April 23, 2007

Signals Whiffle Ball Games Are Over and Dinner Begins - review, Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce

Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce, 15 fl oz

My name never carried well across the neighborhood to the yard where I most often struck out at the plate. Sound, as is the case with many a young boy, was only one way to call me.

Misty evenings, just as the sun committed to drop westward, an hour after my father would drive up in his Buick Special, I smelled Worcestershire sauce from our charcoal Webber. This meant the Whiffle ball game ended, and, win or lose, I had a different plate to step up to.

The scent created a state of emergency. Bats, balls, and, if we used any, bases were gathered by their respective owners, and we all ran home like lovers impassioned in lustful want.

His recipe for steak was simple. Get it from Jerry, a butcher he knew for years, dazzle it with ground pepper and the smallest sprinkle of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce. Like smoke signals, the air became the messenger, or, for me, a siren seducing me homeward. No other sauce would do. His reasons had no merit for me at six years old, but I never had cause to question.

Such as it will be for you. Big bottles of Worcestershire sauce will be what you need, but a small bottle will be inspiration enough.

April 18, 2007

With Tragedy, We Need Hope

What happened? Better still, what happens next? Collective disgust, collective mourning, and collective moving on?

There is little that can be said that is not obvious, and little that can be done that isn't being done. Everyone has their part, apolitically, and, then, sadly, we move on, forget about this, and it gets cited as a footnote the next time we endure such a travesty of violence.

I wish there was a way to stop this, but men like Cho Seung-Hui will be born, lose their sense of right and wrong, and rampage again. There must be a better way.

What we need is hope. The easy path will be to try to figure Cho Seung-Hui, examine why it happened, and think something was done. Cho Seung-Hui had no hope, and became a killer.

Hope.

April 12, 2007

Perfect for Photos of Family Dogs, Ansel Adams and Future Lovers - review: 11x14 / 11 x 14 Picture/Photo Frame, Round Walnut Molding with Gold Leaf

At the top of my stairs hang three of these frames, above a shelf of books I intend to read and a canister of potpourri which has lost its scent.

To the right is an Ansel Adams photo of a desert. The lines are sweetly paralleled earthen grooves made of sand shifted in dry wind, diagonal to the perpendicularly structured frame.

To the left is a faded sketch of my dog, Bruno. I was nine, and Bruno was 12. Age and hard playing took him, or so I am told. It is nice to see him here, drawn in pleasant colored pencils by my parent's neighbor.

In the center, the wooden brown frame is simple, concise, and empty. The paint on the wall is dark beige, complimenting the frame with elegance. The logo is unattractive, and I meant to replace it long ago. Every year, I think I have met someone who will pose with me, but every month after we meet, she moves on.

Now, this year, there is Rachel. This year will be different. I am hoping when we are next out, a friend will take a snapshot. I will frame us, happy and together. We will look wonderful next to Ansel Adams' desert and my dog, Bruno.

April 02, 2007

Fills Young Bellies While Mending Broken Hearts - Kraft Macaroni and Cheese reviewed

Maraconi and CheeseKraft Macaroni and Cheese beckons back to lonely days running home at lunchtime. As I lay heart-strewn and crying about the harsh rejection meted upon me by the fairest of the playground beauties, soft noodles in a cheese cream sauce would ease my ache.

Daily, at morning recess, I would smile weakly and say hello to Heidi, who, in return would grimace. There stood I, in a pile of sadness, swings and slides all around, alone, and she, having moved on, would toil no longer in my presence.

Today, all so many years beyond, I do not remember if it was her kickball skills, or the way she whispered, "Green Eggs and Ham," ever so flirtatiously, just within earshot. Her gentle words were never meant for me no matter how I thought her eyes caught mine, and with clarity, at recess, I was reminded of her tease.

Recess would pass into lunchtime, and as the bell rang, I blew out the door and ran the quarter mile home. Anger, grief, all inside boiling, looking to be purged, pushed me homeward. Second grade happiness would be found where my mom made lunch.

Resting on our kitchen table, steaming with freshly ground pepper, was the golden orange macaroni and cheese. A bit of butter and a few drops of milk converged with the cheese for the smooth-sweet-salty taste with which I could indulge my insatiated heart.

My mother, forever smiling, and me, upset at Heidi who was forever guiling, until soon, I, with my belly full, was no longer riling. Fair maiden was never won by macaroni and cheese, but my broken heart was oft-mended by its flavor.