A little something for Mom.

Yes, my friends, it is Birthing Persons Day once again, also known to our betters in society as Persons with a Cervix Who Have Employed It in Perpetuating the Species Day. Because the whole world is run by stupid people who are also crazy. 

Nevertheless, you may be at a loss as to what to get that special Birthing Person in your life, be it a female-identifying parent or guardian or a female-identifying spouse. Well, worry no more, because our friends at Lalafanc know just what she wants. 

Actually it's Lalafancy; the dropout white Y is invisible.

The Cleaning Brush Kit for bathrooms is the miracle of Communist Chinese manufacture you might hope -- a scrub brush on a pole. What says "I love you" more than a gift that also says, "Birthing person, I do not want you to have to scrub the tile on your hands and knees ever again! Here, use this!" 

And look at the helpful instructions:

That's literally the extent of it, but it's OK. There's a three-piece pole to put together, and if you can't do that you probably shouldn't be loose around cleaning supplies anyway. 

I HAVE THE POWERRRRR

All right, the truth is, my wife got this for me. One of her favorite influencers online recommended the thing, so here it is. As longtime readers know, the one condition my wife had in our marriage was that I would never ask her to clean the bathroom. She just can't bear the job. I think she had the priest slip something into the vows about it. 

My review of the tool? It's a lot easier on your back than scrubbing the tub by hand. It is not as effective as my favorite method, which is Formula 409 coupled with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser, but it does the job well enough. Certainly good for a quick weekly clean. If you have houseguests coming, though, you'll probably want to use some old-fashioned elbow grease, the kind you just can't get when the scrubbing surface is at the end of a lightweight three-foot pole. 

I hope the Lalalfancy people don't get upset that I didn't go bananas over this thing. After all, as they like to say:

Eternal pursuit! Aw, don't be so hard on yourselves, Lalafancy. You're sure to catch up to my satisfaction eventually.

And yet, for that special cervical someone on your list, the Cleaning Brush Kit probably would not in reality be a great gift idea. So let me recommend instead: Slice! 

Another item bought by my wife, Slice is really a clever little tool. It's got a tiny ceramic blade on the pointy end that is perfect for cutting open those frustrating plastic packages or shearing impenetrable packing tape, but is incapable of cutting human flesh. It's also magnetic, so you can stick it on the fridge until you need it. 

I love this thing. Totally works as advertised. Lousy steak knife, sure, but not meant to be. It's Slice! 

That's all for today -- go be nice to the mothers out there! And no, Samuel L. Jackson does not count. 

One memey moisty morning.

Greetings, my friends! The weekend was acceptably lovely and busy. I did pick the winner of the Kentucky Derby, but only because a friend of mine was once really into an independent comic book by the same name. Alas, I put no money on the horse. Did I spread mulch this weekend? Yes sir, I did. Just ask my back! 

Today, I offer fresh picked memes to start your week. Don't all hurrah at once. 

\

Thanks to fellow Bleatnik rbj13 for the otter picture

Maybe it comes with the name?

Two weeks!

I don't want to put the fear of God into any of you guys out there, but Christmas is exactly two weeks away, and if you have that someone special on your list, remember:

🎅🎄FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION. 🤶⛄

It's a truism that many men suck at buying gifts for their loved ones, and it's a truism because it's very often true. My dad was completely incapable of buying someone a gift. If he thought you wanted a shed, he could come over and knock one up in a day and expect no thanks for it, but when it came to going into an actual store and trying to figure out what Mom might like, forget it. I think he would have felt more comfortable being dropped blindfolded in Shanghai and told to find his way home.

For minor events, like Mom's birthday, he might unofficially deputize the kids to take this money and go buy Mom something nice. For Christmas, Mom just bought what she wanted. She knew what she was getting when she married him. And for her part, she was an excellent shopper and gift-giver. 

Mom (l.) out in front of the pack on Black Friday

Some guys figure that if they only had some real dough they wouldn't have this problem. After all, if you walk into a jewelry store and drop enough cheddar to buy a furnace, you're probably going to come out with something your beloved will like. There is some truth to that truism, too. Even this plan, however, has its pitfalls:

🎁 She may be the type who is not into jewelry. Maybe she's concerned about the exploitation of miners, or doesn't like cold metal on her skin, or just would rather wear natural accessories like feathers or twigs. You know: Hippies.

🎁 You might have tremendously bad taste that taxes the powers of the clerk. Even if you got your wife to like football, for example, a $10,000 diamond-crusted dental grill with CLEVELAND BROWNS written on it is probably not going to get the job done.

