Category: Absurdity

“Animals are such agreeable friends”, novelist George Eliot once wrote. “They ask no questions, they pass no criticisms”. I assume she (yes, a woman named George) did include dogs among her friends. Or maybe not, because how could she have failed to mention that dogs are also insatiable eaters? They eat the food you give them at their regular feeding times. They also eat the food you don’t give them, like my sandwich on the table while I answer the phone. They eat whatever worm or other creature has expired on the sidewalk, no matter how long ago. They also eat rubber gloves. At least our Brussels griffon does. We know that because it came out his back door again, finger by finger. Our female Yorkshire terrier, all five pounds of her, has an even more exotic idea of what constitutes gourmet food: she cleans up after herself and eats it.
I remember, a long time ago, that one of my uncles had a dog for whom he always cooked horse meat and vegetables in a big kettle. Recently we became suspicious when the commercial food we had been buying, labeled ‘Bison and Potato Formula’, was suddenly relabeled ‘Potato and Bison Formula’. We intrepreted this as a discreet admission that meat was not the prime ingredient. Since the bison is a cousin of bos taurus, the common bull, we feared that, let’s just say, we would never be told straight out how much actual meat was in this pelletized mix of gristle, sinews, bones, hair, hoofs, skin, and sawdust that we are often warned about in the press. We decided to cook our own dog food from scratch. We did not stoop as low as horse meat, but we had a recipe for a two-course menu of chicken thighs and greens. We came to the first hurdle at our first visit with the butcher at the supermarket. It seems that people’s eating habits have changed toward better nutrition. Nodody buys chicken with skin any more. All the chicken the butcher had, consequently, was skinless. We needed chicken with the skin still on. And it had to be boneless. And it had to be ground. Well, this butcher was unable to do all that.
We eventually found one who was able and willing to prepare what we needed. But he had no innards. I mean, he had none for sale, there were not any in the store. He said that people don’t want them any more, that he couldn’t afford to stock things people don’t buy. Nowadays, the typical American grandmother’s famous gravy comes out of a package, just add water. Who wants to mess with liver and gizzards?
In other cultures, in France for example, or in Iran, chicken livers are highly praised delicacies. So we found a butcher who spoke Farsi, a most friendly and accomodating man who was delighted to supply us with all the liver we could handle. It occurred to me then that our government, instead of trying to come to an understanding with the uncooperative ayatollahs might be more successful working things out with the Iranian butchers’ guild.
Unfortunately our new Iranian friend was out of gizzards or he would have thrown some in. But a nearby Korean market had plenty, enough for our recipe, anyway. To chop liver is no great art. To chop gizzards is a challenge. The job requires a very sharp knife. Mine was razor sharp. That is why I nicked my thumb. Only a quickly grabbed Kleenex prevented me from adding blood to the dog food. We finished the job using the Cuisinart food processor.
To cook ten pounds of meat, rice, vegetables, and fruit one needs a big pan, one bigger than anything we had. In simpler days one could go to the store and buy a pan. Not so any more. No one goes to the store, in the first place. One goes to the computer and googles Amazon. There one learns that there is no such thing as ‘a’ pan. There are only sets of twelve convenient sizes and the shipping is free for orders over fifty dollars. By luck we found one ‘open stock’ skillet of the right size and material at a half way reasonable price. But let that go. The cooking done and the food having cooled, we mashed it all up in a bowl. The dogs paid close attention.
Such food spoils easy. One must freeze the bulk of it until needed for a feeding. One does this by measuring out daily portions. This operation involves the dog owner in most complicated computations, namely how much to give each dog per feeding. The complications arise from the fact that several different units of measurement are in use. In the markets they weigh all food in pounds and decimal fractions of pounds, 2.25 pounds, for example. Our recipe specified the same amount of ingredients in terms of pounds and ounces, like 2 pounds, 4 ounces, while the suggested rations were given in terms of two more different sets of measurements, namely cups, half cups, and fourth cups, as well as tablespoons and teaspoons. Where I come from dog lovers have it easier: everything is weighed in grams, the dogs as well as their food, it being considered irrelevant if served in cups or with spoons. Once weighed out, the portions are set into the freezer where they are promptly forgotten until the following morning’s feeding when everything is frozen solid. This is where the microwave oven comes in, bless the inventor.
It takes two adults to feed four dogs their proper rations, what with shopping, cooking, measuring, and presenting the food in suitably cut up and digestible condition, not too cold and not too hot. The last step is giving the food to the pack in such a way that they all get their’s at the same time. It is a dramatic event. I recorded, mentally, some snippets of our kitchen conversation:
“Beckie’s dish is ready. No, wait. Too much, I think. Where is the scale?”
“Here, stick this one in the microwave, just a few seconds”.
“Not on high! Defrost it, I meant, don’t cook it! Oh, let me do it, here, hold this”.
“Have you done Tiffy’s yet?”
“Hold it, this is Tiffy’s, ready for the oven”.
“Not Tiffy! Her FOOD! Get it together, now”.
“I need one more container”.
“No, not the small one”.
“Is there more room in the oven? What smells so?”
“Do you have something in the toaster oven?”
“Why did you stick Beckie’s food in the toaster?”
“Yes, I may have said “oven” but I meant “microwave” of course. A child would have understood that”.
“Stop barking, Benji. Don’t you see we are working at it?.
“Here, Gwendolyn, let me blow on yours. It was way too hot, wasn’t it?.
“Is it o.k. now? Take a bite, darling”.
“Not you, I was talking to the dog”.
“I am losing it. These animals drive me crazy”.
“I see”, is all I could get out by way of agreement. The funny thing is that what took us hours to prepare they slurped up in ninety seconds and then came begging for more. Needless to say, our pack shows no signs of malnutrition or stress other than that they could handle another cup or ounce or spoonful without trouble. Not to worry, they would somehow ‘gram’ it in.
(c)2016 by Herbert H. Hoffman

