A Tale of Two Donnies

My brother had two friends named Chris: good Chris and bad Chris.  Good Chris was a regular kid, played sports, spoke normally, ate large amounts of pizza and played video games with my brother.  Bad Chris wore lederhosen.  You read that right, he was a thirteen year old kid, living in Queens in the twentieth century, and he wore lederhosen.  Frequently.  He also mumbled a lot, looked moist, had a vacant stare, and seemed to stumble around the streets while playing roller hockey with the other kids.  He was a nice enough kid, if you could get him to speak coherently, but he was a grade A goof, ergo Bad Chris.  Fortunately, for me, my brother spent a lot more time with Good Chris as he got older because he was allowed out after dark and didn't bring headgear to sleepovers.

Since my experience with bad Chris, it seems that I have a preternatural sense for goofballs and losers; people I refer to as strays.  I lose patience easily with these societal castoffs and tend to steer clear.  This is not true of the rest of my family who is decidedly nicer and more patient than I.  Members of my family have been known to drag around with whomever they find out in the streets, inviting them to dinner, holiday celebrations and to live in the basement in some cases.  I remember visiting my parents for the first time after their move to Colorado, when a guy I'd never seen before ambled down the stairs (from the bedrooms above) to fix himself a garden burger.  No one seemed to notice this guy but myself and I watched incredulously as he sat down at the dining room table to eat his meal.  I had to finally ask who the hell he was.  While my immediate family is ridiculous in their stray pickup, no one can beat my husband for his uncanny ability to attract and become entangled with the sorriest of human creatures. 

Years ago my husband worked for UPS in the middle of the night.  He drove every night to and fro by himself and put up a notice on the work bulletin board to see if there was anyone interested in carpooling.  This innocuous notice brought a couple into our lives who I came to refer to as the Chubbs.  I don't know what their actual names were, but they were a young couple who approached my husband about the carpool.  They asked if he would mind driving every other week, with him beginning the rotation.  The first week of his driving went without a hitch, they lived close by and he didn't mind the company.  When their turn came around, it was revealed that they didn't have a car.  THEY DIDN'T HAVE A CAR.  What they really wanted was someone to drive them to work and later someone to drive them to work after waking them up by flashing his headlights at their window.  Sometimes he had to bang on the window because they were in too much of a stupor after partying all day long to get up with just a flash and a horn toot.  Most people, and by most people I mean me, would've washed their hands of these meth addicted messes as soon as their end of driving fell through.  Not only did he continue to drive them, but he had them to our house for Christmas Eve one time.  They brought us a really nice bottle of scotch as a gift, which the male Chubb proceeded to drink until it was empty.  The female Chubb also got extremely intoxicated and they had some sort of disagreement during which the female fled and the male had to  be carried home.  My husband stuck by them until he no longer worked for UPS and checked in on them every once in a while afterwards.  We haven't seen them in years, but if you ask my husband, he will refer to them as his friends.

While the Chubbs are part of our history, my husband has more recently acquired a man we call Ron-Don.  On either side of our house, their are men named Donnie.  There is a good Donnie who lives with his girlfriend, tells funny stories and is nice to my kids when they're out playing in the yard.  Bad Donnie reminds my husband of Sally Struthers, if Sally Struthers were strung out on heroin and aimlessly roamed the streets talking to herself.  I think he looks more like an old, white version of the disadvantaged children Ms. Struthers works to raise money for.  My husband mistakenly called this Donnie Ron once, a mistake for which he has been verbally abused going on three years now.  Ron-Don is a drunken, mumbly mess who likes to stop by, holler at my husband and borrow money.  My husband has driven this man to the store, to see his father in the hospital, loaned him money and invited him in for vodka and Pepsi cocktails (this combination alone offends me on many levels).  On one such visit, Ron-Don insulted our paint choices and commented that our fishbowl was dirty.  This from a man who wears his hair in bobby pins.  Ron-Don had moved away for a about a year, but has recently returned to his family home (he is in his fifties).  I think I saw him and my husband out for a joy ride last night.

This weeks tip: Changing your phone number is free if you tell the phone company that you are receiving a lot of solicitor calls or calls from creditors that are not yours.

Life in the Provinces

At the tender age of twenty three I made the bold decision to leave the great state of New York (and my family and friends) and leap into the unknown world of living in the West.  Prior to a three month tour of the country, in a big daddy Caddy, I had considered Pennsylvania to be the west.  As it turns out there's a whole shitload of country between Pennsylvania and the Pacific Ocean.  Not only is there lots of land, but there are cities, people and running water to boot.