🎁 Wake up! You don't have 10 large lying around! She might hit you for blowing the money needed for the college fund or to put toward a new car! Whaddaya, stupid?

Goodness knows there are enough gift guides out there on the Internet. Maybe one of them can lead you to the present promised land. Better act fast (especially if you want free shipping, which we know you do). 

It's always going to be dicey, though, even if you know the person really well. And if you're in love, shouldn't you? You ought to be able to answer these questions:

⭐ Is this person the type to be really impressed by how much you spent? Because if so, she will know how much it cost. Trust me on this. 

⭐ Is the person the problem type who buys anything she wants and leaves no lane of approach, having clogged it with her own purchases? This is a very frustrating type, because you can surmise what she likes but have to assume she has it. 

⭐ Is this person one to drop hints? If so, respond positively enough to encourage her but not enough to assure her. (My wife will text me something she definitely would like, but it's always a side attraction gift, not the main event.) 

Well, good luck out there, people. When all else fails, a gift certificate is not the worst idea, but it always tells the person I LOVE YOU EXACTLY THIS MANY DOLLARS AND 00 CENTS, which isn't very romantic. 

I think my mom would have appreciated that much thought, though. Although Dad did build a nice shed. 

Moms!!!!!!!

Happy Mother's Day to all those moms out there! 

My mom was a pretty tough lady, God rest her soul, and indeed she had to be. There were many times we kids were threatened with death, severe violence, or abandonment at a Dickensian orphanage. In my opinion, a child that doesn't get that kind of thing from his mom (the threats, not the follow-through) is not trying hard enough. Or his mom is a perfect saint. 

I won't go into the usual blah blah blah about the history of Mother's Day and how the creator regretted her creation -- you can read that anywhere today. For that matter, many mothers regret their creations from time to time. Instead, I wanted to point out the other holidays or special commemorations that occur around Mother's Day. 

Now, it's no coincidence I'm sure that Lilac Sunday occurs on the second Sunday of May every year, just like Mother's Day. Or that Iris Day is celebrated on May 8, which is always close to Mother's Day if not smack on it. Well, maybe it is a coincidence, but with all the flowers bought for moms on this day, I doubt it. I may not smell a rat, but I can smell a flower.

National Hospital Week and National Women's Health Week both start today, which is an obvious tie-in to Mother's Day. For most of us, Mom is our #1 healthcare provider in our early years, and so we worry about her own health. There seems to be a connection. For that matter, May 8 is World Red Cross Day. And who gave you more bandages that Mom? 

Also, May 8 is National Outdoor Intercourse Day, and that's one way to become a mom. I wonder if anyone goes around claiming that he loves camping because Mom and Dad conceived him in Yosemite? Wouldn't surprise me. 

May 8 is also supposed to be National No Socks Day, a day when we parade around sans socks. This would seem to be another rite-of-spring type event, but wait! May 9 is Lost Sock Memorial Day! Now we start to see the connection. Moms do most of the laundry even in these enlightened times; No Socks Day may just be a means to cover the fact that so many socks, tragically, have been lost. And so it's no surprise that May 10 is Clean Up Your Room Day, when kids are supposed to get all the crap cleaned out and straightened up, and undoubtedly many lost socks will be found. Do it for Mom, children!

Whether on purpose or by happenstance, there are many reasons this week to think about our mothers and all the misery through which we put them. Get your mom something nice, if you can. And if, like mine, your mom has gone to her rest -- well, with rotten kids like us, she probably earned it, and God bless her. 

The knots that bind.

I know I said I wasn't going to talk about Christmas anymore, but one last unexpected thing has come up that I thought you might find interesting. 

It was time (or past time) to gather up the giftwrap and put it away neatly, which usually means I put the tubes of paper in a box and everything else in a huge bag. Well, I was trying to be a little neater this year, and as a result I came across a buried treasure from decades ago, something I inherited and have not yet used. 

This is an unwrapped roll of curling ribbon (or as it's billed here, crinkle ribbon) that my mom bought from Kmart in the 1980s. I'm not sure when, but the price tag says 87, and it could certainly have been that interesting year. The font used for "The Spirit of Christmas" screams mid to late eighties to me. And the price, $1.57 for 400 feet, is definitely old; I saw a similar roll of multicolored ribbon from Target, $3 for just 70 feet. 

