Metropolitan meals.

I've run several entries on this blog based on a collection of promotional cookbooks I inherited. I thought I'd gone through them all -- but imagine my surprise when I found one I'd missed!

Metropolitan Cook Book sounds pretty modern and urbane, doesn't it? But the name doesn't have a direct connection to city life; it comes from the sponsor, Metropolitan Life Insurance Company.

One might expect a life insurance company to issue a cookbook if it was going to be filled entirely with healthy recipes to make sure you keep living and keep paying premiums as long as possible. But this is a basic home cookbook with a lot of recipes for the newbie family chef. I suppose the idea was to get into the home with an invaluable kitchen aid, and when you started to think about insurance -- say, when the Little Ones started to come along -- you'd know where to turn.

The year: 1964.

I was especially interested in the illustrations in this book. The food is all friendly, a nice, happy kind of drawing. And yet the gags don't make a lot of sense. Have a look at these:

I just don't know if these fruits count as what the Great Lileks calls quisling mascots, or even cannibal mascots. They seem to be eating pudding rather than fruit desserts, so maybe not. Looks like we have an orange, a pear, maybe a blueberry, and I don't know what the other one is. Obviously being in the dessert chapter has made them all fat.

Here it looks like the eggs who signed up for food service are mad at the chick that has had the nerve to hatch from an egg. Because why? Because hatching out of the egg killed it!?! But then what's inside the other eggs? The implications of this one are awful.

And this one is even worse. Here you have little fish in the fishbowl who look an awful lot like the children of the fish on the plate, who should be dead because he (she? MOM?!) is already on the plate, being served with a glass of Chablis and parsley and a lemon slice. They're happy to see her (except the little one on top who is mocking her) while zombie fish mom looks worried. "I'm afraid Harold is just never going to grow up to be dinner." What the hell is going on here?

After these disturbing cartoons, the straight-up quisling/cannibal pig hawking sausage is almost a relief. Notice that he can only appear in silhouette; the other pigs will destroy him if they find out who he is.

I usually look for the weirdest recipe in these ol' fogey cookbooks, but really, there was nothing scary to modern tastes. I saw no tomatoes in aspic, no deviled peaches and anchovies, no Velveeta toast, nothing to make the current reader say "Oh, how boring" or "Oh, how gross." It really is a good basic cookbook.

The one recipe I include is to demonstrate a word usage that's gone out of style. "Glorify" still means to bring or elevate to glory, but in the sense of mere improvement as here, it's only used in a sarcastic sense (Merriam-Webster gives this example: "the new position is just a glorified version of the old stockroom job"). But in the middle of the last century it was often seen in ads for cosmetic products, and even for homely hash:

It's a rare example of a word losing a colloquial exaggeration. "Awesome" is a more typical case. As comedian Bill Engvall likes to point out, awesome used to mean things that struck one with awe, not things that are just neato-keen.

Anyway, if you're interested in more recipes from the Metropolitan book, let me know; we'll see what else can be glorified. Meanwhile, here are links to the other old cookbooks I blogged about:

First entry (ugly fish!)
Coca-Cola cookbook (really!)
Swanson chicken 1 (meet Sue Swanson!)
Swanson chicken 2 (they fired Sue Swanson!)
Creamette pasta (they fired the babe on the box!)
Goya beans (human beans!)
Amaretto di Saronno (secrets revealed!)
Wesson Oil (for more about "glorify"!)
The Incredible Edible Egg (for better behaved eggs!)
Schaefer Beer (Beer-B-Q!)
Wok cooking (wok everything!)
Southern Comfort (booze!)
American Dairy Association (butter!)
Waring Blendor (family blending!)

Also, my tips for writing or editing cookbooks and the only healthy-eating book you'll ever want to read.

Bon appetit!

Summer scenes.

The days are getting so short! The SAD is kicking in! WAH!

Actually I wouldn't mind the days getting a little shorter; the dogs, especially junior dog Nipper, tend to be waking up too early. They're pretty good about it, but when I come rolling out of the bedroom after loafing around until 5:30 a.m., I feel like I've kept them waiting. I certainly don't like waiting when I have to use the can.

