. From out of nowhere came the sound of a clarinet and I was pretty sure it was an F-flat for some reason. I would bet it was the brain tumor’s coy announcement though.
Since then there have been several instances of hearing a tone. They were always odd, but never particularly significant. Farther back…?
The strongest hearing-related memory was early primary school. Every couple of years a guy would come around and test all the kids hearing. He was probably early thirties, very business-like with a Marine buzz-cut. Prior years testing had been okay. But this year things changed.
Okay, just extend a finger when you hear a sound. Sometimes I thought I heard a sound, but wasn’t sure because it was lost in static. Depending on how sure I was I extended a finger. Other times I’d hear a sound and it just went on and on- the finger stayed up.
The tester only got more and more exasperated. He was sure I was messing with him and wanted me to stop. He said we were going to do it again.
Swallowed hard, sat very still, closed my eyes, and alright, I’ll try to do better. I strain to hear better- nothing changes. I’m listening just as hard as I can. I’m still struggling with the tones, but I can hear him getting angrier. Do better, have to do better. Just listen, just listen. It never gets any better. He’s sure I’m playing games, and I don’t know what else to do. I’ve gotten an adult angry with me and I just don’t know what to do.
He told me to sit in the corner and watch the next kid get tested. He worked his machine, the girl raised her finger to his satisfaction and she was out of there in a couple of minutes. It was amazing, it was so easy for her. Perhaps assuming I was properly instructed by example, or properly embarrassed, he had me sit down again. It was the same thing all over again.
Furious, but apparently unable to think of any other way to deal with me, he sent me back to class. Everyone in class looked at me like there must be something wrong with me to come back out of order.
Recalling this made me cry. I was back on the chair, desperately trying to hear, unable to do it. Making that guy angry again. And I wanted to hold that scared little boy and tell him even if it was never all okay it wasn’t his fault and he was still a good boy. It's hard to read and type when you're crying. It was time to go home.
And I’m crying again.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Warning- this is not a ‘happy’ post
As I neared the end of the workday, in the quiet after the public was gone, I couldn’t help noticing ear noises. I never gave them a second thought until a claimant called up a few weeks ago and complained his brain tumor was giving him ear noises. Having to listen to them made me wonder if my tumor had actually announced itself long before it was obvious.
Think. The first really unusual one was in tenth grade English class. From out of nowhere came the sound of a clarinet and I was pretty sure it was an F-flat for some reason. I would bet it was the brain tumor’s coy announcement though.
Since then there have been several instances of hearing a tone. They were always odd, but never particularly significant. Farther back…?
The strongest hearing-related memory was early primary school. Every couple of years a guy would come around and test all the kids hearing. He was probably early thirties, very business-like with a Marine buzz-cut. Prior years testing had been okay. But this year things changed.
Okay, just extend a finger when you hear a sound. Sometimes I thought I heard a sound, but wasn’t sure because it was lost in static. Depending on how sure I was I extended a finger. Other times I’d hear a sound and it just went on and on- the finger stayed up.
The tester only got more and more exasperated. He was sure I was messing with him and wanted me to stop. He said we were going to do it again.
Swallowed hard, sat very still, closed my eyes, and alright, I’ll try to do better. I strain to hear better- nothing changes. I’m listening just as hard as I can. I’m still struggling with the tones, but I can hear him getting angrier. Do better, have to do better. Just listen, just listen. It never gets any better. He’s sure I’m playing games, and I don’t know what else to do. I’ve gotten an adult angry with me and I just don’t know what to do.
He told me to sit in the corner and watch the next kid get tested. He worked his machine, the girl raised her finger to his satisfaction and she was out of there in a couple of minutes. It was amazing, it was so easy for her. Perhaps assuming I was properly instructed by example, or properly embarrassed, he had me sit down again. It was the same thing all over again.
Furious, but apparently unable to think of any other way to deal with me, he sent me back to class. Everyone in class looked at me like there must be something wrong with me to come back out of order.
Recalling this made me cry. I was back on the chair, desperately trying to hear, unable to do it. Making that guy angry again. And I wanted to hold that scared little boy and tell him even if it was never all okay it wasn’t his fault and he was still a good boy. It's hard to read and type when you're crying. It was time to go home.
And I’m crying again.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
2/17/04 First Post
Oddly enough, there was a reaction to the Jell-O piece. Donna, a lady who works next-door to our office came by. As she walked by where I was stationed she slapped ‘The Joy of Jell-O’ on the counter. What a surprise. She reads my stuff and still talks to me. Thank you Donna.
A quick flip through the book and I was impressed. I am ready to do Jell-O now. There are eighty-six pages to do. It looks like the only thing you can’t do with Jell-O is fry it. You can cream it, drink it, cake it, pie it, mold it, flake it. Jell-O is only limited by our imaginations. It wouldn’t be surprising if there is a bizarre sect that devotes itself to better life through Jell-O. Be one with the Jell-O. Be the Jell-O. My gut doesn’t count.