I know my mom bought this. She loved to wrap gifts with curling ribbon. I'm not such a big fan, as it really wraps up a box tight and the ribbon often needs to be cut; moreover, half the time I'll have it all done and use the scissors to curl the ribbon, and wind up with a stretched-out busted Slinky of a decoration instead. When it works it makes an elegant presentation. The point is, I inherited a bunch of this stuff from Mom and haven't used it up all these years later.

Mom liked to shop at Kmart. In the late eighties, Walmart was just a rumor on the East Coast. Kmart was everywhere. Now there are only five of them left in the entire state of New York. 

Here's something interesting that ties into yesterday's post: See where the Kmart ribbon was made? 

Yes, the good ol' U.S.A.! Get this: The Target ribbon was also made in the United States! By golly, maybe we can't make appliances or clothes or electronics or furniture or tools or toys or picture books or car parts anymore, but by golly, we lead the world in curling ribbon!

Well, that wasn't why I wanted to post this. I wanted to say I miss my mom, especially at Christmastime, and it was nice to have this little reminder of her. That's all.

Out of the clear, blue sky.

I'm glad my mother didn't live to see September 11, 2001. She would have suffered unbearably from anxiety. It might have killed her in a slower and more cruel way than the heart failure that took her a couple of years earlier.

I have a friend who was an EMT down there. He talks about going to Iraq later with the army, looking for a pound of flesh, killing an enemy, getting hurt by a suicide bomber, but he doesn't talk about September 11.

Another friend was a fireman uptown. He likes sharing bawdy stories about his days with the department, on trips to Vegas and other shenanigans, and will talk about his past job, finding dead children and pets in apartments gutted by fire sparked by crack pipes or stupidity. But he's never talked about September 11.

All I did that day was walk down from midtown to as close to the Financial District as the police would let me go, which at that point was Houston Street, so I could finally find my wife and get her out of Manhattan. We had no idea how we would do it, but we did it.

I think that's all I have to say about it, except -- all those Americans who promised they would never, ever forget? The 343 firemen and FD EMTs, the 23 officers of the NYPD, the 37 PATH and New Jersey police officers, and the nine others who ran in while everyone else was running out, and paid the ultimate price? America said it would never, ever forget.

It took less than 20 years.

Suits me.

One rainy night in June, my parents loaded the family into the car and drove off to buy me two suits. I had recently graduated from college. This was another gift, after so very many they had already given me.

Along the way a tire blew out. Dad got the car to the side of the road. I was going to help put on the spare, but Mom wouldn't let me. I had dress shoes on; I was going to be measured, going to try on jackets and pants; I had to stay neat and dry. My poor dad got soaked jacking up the car with us in it, changing the tire, somehow always keeping his cigarette lit no matter how hard it poured.

At the venerable clothing store, I was given the workup by the tailor. No off-the-rack here. Not when it came to formal and business wear. Colors were chosen -- one black, one blue with pinstripes. Chalk marks flew up and down the legs and arms like drawings of little birds. Maybe a tie or two selected as well. Ready in a week. And so was my kit prepared for the launching of my brilliant career.

It was an era where no man on earth would have gone to an office-job interview in anything less than a suit and tie and shined-up shoes. But even then, my parents' gift seemed very old-fashioned. I wasn't the first in my family to graduate college; although my parents had never gone to college, I wasn't even in the first in the car that night to have graduated. It was not that they were stuffing me into a uniform and insisting I bring home the bacon. It was that they were proud of me, something they didn't say in words, but that gift, that rainy night, showed me their pride more than anything words could have said. I wore both suits at least once a week for years as I commuted into Manhattan and went to work.

I bring this up because I gave away the blue suit yesterday.

The black suit was a lighter, almost summer-weight fabric, and eventually I wore it out. The blue pinstripe was stronger, and it survived everything but my appetite; I got too fat for it. I always swore I was going to drop the weight and wear it again, but I never did, even when I was jogging, even when I gave up beer. Nowadays, following my back injury, I can only do gentle exercise, if walking two big burly dogs can be gentle, and without exercise I have never been able to drop anything more than a few pounds. It was time to let this suit go.

Here's the thing -- I have plenty of old clothes that need to go. Others can use them; some of them are in very good shape. Some I've never liked even if they fit. Why should I keep them? And a suit, cleaned and still in good condition, ought to be in every man's closet. I have suits that fit. Someone could use that blue pinstripe; in fact, I just this morning saw an article on a charity that needs suits. But for years I wouldn't part with it, mostly for sentimental reasons. Yesterday I decided it had been long enough. My parents have been gone for quite a while now. My suit may be a little out of date, but there's nothing wrong with it. So I put it in the clothes collection box down at the church.