On a brighter note, I thought I might share a few visions of summer seen here and there.

I'm really proud of this little guy:

Last year I put in a couple of dahlias. One was to fill a hole, the other to replace a chrysanthemum that didn't survive the winter. I was told that in this climate, dahlia bulbs can only survive if you dig them up and let them slumber in a dirt-filled pot indoors, basically coddling them like children, or starlets. Well, I let nature take its course. One dahlia did go to the big nursery in the sky, but the other one survived and is doing great. Should be considerably bigger and more full of flowers this year.

This is... your guess is as good as mine.

It's the back of a tree house that was built long ago, and this window faces the street. Clearly the kids in the house had some kind of message here for passersby, but I have no idea what they were trying to say. I think I'm being taunted. Well, kids -- and they're probably old enough to have kids of their own now, judging by the look of the place -- you'll have to up your game. I've been taunted much worse than that, and I doubtless will be again.

Here is the most convincing sign that summer is indeed in full swing:

Yes, the first Herrschners Christmas catalog has arrived! My wife's a crafter, and she'll be glad to tell you that you had better be knitting already if you want your homespun presents to be under that tree on December 25. So get to work! Knit at the lake house! Knit at the barbecue! Knit at the ball game! Knit on the beach! There's only 179 days until Christmas!

Finally, here's the sky at 8:37 last night:

I'll take that.

I blame the AFL-CRTN.

The Last Stand (Mixer).

I have this idea for a movie that I think would be awesome. Real action-packed, full of thrills for young and old. Middle-aged, too. Plus, cupcakes.

🎥

Trailer for The Last Doughslinger. (All in black-and-white, of course.)

(SCENE: A dark bakery, all tools cobwebbed and dusty.)

NARRATOR (voiceover): In a world where dough is needed, one man was the best of the best.

BAKER (VO): You got the wrong guy. I'm out of the game.

NARRATOR (VO): Then one day... he disappeared.

BAKER (VO): They tried, you know. They tried everything.

(SCENE: Young boy with anxious face.)

BOY: What happened? Where... has all the flour gone?

(SCENE: Baker, in darkness, from behind.)

BAKER: Cakes for gay Muslim dog weddings. Cakes for left-handed Satanic bowling leagues. Cakes for trans-Nazi coming-out parties. Exploding cakes for Methodist terrorists. I refused. And so, lawyers. And more lawyers.

(SCENE: The camera pans over mixing bowls and cookie sheets.)

BAKER: And the fines. Selling Mickey Mouse cakes without permission. Unauthorized use of an offset spatula in a school zone. Then, class actions. Obesity. Diabetes. Tooth decay. Cardiovascular disease.

(Close up)

BAKER: I got tired of mixing it up with them.

(SCENE: Young woman in wedding dress. In the rain.)

WOMAN: My wedd...ing... cake...

(Return to Baker.)

BAKER: I just downed tools and walked away.

(SCENE: The camera pans over... well, pans.)

NARRATOR (VO): But he wasn't quite done.

GUY NAMED BOB: One last mission and we'll never bother you again.

BAKER: Leave me be, Bob! I can't stand the heat, I got out of the damn kitchen!

BOB: One more!

BAKER: Never!

BOB: But it's about...

(Baker looks up)

BOB: ...your daughter.

(MONTAGE of Daughter being grabbed off the street by masked men in a van marked KALE. She's tied up and thrown inside.)

BOB (VO): These men are desperate. They don't fool around. They want the dough, and they don't care how they get it. Half a million scones by Tuesday. And some rugelach. Maybe a few cheese danish. Or else. But I told them no one alive could do that! No one...

BOB: ...but you.

(BLACKOUT. Then:)

BAKER (full face): Get. Me. My. Apron.

(Fade in title)

🍪🍪🍪

What do you think? Liam Neeson, amirite? Or Jeff Bridges.