No fooling, in my possession is the Jell-O Bible as brought to us by the prophet General Foods. We are ready. Bring on the funerals. We will show everyone the Way of the True Jell-O.
2/17/04 Second Post
Well this is kind of morbid. The wife told me there’s been another death- she’s already signed us up for Jell-O. Let me be clear here- I did not pray for anyone’s death, specifically or generally. As surely as “There’s always room for Jell-O” there is also always time for it. I am not the Grim Reaper swinging a jiggler.
Come Friday though, I expect to impress the little old ladies again.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Oddly enough, there was a reaction to the Jell-O piece. Donna, a lady who works next-door to our office came by. As she walked by where I was stationed she slapped ‘The Joy of Jell-O’ on the counter. What a surprise. She reads my stuff and still talks to me. Thank you Donna.
A quick flip through the book and I was impressed. I am ready to do Jell-O now. There are eighty-six pages to do. It looks like the only thing you can’t do with Jell-O is fry it. You can cream it, drink it, cake it, pie it, mold it, flake it. Jell-O is only limited by our imaginations. It wouldn’t be surprising if there is a bizarre sect that devotes itself to better life through Jell-O. Be one with the Jell-O. Be the Jell-O. My gut doesn’t count.
No fooling, in my possession is the Jell-O Bible as brought to us by the prophet General Foods. We are ready. Bring on the funerals. We will show everyone the Way of the True Jell-O.
2/17/04 Second Post
Well this is kind of morbid. The wife told me there’s been another death- she’s already signed us up for Jell-O. Let me be clear here- I did not pray for anyone’s death, specifically or generally. As surely as “There’s always room for Jell-O” there is also always time for it. I am not the Grim Reaper swinging a jiggler.
Come Friday though, I expect to impress the little old ladies again.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Monday, February 16, 2004
2/15 First Post
Somebody died. That’s not surprising- obituaries are printed every day. The difference is that somebody died who was a member of our church. The difference is because the Holy Wife is a Deaconess who is in charge of putting together any luncheons, or whatever, at the church after the funeral. The family wants a luncheon.
She called the other Deaconesses to arms, or ovens, whatever the case may be. Most quickly volunteered to bring a cake. Some volunteered to bring a Jell-O salad- but not enough. She asked one woman to bring Jell-O and was told, “I do cakes, I don’t do Jell-O.” Did Nancy Reagan have a “Just Say No To Jell-O” campaign? It was kind of silly to refuse on those grounds, but that’s okay, it’s all-volunteer, nobody is encouraged to do anything that’s illegal or offensive to their sensibilities.
So the Holy Wife looks at me and says, “I’m short one Jell-O salad. Could you make one for me tonight?” Panic. The pulse races. The adrenaline pumps. No. I have never made Jell-O in my life. No I can’t. I don’t do Jell-O I do pie. But can I refuse the Super-Wife? I cannot. Sure, no problem. I love her more than Nancy Reagan, and it won’t do the kids any good to see their Dad cower from Jell-O. It’s time to start sweating over Jell-O.
2/15 Second Post
I fell asleep again and feel pretty good after a five-hour nap. Unfortunately I had no insightful dreams about Jell-O. Too much time was spent looking through cookbooks and the Internet. Surely there must be a Jell-O recipe like I want. But I cannot find one. Then comes a realization like the brightest dawn- I can call my sister. This would be the most elementary problem for her.
She doesn’t get too artsy. She says I basically have two options. Just make the Jell-O, add the fruit cocktail, and after it jells put a layer of whipped cream over it. Or wait till it becomes thick and beat the whipped cream into it. Ever the straight shooter she basically tells me to quit screwing around and get it done. The easiest way is the first.
I decided that no matter how I did the Jell-O I'd do it wrong- that's just the way it is. So I waited till she was scheduled to be off and started boiling water. If she got home late, like usual, she'd get the Jell-O, and whipped cream in layers. If she got home on time, she'd get to make a choice. She got home on schedule.
I told her I was going to make the Jell-o, add the fruit and she could put the whipped cream on top in the morning after it had cooled. Of course, that was wrong. She wanted the whipped cream and Jell-O mixed together. I told her we'd have to wait until it had at least cooled somewhat. She knew better. That’s what she gets for reading the instructions.
After dissolving the Jell-O I added the juice from the fruit cocktail. She asked me what else I was going to use for fluid, I told her 7-Up. She said there was some chilled in the fridge, got it, and I added a cup. She knew from the instructions we could use ice cubes to speed the cooling. She got some ice cubes in the measuring cup and I topped it off with more 7-up.