Armed with a duffle bag filled with jeans, short shirts and sandals, eighty bucks and a one way ticket to Oakland, off I went.  If you've never been to California, I would heartily suggest that you don't make Oakland your starting point. My family was confounded.  Why would I want to leave New York to go live out there with a bunch of fruits and nuts?  This is not an uncommon lament for East Coast folks. I once spoke to a gal who works for a large credit card company and she told me that people on the East Coast are more likely to get their credit applications approved as they are very easy to find because they don't leave. If you can't find them, you can find someone in their family; across generations, East Coasters generally tend to stick around.

After living on a teacher's salary, for a number of years, in the glorious city of San Francisco I realized that I didn't always want to have three jobs and moved to Denver. I have been living here for the past twelve years and have come to terms with being an outsider.  I have learned a great many things about living out west and have made adjustments accordingly.  My Ohio bred husband often makes fun of my disbelief (and outrage in some cases) when it comes to my expectations and begs me to pardon everyone living outside of New York; apparently those residing in the provinces know not what they do.  My grievances and personal adjustments made accordingly fall into three major categories:  food, apparel and transportation.

FOOD

• GOOD bagels are hard to come by. Offerings of round, chewy pieces of bread with fruit infused flavorings (cranberry pumpkin???) are not bagels, they are some weird amalgamation of cake and possibly muffin.  While I would like to applaud people for their efforts and creativity, I can only shake my head and laugh.  If you are among the lucky and do happen upon a decent bagel shop, you will fork over nearly three dollars to get your onion bagel with butter fantasies fulfilled. I don't even want to talk about getting a hard roll or a bialy.
• Cold cuts (also known as lunch meat) are sliced as if you are going to use only one piece of meat and cheese to make an entire sandwich.  If you dare request that they are thinly sliced, you will be looked at like the suspect in a major homicide and will run the distinct possibility of having your lunch for the week being tainted by someone else's saliva.
• Pizza hut, Domino's, Little Cesars and all those other 'pizza' chains are not only actually considered pizza, but are actually preferred by many who have had the luxury of eating REAL pizza.  I have been fortunate enough to find a few (actually two) really good pizzerias (owned by actual New Yorkers), and realized the important lesson I had passed on when my son refused Domino's at a sleepover.
• Chopped meat is called one of three things: ground beef, hamburger - as if this is the only thing you make with it, and hamburg (for those who just can't bear to pronounce that last syllable).  I learned this the hard way when requesting one pound of chopped meat at a butcher.  They had no idea what I was talking about & quite frankly I didn't know another way to say it.  I wound up pointing to the meat in the case and pantomiming eating a hamburger.    
• Soda, I mean pop, I mean Coke.  Um, actually I mean soda, you know that stuff made from soda water with sugar and all kinds of crap you can't pronounce?  If I ask for a pop, assume either that I would like you to punch me in the face or I am asking after your grandfather.  And if I ask for a Coke, please do not ask me what kind.  Coke is brown soda and should not be confused with anything else unless we are hanging out with Charlie Sheen.

Apparel

• Even if you have never been within ten feet of a tennis court and/or tennis racket, sneakers are called tennis shoes and more annoyingly tennies.  The sheer lack of logic here goes unheeded and even in Spanish they are referred to as such.  I suppose I could handle them being called gym shoes, because most people have at least stepped foot into a gym, but despite my protests (and obvious superior knowledge of important matters like this), people insist on the name they know.
• Sandals with socks are allowed all over the place.  This hot mess of a combination is, remarkably, not reserved strictly for Eastern Europeans with gold teeth.  Anyone with a Birkenstock or a Teva finds it completely acceptable to throw on some bunchy socks and slip into these sandals, critics be damned.  This sock/sandal wearing phenomenon is not relegated to just one sex either - both male and females equally enjoy this fashion don't.  

Transportation

• People really, and I mean really love their cars.  So much so that I have met an impressive number of people who have never even ridden public transportation.  When I first started working in schools in Denver, I took the bus to work and after getting off the bus, I walked the few blocks to school. I once commented that I couldn't get over how poor a job people did with shoveling in front of their homes.  I was told that my problem was that I walked.  I have to admit, this was the first time I'd ever heard of walking as a problem and a possible detriment to my well being.
• Public transportation outside of New York actually runs on schedules.  Schedules that are kept.  And there are phone numbers that you can call to complain about a bus or train like conveyance that missed it's schedule or didn't show up.  What crazy, novel ideas.  Other than the fabric covered seating - I try my very best not to think about the thousands of filthy people that may have sat on them before me - public transportation outside of New York City was an adjustment that wasn't too hard to make.