Fred and the other antiques.

This week on Antiques Roadshow, we visit New York's scenic Hudson Valley!

[Fred is seated at table displaying his objet d'art.]

Philip Derdunster (of Derdunster + Derdunster Antiques Unlimited, Peoria, Il): So, what have you brought us today?

Fred: Grant's Tomb.

PD: Ah.

Fred: The original, yeah. My grandpa was walking around Manhattan one day and spotted it. No one seemed to own it, so he just took it home. He left it to my father, and my father left it to me.

PD: Grant's Tomb.

Fred: Yeah, real nice, isn't it?

PD: Of course, Grant's Tomb, also known as the General Grant National Memorial, was dedicated in 1897 and houses the remains of the late Civil War general and president Ulysses S. Grant and his wife, Julia. More than a million people attended the parade and dedication. The tomb was built in the Classical style after a large fund-raising effort. It was modeled after the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus in Bodrum, Turkey.

Fred: See, now, I just thought it was a good-looking building. You taught me a lot.

PD: Oh, yes, it is a national treasure.

Fred: Worth a lot of money, then, huh?

PD: Well... I'm sorry to have to break this to you, but -- and I consulted with my colleagues about this -- your Grant's Tomb is not actually the original. It is, in fact, a reproduction.

Fred: No way!

PD: Indeed. Here are some telltale signs. When I tap on it with my little stick here? You can tell that it is not actually marble, but rather hollow plastic.

Fred: Well... I did think it was kind of light.

PD: And there are some other slight differences. For example, your Grant's Tomb is approximately 28 inches tall, whereas the original is approximately 150 feet tall. That's 1,800 inches. It is in fact the largest mausoleum in North America.

Fred: Wow, they measured it and everything, huh? I did think this one was kind of small to fit Grant. I heard he was pretty fat.

PD: Moreover, Grant's Tomb is still where it usually can be found, on Riverside Drive at West 122nd Street.

Fred: You're sure?

PD: We called the National Park Service to check.

Fred: My, my.

PD: And you notice this writing in the back? "Made in China"?

Fred: Yeah, I just thought the government got some Chinese marble workers for cheap.

PD: No. This is probably only about four or five years old.

Fred: Sheesh. Well, color me disappointed. Grandpa sure has some explaining to do.

PD: But this is a very nice model of the structure, we all agreed on that. In the current market, at auction, we would expect it to bring ten dollars. Maybe if there was a bidding war, twelve dollars.

Fred: Well, that's... something. Say, I heard that the Chinese are buying up a lot of their old arts and crafts that were imported to the West--

PD: This doesn't count.

Fred: Darn. Hey, could Ulysses S. Grant's white horse be buried in this tomb?... No, I guess not.

PD: Please go now.

[Cheap Knockoff of Grant's Tomb: $10-$12]

The fifth force.

Longtime readers of this space -- who have all earned their Get Out of Purgatory Free cards -- may recall that when I got married many years ago, I was aware that there was but one household job my new wife refused to ever do: Clean the bathroom. In fact, I promised on the altar to love, honor, and clean the toilet. We didn't write our own vows but the priest slipped it in. And I have been true to these vows.

But I think I may have made a breakthrough here.

I've often complained about the way hair likes to stick to porcelain, which makes cleaning the outside of the toilet that much more annoying. I've come to believe it is not just moisture, but actually the fifth natural force of the universe, following electromagnetism, gravity, the weak force, and the strong force. I call it the hair force.

Weaker than the weak force, weaker even than gravity, the hair force nonetheless is present, and is one of the things that binds the universe together. And I think we can work with it.

You see, while the hair force is very weak -- just look at my scalp if you don't think so -- there is so much hair around that we can still use it to generate energy. The strength of the natural pull of hair toward porcelain is only reliant on the quantity of hair, as I figure, not on the quantity of porcelain. So the amount of hair generated by a town full of humans and some very hairy dogs, like mine, when placed in opposition to a damp wall of porcelain, ought to generate enough pull to power a resistance generator adequate to electrify a city of perhaps 75,000 souls. Clearly this can be scaled up without much trouble. I haven't done the math yet -- it's taking me too long to balance my checkbook -- but I am certain that if I had a few graduate students to push around we could come up with the figures to prove I am right.