I hope it brings someone else good fortune. It certainly was always good for me. When I wore either of those suits, I always felt like a million bucks, or at least a few hundred grand.

Now I'm looking at other things with which I can part. Funny, but when I let that suit go at last, my first thought was, I think I can let anything else go now, too.

A woid for mudduh.

(Wit apologies ta Howad Johnson an' Teodoah Moarse; whadid dey evah do ta me?)

I been around da world, you bet, but never went ta school
Hard knocks is all I seem ta get; I tink I been a fool;
But still, some edjicated guys, supposed ta be so swell,
Would fail if dey was called upon dis simple woid ta spell.
Now if youse like ta put me to da test,
Dere's one dea name dat I can spell da best!

"M" is da the million tings she gave me
"U" is cause U know dat she's da tops
"D" is she's a dahlin an delightful
"D" is Dykah Heights, whea she met Pops
"A" is for her Sunday abbondanza
"H" means hugs; she gives you such a squeeze
Put dem all together, dey spell MUDDAH,
A woid dat means da woild in Brooklynese.

Happy Muddah's Day ta all youse muddahs out dere!

Laundry room. Come in, laundry room.

When my wife's phone pings, alerting her to a text, I feel the need to say "It's not me," even though I'm in the same room. Unless it is me, and I'm texting her in secret for some reason, like not wanting to wake the dog(s) at her feet.

We text each other within the house a lot more than I would have ever expected. Mainly it's because my office is upstairs and hers is down, so vital messages like "What's for lunch?" and "Whatever you're making!" need to be transmitted in an efficient manner.

All this got me thinking about that wave of the future that I remember from childhood -- the in-home intercom. Many of my friends' homes had them. You kids may not have seen them, or perhaps you have, because they were built right into the walls and thus their removal would leave a huge hole.

They all looked like this, right down to the paneling.

These tended to be in houses built in the early- to mid-1960s. The house I grew up in was older than that, so we didn't have them. They seemed to me like real science fiction technology -- the idea that you could call Dad in the basement or your big sister in her room without getting up was amazing. "Sis! Your stupid boyfriend is on the stupid phone again!" Mom could call from wherever she was (the kitchen) to wherever you were (in front of the TV) without screaming. Some of them even had radios, so you could tune in the ball game or some groovy music at will. So futuristic.

In every house I knew of where these things were installed, though, they had ceased to function. I don't recall ever seeing one used, but I do recall people telling me they didn't work. These things were, of course, hardwired, so there's no reason I can tell you why they would malfunction anymore than the electrical socket would suddenly stop working. I guess the units just broke. But their importance in daily family life is demonstrated to me by the fact that no ever bothered to have the system fixed.

What the hell, Mom can always scream, right? She could shatter glass with that voice.

NuTone was the company that made most of these. Invisible Themepark has a nice summary of the history of the home intercom, although I think they're mistaken in saying this was only a feature of rich people's homes. I remember some developments that had been chucked up in the 1960s, the kind of home Rodney Dangerfield lived in in Easy Money, that had intercoms. Tiny backyards, but intercoms. The moms yelled anyway.

What absolutely stunned me is that NuTone is not only still with us, but they still make home intercoms. And not only that, but they're still wired into the wall. In fact, if you have the old wiring from an old system, they can have new units attached to it. I might have thought they'd do the system wirelessly now, but I guess that'd be just another phone. Or a non-walkie talkie.

As appealing as the idea is, I think I'll pass. After all, if I wanted to alert my wife, I'd have to get off the sofa, walk to the unit, call for her, wait for her to get away from the desk (disturbing Nipper and Tralfaz, sleeping on her feet), and answer the call. Easier to text.

Or yell. Yelling works.

Candy for Mom?

OMIGOD IT'S MOTHER'S DAY AND I FORGOT TO GET MOM SOMETHING!

Is that your problem today? Boy howdy, it's a bad one. Fortunately there is hope. All you need to do is pop into your local supermarket or gas station and get Mom some awesome chocolate.