This weeks tip:

Before consideration of moving out of your hometown, wherever that may be, do your homework.  I'm not talking about contacting the Chamber of Commerce for maps, or looking up housing or cost of living comparisons.  I am talking about finding a person who may have blazed that trail already.  Find out the names for things, where to get a decent meal, how much a beer costs and the time difference so you know exactly what time to call your mother crying about homesickness.

Just JaCk

My brother has long been a source of joy and confusion for me.  He came into my world after a long, lonely seven years as an only child; the excitement of having a sibling was almost more than I could bear and I greeted his arrival with a spring in my step and a stuffed puppy in hand.  My enthusiasm bordered on hysteria and after a year pretending that he was mine and bossing my mother around about what she should be doing, I settled into a world where I was either laughing or shaking my head - sometimes both simultaneously. I suppose I could have guessed that after throwing up on the puppy he would give me a lifetime of scratching my head and blinking profusely when in his presence, but honestly there are few prepared for a life with Jack.

When Jack learned mobility, and subsequently speech, things got pretty dicey in our household. Jack has a unique way of using words to his benefit and his logic and perspective defy most socially acceptable modes of communication. He claimed for years that everyone else's time concepts were faulty compared to his.  Church bells, clocks and watches held no meaning for him.  Also, there is little use in arguing with a guy who wears florescent orange county jail pants when boarding an airplane in post 9-11 America.  As he so aptly puts it "you take my freedom, I take your pants".  I suppose he could have been a lawyer, if they held law school classes exclusively in the middle of the day and didn't require so much homework.

His antics as a small child caused my mother no inconsiderable amount of agida and bewilderment.  Eating house plants and the dirt they were planted in, drinking food dye and flushing entire bottles of perfume (glass included) down the toilet were among his early accomplishments.  My mother often found herself calling my father, disbelief heavy in her voice, to report the latest antic.  My father always laughed and assured my mother that his behavior was that of a 'typical boy'.  My poor unsuspecting mother would take this at face value as she had only been exposed to girls up until this point.  While my father's affirmation was mostly true, Jack has never been a typical boy.  We eventually got used to a lot of the ridiculous things he did and laughed them off by saying 'oh that's just Jack', but he still managed to truly surprise us a number of times a year.

When he was in middle school, my brother travelled to school by bus.  He went to a school that offered special programming for smart kids and he had to be at the bus stop really early every morning.  As we were mostly left to our own devices in terms of morning readiness, my brother figured out that if he wore his clothes to bed, he would have less to do in the morning and therefore get to sleep in a few minutes more each day.  Brilliance on his part and a habit that has served him well for most of his life.  Being wrinkled will never bother a guy who is so relaxed as to be nearly comatose.   What he didn't figure out was that defacement of public school property will get you, at the very least a phone call home, and befuddle your entire family.

My father received a phone call from Jack's school counselor informing him that my brother would be serving detention for writing graffiti on the school bus and that my father was going to have to fork over some amount of money to pay for damages.  My father took this all in stride but immediately asked how they knew it was my brother - could their claims be proven?  At this point in his life, Jack had been known for stupidity, but certainly not property damage.  The counselor informed my father that the claims could indeed by proven as my genius brother wrote HIS NAME on the school bus seat in permanent marker.  First, middle, last.  I was witness to this exchange (on my father's end) and after asking the counselor "are you shitting me?", I watched as my father took a few moments to put his head on the kitchen table and shake it back and forth while mumbling my brother's name.  After composing himself, my father asked this unsuspecting school official if he could have the seat.  As one might imagine, the counselor asked my father to repeat what he had just said.  My dad reasoned that if he was going to pay for the replacement of a seat that my brother defaced, he should own the old one.  This was an interesting conversation to bear witness to.  The counselor had no answer to this question because no one had ever asked it of him before.  He quickly got off the phone with my father with promises to call him back.  The return phone call proved no less fruitful as my father was informed that the removal of the seat was no easy matter and that ownership could not be transferred.  When my father suggested that the school bus be pulled into our driveway so he could attempt clean up himself, or remove the seat, the counselor gave up on seeking damages and I believe may have offered to revoke detention as well.  Surely the man did not get paid nearly enough to enter into a circular argument with my father and no doubt would rue the day that he ever heard my brother's name.