This would mean virtually free, environmentally clean fuel for the world, if it works. Now yes, that's a big if, but why take chances? Think of the children! All you need to do is have your town or city send me a largish grant, and my crack team, which I will find when your check clears, will start cranking out the paperwork that will lead to your hair-powered generator.

And Mr. Nobel, if you're listening, I think this is worth two of your prizes, one for physics and one for peace (having solved the world's energy needs). Just make out the check to Fred Key, c/o Fuzzy Logic Enterprises, and I will start composing my acceptance speech.

Ranking the sins.

We all have heard of the Seven Deadly Sins: PAGGLES, or Pride, Anger, Greed (Avarice), Gluttony, Lust, Envy, and Sloth. Some may call them faults, character defects, or poor behaviors. We know they're bad. But how do they rank?

For the purposes of our poll, we ranked each sin in order by the following criteria: Popularity; Amount of Damage Caused By; and Enjoyment Factor. Each sin got the points for its place in the ranking. The fewer points the sin got, the higher it finished. The sin with the lowest point total is... the winner, I guess.

Here are the results of our polling:

Lust is the surprise winner! Well, maybe not to some of you. Pride follows, with Gluttony edging out Greed for third; Envy and Anger are all knotted up at fourth, which is probably appropriate, and Sloth brings up the rear, which is very appropriate. Here are the judge's comments:

LUST: A perennial favorite, Lust's fun ranking helps put it at the top of the list. It certainly can lead to a lot of damage -- broken marriages, unwanted children, horrible diseases, poverty, prostitution, Lambada -- but that alone is not enough to propel it to the top. Lust is enjoyed by many even when the action it impels is not immediately available -- e.g., Obsession is a perfume, not a pancake mix.

PRIDE: The king of the sins, the sin that tells us that all other sins are our due, Pride always comes in at the top of the heap -- but not this time. Because while Pride is the engine that drives the motor of sin, it is only fun when it's fulfilled, and as the appetite of Pride grows with the eating, it never can be for more than a moment. By plummeting to fifth place on our list of enjoyable sins, Pride drops out of the top spot -- but only by the criteria used for this survey. Don't worry, Pride; you'll be back on top soon.

GLUTTONY: It's hard to say that a culture with an obesity crisis doesn't have a problem with Gluttony, so we won't. Obviously Gluttony is popular; just have a look around Disney World if you don't think so. It's also fun! People may abstain from other sins, but everyone has to eat, and only the most ascetic of us want to eat things that don't taste good. Dietitians and doctors would probably disagree that Gluttony should come in sixth for damage-causing potential, and certainly anyone whose eating has brought on heart disease, diabetes, liver disease, or other potentially deadly problems could think so as well. But being fat never started a war, and it's not contagious, except perhaps psychologically. Don't worry, Gluttony, we still love ya (obviously).

GREED: What do you get the man who has everything? Whatever the next man up on the totem pole has. Greed had multiple tines on its pitchfork -- it is fun to shop (for many people); accumulating wealth offers security; and it is a great source of Pride to have lots of good-quality stuff. So Greed has fun, prudence, and Pride on its side. Plus, it leads to stealing, imperialism, and cheating, and a great friend with Envy. No wonder it is so popular. It's just hard to pin widespread disaster on Greed, unless the one doing in the pinning is a freaking socialist Commie, in which case that sin is coming up next.

ENVY: Envy's awfully popular and popularly awful. The guy on the pedestal wants a bigger pedestal so he can look down on the guys on lower pedestals. Everyone can envy someone. As Benny Hill once said, "Poor men wish they were rich, rich men wish they were handsome, single men wish they were married, and married men wish they were dead." Envy has led to mass slaughter, wars between nations, Communism, and butt implants. If it were any fun at all it would rank higher, but envy feels like pain.