No, not a Whitman's Sampler or those awful Cella's chocolate cherries! Skip the Dove and Godiva and Perugina and Ghirardelli! If Mom likes a good strong cup of coffee, and if she raised you she probably needed it, then she wants these:

Yes, it's another of the apparently endless series of M&M's variations, this one Crunchy Espresso. (Note to New Yorkers: It is not Expresso. There is no such thing.) Crunchy Espresso is one of the flavors in the current vote for new flavor, along with Crunchy Raspberry and Crunchy Mint. All of them have that riceyness that gives the Crispy M&M its crunchiness. Last time M&M's went to a vote, peanut-based Coffee Nut was elected to be a regular flavor, so I guess Crunchy Espresso might be considered the favorite here.

Going the crunchy route for the espresso flavor makes it sort of a junior-varsity chocolate-covered espresso bean. If you liked those but you hated the bits of coffee bean in your mouth, this could be the M&M for you.

Here's is a closeup of the three Crunchy Espresso M&M's:

They all taste the same -- like dark chocolate with a strong instant-espresso taste. You might think one tastes like a twist of lemon peel and the other a glass of sambuca, but this is not an Italian restaurant. I find them to successfully portray their flavor, but I'm not sure how much America will go in for that. When Starbucks sells espresso, after all, they usually have all kinds of other crap in the cup along with it. That's how we got "latte," which I think is European for "can barely tell it's coffee."

Definitely not the case here. These M&M's have a very strong taste, very bitter -- so very, very bitter. Bitter, bitter, bitter. Bitter like a mother who realizes her beloved child forgot to get her something nice again this Mother's Day and wound up getting cheap candy at the Quick Chek. That kind of bitter.

Maybe you'd better see if the jeweler is open.

Daffodil.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

--William Wordsworth, "That Poem You Read in English 101"

Tulips are coming out now. Daffodil time is almost over.

I never saw a host of golden daffodils in a natural group, as Wordsworth described. I've only ever seen them in a horde like that when someone went to a lot of trouble planting a lot of bulbs.

The narcissus. as the daffodil is also known, has not relied on gardeners to survive, but is actually a flower that can spread on its own. Being a city kid in I wouldn't have thought enough about flowers to ever bother finding that out, but it's true. If I had thought about it, I'd have decided that eventually the flower just hocks up a bulb, which would be comical, but no. They replicate by seeds or bulbs quite naturally, and it's very complicated, at least for a non-biologist guy like me. Bulbs divide, which is faster than seed reproduction, so if the narcissus is in a rush it can skip the seed route. Nature is strange, even when it is beautiful.

But you note that the clonal method is not going to cause a new daffodil to erupt halfway across town. This is why in nature, daffodils like to travel in packs.

The reason I mention that is a memory that emerged from the depths as I saw this year's blossoms. When I was a kid we lived by a major thoroughfare, next to which there was nothing but an off road. But right by those, a daffodil would pop up every spring.

Why there? It was not close enough to the road to be a kind of memorial of a tragic accident; people didn't do that in those days, anyway. Maybe there was a seed dropped by a bird. Maybe it had been planted years before when people lived on that property, before their house was removed to build the road... and all that was left was the bulb they planted. I loved it because it had no business being there. We love things that turn up in places where they are unexpected, like wonderful restaurants in tiny towns or phone booths in the middle of nowhere.

For a few years I would wait for that daffodil, and before it could begin to wilt I would pick it and bring it to my mother. I think she enjoyed that -- she didn't get a lot of flowers. She always thanked me. She'd put it in a glass on our kitchen table.

One spring the daffodil did not come up. I thought I'd missed it; that some jerk had beaten me to my daffodil. But it didn't come up the next year either. Maybe an animal dug up the bulb, or maybe it just died. Nothing lives forever, although daffodil bulbs seem to be willing to take a crack at it.

The thing is, you seldom know when it's the last time for anything. The last day I drove my previous car I had no idea it was the end, but a session of hydroplaning saw to that. The last time I spoke to my oldest friend I was rushed and irritated and neither of us knew he had barely a month of life left. The day my mom died I didn't know it was that, either.

I take a lot in life for granted, but now I appreciate every daffodil.

Momma nuke.

A couple of weeks ago I ran 25 tips for home cooks, things I'd learned, many the hard way. I had one more tip, but it was really about cleanliness and kitchen safety rather than cooking.

The question is: How do you clean the microwave?

You have to put food in there, so bleach products and ammonia are out. You want an ammonia-flavored Hot Pocket? It's an electronic product, so scouring powders are a bad idea. Oven cleaner? Not made for microwave ovens.

You need an angry mama.

The Angry Mama Microwave Cleaner arrived at Christmas, and is a handy little gizmo. It works by the same principle I've always used, that of nuking up a bowl of water really hot and letting the steam loosen the gunk on the oven interior. Some elbow grease does the rest. 