It wasn't long that it started to thicken. She wanted to add the whipped cream but I protested. It seemed to me that it wasn't nearly thick enough to take a beating and stay beaten- it would just dissolve into a milky-Jell-O-fruit mass. But we were not waiting. In went the whipped cream, still frozen. It floated like an iceberg. A glimmer of hope- maybe it would help cool it more. Nah, the mass of whipped cream is marginal compared to the pot of Jell-O. I went from hopeful to doubter to Thomas-had-nothing-on-me.
I held the creamberg down and shaved off its sides till it looked like pack ice on a red sea. Then the wife went to work with the electric beater. Apparently in touch with her male side- she really likes to play with her kitchen power tools. In no time at all it was beaten into dense foam.
We poured it out into a large pan and added the fruit. It seemed to me that the fruit and remaining syrup would just settle to the bottom. The bottom fruit layer wouldn't be gelled at all. It would be a runny mess. It would not be good. No matter, it's out of my hands and into the refrigerator.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Somebody died. That’s not surprising- obituaries are printed every day. The difference is that somebody died who was a member of our church. The difference is because the Holy Wife is a Deaconess who is in charge of putting together any luncheons, or whatever, at the church after the funeral. The family wants a luncheon.
She called the other Deaconesses to arms, or ovens, whatever the case may be. Most quickly volunteered to bring a cake. Some volunteered to bring a Jell-O salad- but not enough. She asked one woman to bring Jell-O and was told, “I do cakes, I don’t do Jell-O.” Did Nancy Reagan have a “Just Say No To Jell-O” campaign? It was kind of silly to refuse on those grounds, but that’s okay, it’s all-volunteer, nobody is encouraged to do anything that’s illegal or offensive to their sensibilities.
So the Holy Wife looks at me and says, “I’m short one Jell-O salad. Could you make one for me tonight?” Panic. The pulse races. The adrenaline pumps. No. I have never made Jell-O in my life. No I can’t. I don’t do Jell-O I do pie. But can I refuse the Super-Wife? I cannot. Sure, no problem. I love her more than Nancy Reagan, and it won’t do the kids any good to see their Dad cower from Jell-O. It’s time to start sweating over Jell-O.
2/15 Second Post
I fell asleep again and feel pretty good after a five-hour nap. Unfortunately I had no insightful dreams about Jell-O. Too much time was spent looking through cookbooks and the Internet. Surely there must be a Jell-O recipe like I want. But I cannot find one. Then comes a realization like the brightest dawn- I can call my sister. This would be the most elementary problem for her.
She doesn’t get too artsy. She says I basically have two options. Just make the Jell-O, add the fruit cocktail, and after it jells put a layer of whipped cream over it. Or wait till it becomes thick and beat the whipped cream into it. Ever the straight shooter she basically tells me to quit screwing around and get it done. The easiest way is the first.
I decided that no matter how I did the Jell-O I'd do it wrong- that's just the way it is. So I waited till she was scheduled to be off and started boiling water. If she got home late, like usual, she'd get the Jell-O, and whipped cream in layers. If she got home on time, she'd get to make a choice. She got home on schedule.
I told her I was going to make the Jell-o, add the fruit and she could put the whipped cream on top in the morning after it had cooled. Of course, that was wrong. She wanted the whipped cream and Jell-O mixed together. I told her we'd have to wait until it had at least cooled somewhat. She knew better. That’s what she gets for reading the instructions.
After dissolving the Jell-O I added the juice from the fruit cocktail. She asked me what else I was going to use for fluid, I told her 7-Up. She said there was some chilled in the fridge, got it, and I added a cup. She knew from the instructions we could use ice cubes to speed the cooling. She got some ice cubes in the measuring cup and I topped it off with more 7-up.
It wasn't long that it started to thicken. She wanted to add the whipped cream but I protested. It seemed to me that it wasn't nearly thick enough to take a beating and stay beaten- it would just dissolve into a milky-Jell-O-fruit mass. But we were not waiting. In went the whipped cream, still frozen. It floated like an iceberg. A glimmer of hope- maybe it would help cool it more. Nah, the mass of whipped cream is marginal compared to the pot of Jell-O. I went from hopeful to doubter to Thomas-had-nothing-on-me.
I held the creamberg down and shaved off its sides till it looked like pack ice on a red sea. Then the wife went to work with the electric beater. Apparently in touch with her male side- she really likes to play with her kitchen power tools. In no time at all it was beaten into dense foam.
We poured it out into a large pan and added the fruit. It seemed to me that the fruit and remaining syrup would just settle to the bottom. The bottom fruit layer wouldn't be gelled at all. It would be a runny mess. It would not be good. No matter, it's out of my hands and into the refrigerator.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
2/16/04 First
This morning I took a peek. It certainly had settled somewhat. It appeared to be about as dense as a sponge. From now on whenever I see a dessert like that I will only think of it as Impatient Jell-O. But maybe some people intend it that way. Maybe some people like it that way. Maybe some people just haven't a clue.