ANGER: You might think Anger should rank higher in popularity because so many people are angry these days, but our judges felt that while anger is often employed, it's very seldom enjoyed. There are those who really do dig getting mad, the ones for whom the fun ranking would be higher, but most of us would just prefer that everybody do what we demand and get out of our freaking way -- then  we would not have to be angry. Anger ranks higher for damage as it can cause any amount of violence, from a toddler smacking her twin sister to a nation going to war.

SLOTH:  I guess Sloth could be a big problem if you let the farm go fallow and die of hunger. Or are too lazy to rush to the country's defense and the barbarians invade and kill everyone. But it still seem like an also-ran in the Deadly Sin field. Thus, it was too lazy to climb out of the cellar for danger. And its popularity is pretty low; proud people are too busy to be slothful. No one is busier than the Devil. But Sloth also refers to mental, spiritual, and emotional laziness, as seen in the kind of person who thinks no one and no cause is worth disturbing his torpor. Add that to the number of people addicted to the sleep alarm, living in their folks' cellar, applying for unneeded government benefits, even refusing to help with the damn dishes, and we see why it roused itself to the fourth spot on our popularity ranking.

I'm pretty proud of this list, and the minutes of research and thought that went into it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna get a snack and take a nap -- that is, if my friggin' neighbor isn't playing with her deluxe chain saw again. Although she is kinda cute....

Sunday sloth.

Please excuse the lack of a decent post today. We had a late night with our dinner guests -- well, late for me and the dogs, who normally pack it in at 10 p.m. -- and I had no chance to prepare.

I admire people who always have company about the house, people who keep the place looking just good enough that no one ever thinks it's a dump. They always have the fixings on hand to whip up a lasagna or shrimp curry or Mulligan stew to feed fifty at a moment's notice.

I am not like that. I throw a dinner party for a handful of people I think I deserve a medal. You'd think I'd been hosting an Indian wedding for two weeks.

What I'm saying is: Don't come over.

No, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that our normal state here is chaotic enough, but we like to pull it together for guests. The houses that were always fun to go to were in complete chaos all the time and liked it, so the more the merrier, right up to the cabin scene from A Night at the Opera.

But that's not how it goes around here. Families with eleven kids or something have to adjust to that to survive, with youngsters running in and out all the time. Sometimes I wonder how those parents keep their sanity. Sometimes I wonder how they keep their sanity when the kids grow up and suddenly there is no chaos anymore. You can get used to chaos.

That's all beside the point, which is: I had no time to write anything yesterday, and today I have no time or energy to write a post.

Hey, wait a second -- I DID write a post! It may not have been any good, but here it is all the same. Bully for me!

Release the Caken!

Not a lot to say today -- yesterday went completely nuts on me. Busy at work, dog needed grooming, shopping, company coming, making food... and at the end of the day, baking a cake. Yes, we have a birthday celebrant as a guest, so it was placed on my shoulders to bake a cake from scratch, with filling from scratch, and icing from scratch. Three recipes I'd never tried before.

Three recipes... for disaster.

And if you want to see real recipes for disaster, then you ought to be familiar with the site CakeWrecks.com, home of the worst supermarket cakes available.

"I... am Mister Ded!"

The site's take on the song "The Christmas Shoes," with accompanying cake photos, was so touching that it made my wife sob, weep, cry, helpless with laughter.

Needless to say, there are also books.

My cake was not that bad, although I had trouble getting the filling to set properly. Stayed up late working on it. It got there, but it was driving me to distraction. Seriously distracted -- I had been gnawing on some extra chocolate chips, and decided to take some chewable Advil for the pain in my stiff neck. The problem is, there is no chewable Advil, only Advil Liquid Gels, which should never be chewed. And I found out why. Ibuprofen, Stewart Adams's wonderful invention, A) Tastes like iodine; B) Burns your mouth with some kind of mild chemical action; and C) Renders your taste buds inert for a period of time.