I offer the above antecdote to suggest that perhaps my brother came by his bewildering ways honestly, and maybe my father's ideas of 'typical' were a little skewed.  Whatever the case, my brother in his thirty years on this Earth has proven to be a gentle and kind soul with a sense of humor that could literally make you wet your pants.  On the eve of his thirtieth birthday I can't help but reflect that while I have been confused and bewildered for much of our lives together, I have never been lonely.

This weeks tip:
Removing ink from leather is a tricky bitch.  Rubbing alcohol on a washcloth (white recommended) and blotting it on the stain has been known to work.  You should leave the alcohol sitting on the stain for about thirty minutes, blot the stain with a clean washcloth.  To keep from drying out the leather, rinse the area with a mixture of one quart cool water and a quarter cup of vinegar.  This may not work on the first try, but the alcohol can be applied again if stain wasn't removed fully the first go around.

Auld Lang Syne

The lyrics of this popular New Year's song were originally written by Robert Burns as a poem and set to music.  It is popular in English speaking countries and has been around since the 1700s (or so claims my trusty, hard to disprove friend Wikipedia) .  Translated loosely, it means 'long, long ago,' and is often sung at the stroke of midnight when the new year begins.  Tradition.
Many folks have traditions of their own that carry them through the holiday season.  Things that they've always done and no one knows quite why, other than, 'that's what we've always done.'  I heard someone speak at an educator's conference about a year ago regarding doing things the way they've always been done seemingly without rhyme or reason.  He had researched why the railroad tracks in this country had the spacing between them that they did.  Apparently it was due to the spacing on the wagons of pioneers, which he then traced back to Europe and the spacing on the wagons there and so forth.  What it came down to is that the spacing on Roman chariots were measured to fit the width of two horses pulling chariots to and fro in attempts to conquer the world.  So much history coming down to horses' asses.
My parents holiday traditions often caused me to scratch my head as a child, and I now cannot help but wonder if they had their beginnings with some drunken horse's ass losing a bet.  Whatever the auspicious beginnings, there were certain things that were absolutely necessary for merriment and celebration in our household.  Christmastime found my family with a coffee table full of hard candy, handily contained in a cylindrical cardboard container, and ribbon candy, which was wrapped in a fancier box than most jewelry ever purchased by my father.  Both of these items were purchased at the Woolworth store near our house and my father would not have allowed the holiday season to commence without these treats sitting next to a bowl of mixed nuts (in the shell) and his feet (which were always on the coffee table).  No mind was paid to the fact that these candies are nearly guaranteed to lack desirability in both flavor and texture (read: don't chew); both the candies and nuts were only eaten when severe hunger and desperation for the holiday meal overcame whomever happened to be in the living room.  It always seemed to me that the actual reason for having the nuts and candy on the table were that they gave my father a handy way to fill our stockings at the end of a Christmas Eve spent indulging in Budweiser.  Our stockings were always filled to the brim with this shitty candy, walnuts in the shell and oranges (which were thankfully kept safely away in the kitchen).  While I appreciate a good orange, and walnuts are okay in my book, they lose a certain something when stuffed in a fuzzy stocking alongside unwrapped, medicine- like candy.
The New Year brought about some other interesting traditions in our household.  Fish and pork were required eating at our house and one, even a child, cannot help but wonder what masochist came up with this combination.  As soon as the new day began, my father insisted we eat fish for good luck.  Not just any fish, either. Herring.  If you're not familiar, I suggest you don't become.  Herring comes in small jars (obviously even the purveyors of herring realize this is not something eaten in large amounts) and is found in the deli section of the local grocery store.  It is either in a vinegary sauce or in a vinegary cream sauce.  My father would buy both.  Somehow, he felt that the cream sauced fish was a more palatable offering to his gagging children.  When we got older and downright refused to eat this 'tradition,' my father settled for us eating an onion out of the jar.  Which is reasonable, considering how much children love onions, particularly ones soaked in vinegar and cream with a slight fishy taste.
After consumption of our middle of the night fish, we kids were sent off to bed to dream of the pork dinner that awaited us the next day.  I enjoy a pork roast dinner, but the trauma of the herring often trumped looking forward to any meal in the near future.  While I just threw up in my mouth a little thinking about it, I can't help but wish my father was here this New Year's eve to force feed my own children a little vinegary, creamy filth (I mean fish).
This weeks tip:  My mother was with us on the great hard candy and herring 'traditions' - she thought they sucked too.  She does keep up the having fish to start off the New Year tradition by eating smoked whitefish salad.  This is not unlike a tuna salad, but much tastier.  Whatever the nonsensical thing your family does to celebrate the holiday, suck it up and soak it in (or adjust it to include smoked whitefish), because, amazingly, you will miss it when it's gone.  Happy New Year, and may old friends not be forgotten :)