When Holy Wife comes home in a few hours, if there's any left, we'll see how it turned out. Regardless, I think using 7-Up for the remaining fluid was a good idea. It would make it kind of 'punchy.'
2/16/04 second
Her Grace is back. She's all smiles. All the little old ladies loved it. Some of them had heard of using pop, but apparently none of them had done it. I am a wild man. I am a wild man growing popular with little old ladies. Almost none of it was left. It was the 'most gone' Jell-O dessert. Looking at the pan it was apparent that the fruit had sunk to the bottom and melted some of the foam- making a red, fruit layer that actually jelled. The top half was still the red foam. Oh, so THAT'S how they do that! I had always assumed it was some laborious layering, chilling, process. I’m going to be much harder to impress with Jell-O from now on.
We shared the last couple bites and it wasn't bad. Could have used more 7-Up though, it was not exactly what I wanted. It was the price of impatience.
Here's the dirt- this was for a funeral, 55 people attended. Our Blessed Lady of Funerals made 96 ham sandwiches. Some of the people took three at a time. Sure, some of them probably got sandwiches for others, but you do the math. From her description they ate like the Dohlmans.
I don’t expect anybody outside of immediate family to understand that reference. Let me explain. The Dohlmans were a large family of large people. There’s a reason there were no all-you-can-eat buffets in our county. They were the reason. They weren’t allowed to enter county fair pie eating contests because they were professionals. Do I exaggerate? Of course, but that’s never stopped me before.
Back to the funeral. Nobody wanted to take the last sandwich. Her Holiness said some poor guy who'd kept himself busy feeding his kids hadn't had a bite for himself. She gave him the sandwich. I couldn’t bring myself to ask if the others fought him for it.
In the end, everybody liked the Jell-O. I have lost my fear of Jell-O. The Super Wife is grateful that I made Jell-O. If you’re having a funeral or some such give me a call, I’ll bring the Jell-O.
It's hard to believe I just took a shot at a bunch of people at a funeral. No, sometimes I don't think I have any shame. At any rate, when I die you can fast or famine- I won't care. Just remember what my Dad always said, "No leftovers!"
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
This morning I took a peek. It certainly had settled somewhat. It appeared to be about as dense as a sponge. From now on whenever I see a dessert like that I will only think of it as Impatient Jell-O. But maybe some people intend it that way. Maybe some people like it that way. Maybe some people just haven't a clue.
When Holy Wife comes home in a few hours, if there's any left, we'll see how it turned out. Regardless, I think using 7-Up for the remaining fluid was a good idea. It would make it kind of 'punchy.'
2/16/04 second
Her Grace is back. She's all smiles. All the little old ladies loved it. Some of them had heard of using pop, but apparently none of them had done it. I am a wild man. I am a wild man growing popular with little old ladies. Almost none of it was left. It was the 'most gone' Jell-O dessert. Looking at the pan it was apparent that the fruit had sunk to the bottom and melted some of the foam- making a red, fruit layer that actually jelled. The top half was still the red foam. Oh, so THAT'S how they do that! I had always assumed it was some laborious layering, chilling, process. I’m going to be much harder to impress with Jell-O from now on.
We shared the last couple bites and it wasn't bad. Could have used more 7-Up though, it was not exactly what I wanted. It was the price of impatience.
Here's the dirt- this was for a funeral, 55 people attended. Our Blessed Lady of Funerals made 96 ham sandwiches. Some of the people took three at a time. Sure, some of them probably got sandwiches for others, but you do the math. From her description they ate like the Dohlmans.
I don’t expect anybody outside of immediate family to understand that reference. Let me explain. The Dohlmans were a large family of large people. There’s a reason there were no all-you-can-eat buffets in our county. They were the reason. They weren’t allowed to enter county fair pie eating contests because they were professionals. Do I exaggerate? Of course, but that’s never stopped me before.
Back to the funeral. Nobody wanted to take the last sandwich. Her Holiness said some poor guy who'd kept himself busy feeding his kids hadn't had a bite for himself. She gave him the sandwich. I couldn’t bring myself to ask if the others fought him for it.
In the end, everybody liked the Jell-O. I have lost my fear of Jell-O. The Super Wife is grateful that I made Jell-O. If you’re having a funeral or some such give me a call, I’ll bring the Jell-O.
It's hard to believe I just took a shot at a bunch of people at a funeral. No, sometimes I don't think I have any shame. At any rate, when I die you can fast or famine- I won't care. Just remember what my Dad always said, "No leftovers!"
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-