I hope our friend likes the cake. It came out looking great, thanks to the guidance and participation of the Mrs. during assembly. But the proof of the cake is in the eatin'.

Your takeaway from all this? Learn from Fred's mistakes. That's more than I usually do.

Geek no more.

Bad news on the dork step: ThinkGeek is closing down.

Parent company GameStop is shutting down the online store, your #1 stop for geek shopping for the last twenty years. Cruel fate! Where will people who need Star Wars, Star Trek, or Dr. Who merch go now? Or fans of anime, computer and console games, RPGs, cosplay, SF and fantasy, comic books and cartoons? Not to mention those seeking all kinds of weird gizmos, science toys, and whatnot? Especially the whatnot.

This will be tough on my own personal Santa Claus, the lovely and thoughtful Mrs. Key. She's gotten me quite a few presents over the years from ThinkGeek, some of which I've profiled here, like:

World's smallest operational Pac-Man Arcade Game!

Justice League paper clips!

Pac-Man ghost PJ pants that I didn't know glowed
in the dark until I got up in the night to use the
can and almost had a heart attack!

20-sided-die mug!

20-sided-die snack bowl! (Comes apart into two bowls;
one for dip, one for chips)

Medieval weapon pushpins! (Gonna buy a corkboard
just to use them)

Complimentary Timmy the Monkey stickers!

Lawful Good T-shirt!

BATPANTS!!!!!!!

And that doesn't include the 20-sided fuzzy dice for the car, the vanishing fireplace mug, the reusable hand-warmer that eventually could no longer be reused, and other things I couldn't find. All these were great gifts, often stocking stuffers, and all are the kind of gifts that will be harder to find now.

GameStop says they'll have "some" merchandise on the company site, which I assume will be only merchandise related to video games. Okay, I guess they know their business. But I'm no gamer. I'll miss getting ThinkGeek loot.

I sure hope this doesn't mean I have to grow up now. 😱

And keep reaching for the stars!

"I think I actually minded it less before the Positivity Management training."

A Post that sticks to the roof of your mouth.

We were discussing some Post cereals at the Great Lileks's site yesterday, which reminded me I had wanted to post about one. And I do mean Post.

I've always thought Post was the Pepsi to Kellogg's Coke, but that may not be an apt description. First of all, Pepsi actually owns Quaker. Second, Quaker may be the Pepsi to Kellogg's Coke, leaving Post as the RC Cola to both of them. 

I don't know -- but Post always seems to have less shelf space than the other two. So I've always rooted for them, a little bit, and made sure to get my Grape Nuts, my Shredded Wheat, my Honey Bunches of Oats from time to time. No Fruity Pebbles, not these days. 

Medieval Post brands;
courtesy of Lileks.com

Although I will admit to taking Alpha-Bits to the woodshed on one occasion.

One thing Post has done in recent years that must be a home run: deals with Nabisco to make cereals based on their cookies, like Oreos, Chips Ahoy, Honey Maid graham crackers, and now:

I've always liked the Nutter Butter cookie, big PB fan am I. So, when this cereal appeared on sale, I had to try a box. Here's the description from the back of the package:

Unfortunately I did not go crazy for it as promised, and it does not take much to get me crazy. I was disappointed. I thought the little cookie did not have much flavor on its own, and the coating of peanut butter was unpleasant, almost gummy. Dry or with milk, the texture was not good, and the flavor was weak.

Others do like it, as is clear from the votes and comments on the invaluable Mr. Breakfast site, but not me.

The odd thing is, I really liked Kellogg's JIF peanut butter cereal, which came out in 2014, and that's been discontinued. If this cereal succeeds where that failed, it will be a triumph of Nabisco brand recognition. Or maybe it's just me; maybe as in other things I am just running contrary to my fellow Americans.

But it looks to me like Pepsi wins this one; Quaker-owned Cap'n Crunch's Peanut Butter Crunch has been killing it in the cereal aisle since 1969.

But I feel sad that they've fired Smedley the Elephant, who's no longer allowed on the box. Heartless bastards, those oat people.