Thanks be to ye, oh Jesus sandal

My mother had the terribly annoying habit of wanting to ready the house before company arrived.  You know, dusting, cleaning the floors, scrubbing the toilet and a general round of top notch straightening.  A few days before one particular Thanksgiving, she decided to re-do the entire kitchen.  This involved removing wall paper from the wall, sanding, painting ceilings and walls; tasks that a normal person might not undertake two days before expecting a house full of guests.  Amazingly, she accomplished all of this in time for our holiday company, minus returning the fan blades to the ceiling fan above the kitchen table.  This is where me, my brother and, most importantly, my father came in.

From the bathroom, where I was busy praying to the porcelain god (after having spent most of the previous night celebrating Thanksgiving Eve), I heard my mother beckoning.  I emerged, bleary-eyed and attempting to reacquaint my tongue with inside of my mouth (it seemed to weigh fifty pounds and to be in need of a good shave) to find my mother motioning to the kitchen table and the fan blades lying atop it.  As I understood, I was to climb on table and replace the blades.  Shakily, I crawled on the table and pressed my sweaty cheeks upon it before attempting a vertical stance.  Once I steadied myself, I placed one blade in its slot and tightened the screws.  The weight of the blade caused the entire fan to move slowly in a circular fashion (as fans are known to do); you can imagine that this is not exactly the situation someone with a fifty pound tongue and a vise around their brain wants to find themselves in.  Moving faster than someone in my condition should be able, I jumped from the table top, ran into the bathroom and remained there for unaccountable amounts of time.  It's at this point that my brother made his appearance and my mother asked him to resume the job I'd started.  While he was too young to drink excessive amounts of anything but Mountain Dew, my brother soon found himself also overcome by the dizziness and nausea of the slow moving fan blade.  Two down.

Completely disgusted, my mother continued preparing our Thanksgiving feast all the while cursing and muttering about the utter uselessness of her children.  It is here that my father made his appearance, pretending that he had come to see what the fuss was all about when we all know he had come into the kitchen searching for beer and snacks.  She quickly brought him up to speed on the situation, at which point he offered to hop up on the table himself and get the whole damned thing done.  It should be mentioned here that my father was not a small man - neither in stature or weight.  My mother scoffed at the idea and continued her cooking.  Mere moments passed and I swear I heard the low whine of protest from the hardware that held together the solid wood kitchen table followed by what I imagined to be the sound of a sonic boom.  The next sound was that of a wounded animal; low moaning and whimpering. One never imagines the day will come when they will find their father lying amidst the rubble of the kitchen table while his Birkenstocks sit neatly by bearing witness (as any good Jesus sandal would); but this is exactly what I found when I entered the kitchen, my hangover pushed aside out of curiosity.  My mother was standing by, spoon in hand, with a look of equal parts fascination and irritation.  "I told you you couldn't get up there" she said as she turned back to the stovetop.

We managed to get my father into the living room and clean up his feet which were cut up and bleeding.  After the moaning subsided, we laughed our asses off.  We wondered aloud what would possess such an intelligent man, of his size, to attempt to stand on the kitchen table.  In fact, tears were streaming down our faces as we watched him hobble into the kitchen to fix the table before company arrived.  Yep, my mother insisted that the table be fixed, as soon as his feet were tightly bandaged and could hold him up.  He assessed the damage and decided that the only thing that saved him were his Jesus sandals. After some considerable time, and the utilization of power tools, all was well by the time our guests arrived - if well means that there are screws sticking about an inch out of the top of your kitchen table while one lone fan blade remains in constant slow motion (not unlike the Eternal Flame).

We had obtained some semblance of normalcy as a family unit and promised my father we would not mention his earlier lapse in judgement, his ensuing injuries, nor his wonder at the saving properties of his sandals(we managed to keep these promises until Christmas).  Shortly after our company had arrived, my mother went to check on the bird and side dishes only to find that the oven had quit working at some point, and that dinner was no where near done.  Another person might have considered the day completely ruined and gone back to bed at this point, but not my mother.  She promptly put the turkey into the microwave and refreshed the drinks and snacks for everyone.  It is here she proves that she is unflappable: one fan blade spinning around in a mocking fashion, a kitchen table a little worse for the wear, children who have proved useless and an underdone bird will not put a damper on her day.  We ate dinner somewhere before bedtime and chuckled to ourselves on this day of thanks.  It is interesting to note that I don't believe that those blades were ever returned to the fan as no one was ever brave enough to attempt replacing them again.