 

October 22

SHE: Next week is Halloween. HE: Dear Me, again?

October 23

HE: They will do the Nutcracker at the Fine Arts Pavillion. SHE: Dear Me, again?

October 25

SHE: We need to buy some candy, soon. HE: Yes, unfortunately. Might as well go today.

Same day, at the supermarket

HE: How many did we buy last year? SHE: Not enough. We had to give out quarters by eight thirty, remember? Here, grab a handful of Snackdoodles. And some Loonies. They are too sweet for me but kids like them.

HE: How many, you think, we need? SHE: At least a dozen of each kind I would say.

HE: Oh look, they have Gluecrafts, they are good. What are these? Hi-Kal “Glutenfree”? I never heard of them. SHE: That may be a good thing. You never know what they put in to make it healthy. Grab some, anyway.

HE:  Do we want Shnools? I think they are chocolate with goo inside. SHE: Anything with chocolate cannot be all bad. Take some.

HE: That is quite a bag full already. I didn’t really count what I put in.

SHE: Oh, good I found these. They are “peacrackernutbars”. At least that is what I called them as a child. I loved them. They were the perennial favorites in our family.

October 26

SHE: Wow, that is a lot of stuff. I hope we did not buy too much. HE: Yep. I just weighed the bag. We have almost five pounds of candy here.

October 28

HE: It is terrible. Every time I walk by the bag I reach in and have a candy. Some are actually better than others. SHE (trying to speak with a sweet putty sticking to her teeth): I know. I have two favorites, the Loonies and the Peacrackernutbars. I set a few of them aside. Let’s give those away only if we run out of the others.

October 30

SHE: I really should not eat any more, I had so many yesterday. But candy, just because it is available, grows on you. Like a craving. HE: I agree. And yes, we ought to stop or there will be nothing left to distribute. As a matter of fact, we have barely two and a half pounds left. I can’t believe we ate this many.

October 31, Halloween, Afternoon around four o’clock

HE: I am worried now. Maybe we should put all those favorites back in the bag.

SHE: Isn’t going to happen.

HE: What do you mean?

SHE: Don’t look at me like that. You are not innocent, either. I ate them, of course.

Same evening, around eight

SHE: It is dark already, this time of the year. Funny that nobody has come yet. Go out and try the bell. Maybe it is not working? HE: They would have knocked, if I know children. But I will check. (Ding dong goes the bell). The bell works alright.

Same evening, nine o’clock

HE: This is weird. Is everybody out of town this year? Did all the neighborhood kids grow up and get married? I do not understand.

SHE: Now this is weird. Look out of the bathroom window. Do you hear the voices? There are hordes of children and grown ups, all practically running, toward the School it seems. I bet they have an organized affair this year because of all the vandalism in recenty years.

Same evening, ten thirty

SHE: Well, so much for Halloween, I guess. (Unwraps a Peacrackernutbar). We will have to eat lots of candy now. HE (Munching on a Snackdoodle): Yeah. It’s a shame. No cute kids this year. No Angels with wings, no Princesses. On the other hand, it was a peaceful evening. I guess we will have to give the whole bag to charity.

December 15

SHE: I just thought of it last night. We still have to get all that candy to the Fire Station or the Salvation Army.

HE: Are you kidding?

SHE: What do you mean?

HE: What candy?

(c)2016 by Herbert H Hoffman

 

It is probably not true but I have the feeling that it is: whenever I go for dinner in a nice restaurant and want a glass of wine I somehow trip a switch, it seems, that sets an elaborate ritual in motion. First, the sommelier appears. You can tell him or her by the necklace with the silver spoon hanging from it, a time-honored guild symbol. The sommelier does not bring any wine. He or she merely starts the ritual, beginning with the presentation of the wine list. It is usually a document of several sheets of parchment, folio size and bound in leather, a volume that would not be out of place in a monastery library. I have never yet recognized any of the wines enumerated in any list but I am not proud of my oenological ignorance. I know better. One does not mock the wine tasting, or any other society unless one is part of it, Oscar Wilde warned us. The truth is that the finer points of drinking wine were not part of my upbringing.