THIS is the end?

If Morrison had lived

Jupiter Gin! Planet Poker!

I had to give in and order a new laptop. 

This is something I resisted for a long time. My old Acer has served me well. It's accompanied me on trips to California and Pennsylvania without complaint. It's survived my career change to full-time freelance and the advent of Tralfaz and Nipper (a.k.a. Thing 1 and Thing 2). I've had it since the start of Obama's second term, and unlike everything in Washington, it has never given me grief. 

But it is breaking down. Physically the case is showing signs of wear. There's a crack in a corner that threatens to tear off entirely one day. The screws keep coming loose. Both these things cause occasional connection problems between the computer and the screen. There are also problems with storage and speed, and keeping up with software upgrades. Basically, it's time. 

It's always tough, breaking in a new computer.

One summer when I was in school, I had a temp job working in an office with an actual robot. It's the only time I've ever worked with one, and it's weird in retrospect because it was a very paper-oriented work and I never used a computer. The robot was the property of the mailroom, and it made the rounds several times a day. It was a mail cart that followed a strip all over the floor, stopping for programmed times at programmed spots, to move all the paper around. It chirped as it traveled about, just to let you know it was coming. I believe it was called Orville.

So, being the college snot that I fancied myself to be, I drew a series of cartoons about Orville being reprogrammed into a mail cart killing machine. My coworkers loved them. They photocopied them and sent them around to the rest of the office... using Orville. It was a popular feature in the office, until the bosses gave us a cease-and-desist. Which I did, until my last day. Had to conclude the story.

Mail robots were a thing, I guess, but I never saw another one. Atlas Obscura tells the tale of their history, of which even the twilight has passed. Ironically, it was the digital age that did in the Mailmobile, as networks led to much less reliance on physical paper. But the computer brain lives on!

I'm not looking for a Uniblab or something pricey that can run serious games. I just need a machine to work on, to maintain Internet contact and not lose my files. I'm proud of my Acer for putting up with a lot of peril and poor digital management from me over the years. I just hope that it doesn't realize it's about to be replaced and oi8u3825r10p8yofowedJN

Halo dere!

As you probably know, your friend Fred is a living saint.

But as you follow this blog day after day, you wonder: What makes me think that? Just an impression I get? Certainly not anything Fred does.

Well, that may be the case, and if so it's clear that my angelic modesty has prevented me from talking about all my good deeds.

Here's the main one: I am a great closer of mailboxes.

You know what happens. The mailman leaves mail and doesn't close the mailbox door properly. Or the homeowner picks it up and lazily slaps the box closed, not seeing that it popped right back open. Or the wind pries it open. Or a thief. Or the stupid box is old and decrepit and can't close with any certitude anymore. Whatever the reason, you have a mailbox hanging open at the house, door lying there like a moronic, drooling lower lip, lolling in the breeze, making the whole property and its people look like shiftless dumbbells.

That's where I come in.

If I'm trotting along, walking the dog or something, and I see the box? I'm closing it. Because that's the kind of saint I am.

Before

After

You're welcome!

Now everything looks pin-neat and refreshed. No passerby thinks that the folks in the house are careless idiots. Nope, they think the place is smart and refined, even though it probably isn't. All because I went out of my way to do a good deed, a deed for which I expect no recompense nor thanks, out of the goodness of my shining, golden heart.

If only more people could be like me. Ah, humanity!

Mysterious mysteries of the unknown!

Good evening. Tonight on Mysterious Mysteries of the Unknown, we look into some of the most baffling questions of our day. Can we solve these mysterious mysteries? Or will they remain... Unknown?

QUESTION: Does Walmart really think people will be more willing to buy chicken feet if they are sold as chicken paws? Aren't paws something that cute things like puppies and teddy bears have? Why would you want to eat them? 

It's... MYSTERIOUS!

👿

QUESTION: How did this Mercedes get smushed in on top? Rollover? Frozen 30-pound turkey dropped off an overpass? Fat guy sat on the roof for a rest? Or the ghost of Frank Nitti?