This weeks tip:
My mother's kitchen savvy saved her meal that day.  The use of the microwave oven was genius on my mother's part and the turkey emerged from it fully cooked and quite tasty.  Whenever my mother has had to buy a new microwave in subsequent years, she has made sure that they were big enough to accommodate a turkey, because as she says "You never know".  In order to fully cook a turkey in the microwave, it is highly recommended that you place the bird breast side down for juiciness purposes.  The turkey can be cooked at full power for six minutes per pound.  A twenty to twenty-five pound turkey should be at approximately 180 degrees (farenheit) internal temperature when fully cooked; this can be measured with a meat thermometer, but make sure not to touch bone when you put thermometer in as it will give you an inaccurate reading.

Burning Daylight

My mother will readily admit to not knowing the first thing about cooking when she first got married at the age of nineteen. My father was fond of remarking that she was incapable of boiling water at the start of their wedded bliss. Thanks to the diligent efforts of my father and his mother, my mother became a pretty damn good cook. The older I get, the more refined her skills get, but I have to say that things were pretty touch and go there for a while when I was a child.

My childhood memories are enveloped in a shroud of hazy smoke emanating from the broiler and the taste of burnt meat etched on the back of my tongue. In my mother's kitchen, everything was well done; if not slightly burnt, then it was deemed not quite ready. If a little too burnt, one could always use a butter knife to scrape off the black parts. While some things are truly better when a little crispy (fried chicken, pizza cheese), let me assure you overdone london broil requires a true sense of adventure (I tried every condiment to make this dazzleless gem of a meal more palatable) and overdeveloped jaw muscles. I've read in recent years that chewing your food a certain number of times is better for digestion and will help keep off the pounds. Perhaps my mother was wise beyond her years and aiming to keep us at fighting weight? Whatever the case, I feel truly fortunate to not have developed the distinguished look of a pit bull.

My mother served applesauce with nearly every meal, and while she swears to love this innocuous baby food item, one cannot help but wonder if she just wanted to provide a lubricant for the extremely cooked meats she served most nights of the week. My mother's efforts were applauded by my father who thoroughly enjoyed overcooked food (I only ever saw him spit food out twice). Whenever the burning got out of hand, my father would laugh and inquire if my mother was burning daylight again.

Aside from the burnt meat, my mother's cooking was just fine. Food stuffs from a box or can are pretty hard to mess up and when you add a little salt and a little butter truly everything tastes better. Except for gravy, I had never witnessed my mother make anything from scratch throughout my entire childhood (my love of frozen Sara Lee cakes stems from this fact). She did attempt to make tomato sauce from scratch once that I recall, but when the blender broke while she was pureeing the tomatoes, we had a meal that was sparkly, gritty, and I can only hope provided us all some much need roughage.

As I grew older, my mother got better and better at cooking (or maybe I just got more used to it) but my father was genuinely confused when I refused to eat certain things anymore. "Since when don't you like broiled (again, read burnt) chicken breast? he'd implore. Um, since never; generally people buttering their meat (and by buttering their meat I mean...) can be safely assumed to not like it very much. While I have never been a huge fan of animal flesh (I prefer cream of wheat, pea soup and anything else that doesn't set my teeth and jaws into doing the work equivalent of a spinning class), I have to admit that I honestly enjoy a pork chop with the look and texture of a hockey puck - you know if hockey pucks were made from pigs. Some salt, some butter and you got yourself a little piece of heaven.

This weeks tip: Well versed in the clean up of a burnt meal, my mother swears that nothing removes burnt on food from a roasting pan, frying pan, or pot better than your everyday dryer sheet. Just put the dryer sheet (or two depending on the size of the pan) in the bottom of the pan and run some lukewarm water into it. Let it sit for a little while and then rinse. You will not have to use steel wool or have a pot soaking in your sink for days on end. You can use the dryer sheet to wipe off the gunk that has magically been lifted off of your cookware and clean as you normally would. Dryer sheets will also clean gunk off of the burners on your stovetop as well as your oven. They are quite handy tools to keep around the house and seem to work much better at removing gunk and grime than any of the stuff that comes in a spray bottle.