The problem with this method is one I found out the first time I tried it -- superheated water is dangerous. The FDA reports "serious skin burns or scalding injuries around people's hands and faces as a result of hot water erupting out of a cup after it had been over-heated in a microwave oven. Over-heating of water in a cup can result in superheated water (past its boiling temperature) without appearing to boil." I did not get burned, fortunately, but here's what happened: I put in a bowl of water with some lemon juice and set the timer to Kill; when it was done I opened the door. "If superheating has occurred, a slight disturbance or movement such as picking up the cup, or pouring in a spoon full of instant coffee, may result in a violent eruption with the boiling water exploding out of the cup," says Mr. FDA, and opening the door was enough. BANG! 

The Mythbusters did a nice demo on this years ago:

After my escapade I adapted my method by superheating the water and then leaving the bowl in the microwave until it had cooled off, 10 minutes or so. 

You still have to do this with Angry Mama. Since Mama is plastic, she seems to require less time to get past the explosive state (instructions say to wait two minutes after nuking before lifting), and she has those stay-cool arms for safe removal. The manufacturer recommends a mixture of vinegar and water rather than lemon juice. You'll still have to use some muscle to scrub the inside of the oven -- those cheesy splats bake on like concrete -- but the job is far easier. For one thing, she has steam holes in the head to blast steam at the ick that forms on the microwave roof. When the job is done, she's ready for a bath in the dishwasher. 

So we're glad we got the Angry Mama, and recommend her. Better and safer than the old bowl method. But she never does stop looking mad. I guess she's seen the state of the refrigerator.

Mother's Day and stuff.

Yesterday the sun tried to make an appearance after a solid week of rain.

Well, guess what's happening now (Sunday morning)?

Too bad for our local mothers, who might have wanted an al fresco brunch or something -- not a great day for it. What it is a great day for are the weeds and mushrooms, which are enjoying this weather far more than my sad little blades of grass. When did we decide that a lawnful of grass was what looked great around the house? Floral evolution suggests we may have picked a losing battle on that one.

Still, whether the weather is cloudy or bright wherever you are, we offer our Salute to Moms this Mother's Day. Moms, we salute you!

Deedle dee deet dee deeeeee!!

Google had a pretty cute illustration for Mother's Day, but I liked last year's animation better:

My mom has passed on now some time ago, and when I think of her, which I do every day, I often wish life had been kinder to her. And when I say "life" I also mean "her children." Too soon old, too late smart, they say, and possibly in no area more than in appreciation of your parents.

To quote the late Lewis Grizzard, don't forget to call your mama... I wish I could call mine.

Wok this way.

If you didn't get the idea from yesterday's post about Korvettes, I'm pretty much a geezer by now and that's why I have old stuff. Because to me it's still new stuff. Because it's my age and I'm young! Except I'm not, so it's old stuff.

Here's another bit of proof---another booklet from Mom's recipe folder that she held on to for years. This one's not nearly as old as some of the previous exhibits I've posted, though, and if you're my age it may bring back memories.

Yes, those of you who are indeed my age are nodding. Mom bought the Great Wok of China. As seen on TV!

They really did move a lot of these woks. The father of a friend of mine got one and, like my mom, set forth to wok everything in sight. My buddy said, "Everything goes in the wok; beef, pork, fish, the cat..."

In time the novelty passed; our wok went in a cupboard, then in a more distant cupboard, then failed to come along when they sold the house. But Mom kept the book.

Normally I like to check these booklets for any horrible recipes, but this one is very basic, very simple, and as sloppily designed as it is, is not a bad introduction to popular Chinese restaurant dishes. Some are a little out there for the average American, like the hot & sour cabbage, but nothing is too weird. Maybe the sweet & sour meatballs:

Make your meatballs as tiny as possible, people. C'mon.

Pretty sure Mom never tried that one.

There's also this unhelpful illustration to show dumb Americans how to use chopsticks:

Trim your nails, Louise! 

Dads all over the country were probably encouraged to use this illustration to try to learn to eat like a Chinese person, then went back to the fork, muttering, two minutes later.

Anyway, I remember we had fun with the wok, and it did introduce some new dishes to the rotation, at least for a while. Feeding whiny kids is no one's idea of a good time, unless for some reason you think M&M's for dinner is what they need. If the wok was also fun for Mom and got us to stop complaining about boring ol' dinnertime, then she got her money's worth, and God love her for it.

Accidents will happen.