It's... UNKNOWN!

👾

QUESTION: Do these kids have a problem with language? Or does this newspaper not know how the English is spoke?

It's... a MYSTERY!

👹

QUESTION: Is it time to cut the grass? Or does the property manager think
he can wait a few more months? 

It's... an ENIGMA!

💀

QUESTION: Are these telephone poles hiding secret messages with their numbers?

Are they trying to tell us something? Or trying NOT to tell us something?

It's... A CONUNDRUM!

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QUESTION: Is this chair a clothing? Is it a shoe? Can people just not read?

It's... INSCRUTABLE! 

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QUESTION: What the hell is this thing? Too small for a bed frame--a toddler bed frame?
But why the strange non-foot-like protrusions? Is it a rack for torturing little gnomes? 

Are they trying to dispose of the evidence?

It's... a MINDBOGGLER!

👻

Join us again next time as we span the globe looking for... MYSTERIOUS MYSTERIES OF THE UNKNOWN!

Just crack a joke.

I kind of didn't want to, but I wound up doing it anyway. I tried Just Crack an Egg.

Yes, Just Crack an Egg, brought to us by Ore-Ida, the folks that made American frozen potatoes great with Tater Tots. It's a scientific fact that most American children would starve without chicken fingers and Tater Tots, or at least that is what they would tell you. Their blood is about 12% ketchup. Despite this, parent company Kraft Heinz may be selling off the famed potato division. 

I dunno, maybe Just Crack an Egg will keep the brand afloat, even though it is among the dumbest brand names ever. It's right up there with Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific and I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. Then again, those brands have been around for a long time.

The whole pitch of this product is that you unload the contents of a fresh egg into the package, nuke it, and you have breakfast. My wife got furious at the very idea. She thought this was such an easy thing to make on your own that the idea of buying the cup full of crap and mixing in a raw egg was the height of sloth disguised as actual cooking. Of course she blames Millennials. "Laziest bunch of sustainability-preaching hypocrites ever born" is how she phrased it.

Look, I understand that mornings can be hectic -- isn't that always the word? Hectic? Even a monk living in a cell who eats dust says, "Oy vey, so hectic in the morning." That's why we have Pop-Tarts. And maybe you get sick of them or cold cereal every morning. But you have just ten minutes before the bus comes. I broad-mindedly said, like Al Smith, let's look at the record! In other words, let's crack an egg!

Here's the instructions on the package:

Oh, now, wait a minute! This is a five-step process! it's not "just crack an egg," it's 1) remove lid and 2) CRACK EGG and 3) empty food pouches and 4) stir and 5) nuke. Worse, you have to not just crack the egg but get it into the cup. AND the microwaving is a multi-step process of zapping and stirring... Come on, dude! This is, like, cooking now. I can't even.

Here are the "pouches" mentioned in the instructions -- yum.

This particular JCaE was an egg/cheese/sausage/peppers/onions cup called Ultimate Scramble, one of eight varieties. I got this one because it was the ULTIMATE! I would never need another scramble! ("Ultimate Scramble" sounds like the staging directions for a Harold Lloyd picture, actually.)

The proof of the scramble is in the eating. So, how was it?

Well, it was okay. The breakfast sausage was uninspiring, but the potatoes and bell peppers came through all right. It needed seasoning, some more pepper and perhaps some basil or oregano -- but c'mon man, that's work. I wanted to just crack an egg! It did nuke up fine, egg fluffy and no hard potato bits, so it could be worse. And it cost less than $1.50 on sale, not counting my contribution (egg).

I think the dumb name is still bothering me the most. There's just something so violently stupid about it. Maybe the ideal morning would be to get up, shower using Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific, eat a Just Crack an Egg and some toast with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter, and drive off in your Honda Step on the Gas Pedal Car.

You know what our ancestors did when they were hungry? Just crack an elk. They may not have had iPhones but they knew how to survive. Just saying.