Anyway. Looking at the list even I can tell that I am in the presence of the right stuff. The prices tell it all. As a rule of thumb I would say that the average price of wine by the glass tends to be double or triple of what I pay at the Safeway market for the entire bottle. I have never yet paid nineteen dollars for a bottle of dry red but I have paid that much for a glass. A big glass, containing just a few drops. At least that is how I remember it.

The next step in the ritual is a friendly chat with the wine steward. Since I do not know any wines by name I cannot be specific when the steward asks me what kind of wine I like. The question stomps me. As Professor Einstein would have said, “now I must a little think”. All I can meaningfully and honestly say is that it should be red and that I don’t like it too sweet. Some eighty-eight different wines on the list will fit into this category. Gracious God. I cannot say, “Bring me the cheapest”, can I?  So I ask to be instructed.

Well, talk about Pandora’s box. We begin with the structure of the wine. I am not kidding. Structure!  Do I like a full bodied wine? Being a man who has an eye for feminine beauty I have trouble with that terminology in connection with what I drink for dinner. How about acidity? I had already mentioned that it, the wine, should not be sweet. Well, then, let us talk about flavors instead. “How about this Dom Shalom, new harvest. A fine wine, medium in acidity, plenty of body but not full” or words to that effect, the steward suggests. “A taste of mostly cherry and blueberry with a touch of vanilla and rosemary”. What next, I think to myself, broccoli?

“Then there would be this Domaine Chapeau Vieux. First class wine with rich flavor of dark cherry and blackberry and a profile of extra long finish on your mid-palate and beyond; and then there is also a George Fumble merlot, very nice. Like so many merlots a little hard to put in any category as far as structure and profile are concerned, but with a healthy down-to-earth flavor of lemon and coconut with notes of Bartlett pears and plums, and spice”. After such a monologue, delivered rapidly in one breath, my sommelier usually comes up for air.

I use this pause to interrupt the spiel. “I like a fruity wine” I interject. I have of course no idea what I mean by this but it always produces a decision. Never fails. “You should try the Hohenstauffen Trollinger Übernberg, Zuspätlese 2016 (German wines have a lot of pedigree [author’s note]).  A jewel of a light red with jamlike fruit flavors, a well-crafted balanced wine”. “Sold!” I say. We shake hands and part like old friends.

The last step of the ritual is not easy either. They bring the wine. I must study the label. Corroboration of authenticity is the proper term, or should be if it isn’t. Now the cork comes out and I must sniff it. It smells of cork and wine. No surprise, really. Now a bit of the Trollinger is poured in my glass and swirled around. Then I must put my nose in it, just the glass, not the wine, and take a sip. “Smells good”, I say. “Thank God no peppermint, not a hint of it”. The waiter politely ignores my quip, fills my glass, and if we are on a cruise, writes my stateroom number on the label, then leaves with a bow.

Funny enough the ritual invariably produces the same result: I get a good glass of wine that goes well with anything I might order.

I also notice that the ancient Romans were wise when they declared that in vino veritas. For if the truth must be told, I always wish I could have a second glass. I mustn’t though. Cardiologist’s orders. Medice, quare semper spoileas gaudium meum? Answer me that, Romans!                   © 2016 by Herbert H. Hoffman

 

For a concept so utterly precise, “time” is surprisingly absurd. Not long ago I was on a plane that left Los Angeles at ten o’clock and got to Miami at eight. At first that sounded right. But then it didn’t, either. I mean, we left at 10 and arrived two hours earlier, at 8? Eight is less than 10, no? We made it in (-2) hours? On the way home we left Miami at 12. The pilot announced that flight time would be 5 hours and consequently (?) we landed in Los Angeles at 3 o’clock. Can it be that the flight actually took 3 minus 12, or (-9) hours?  Descartes cannot be wrong. Must be me, then.

What happened, of course, is this: people mess things up, whenever possible. It began with the invention of the clock. Astronomers had already decided long ago that the earth rotates in a space of time which they mentally chopped up into twenty-four equal periods that they then called hours. Then somebody invented the clock. By accident, ignorance, or lazyness he designed a lovely clock face which, however, covered only half the earth’s rotation per day, i.e. 12 hours. How do I know that the inventor was a man? Simple. It could not have been a woman because women can’t afford to be so nonchalant about time. They must get breakfast ready and ship the kids out to school on time in the morning. They can ‘t just ignore the afternoon either because they have to cook and do their ironing. They need every one of those 24 hours.

Over the centuries we got used to that half-a-day clock face that tells us that the day goes from 12 o’clock to 12 o’clock. The numbers themselves are correct. They are both positive integers. In fact, they are the same two positive integers. But they do not stand for the same things. They do not say what they mean. The March Hare tried to explain the importance of that to Alice. But, like us, she did not get it either.

Stubborn as we humans are, we began to pretend that one “12” actually means 0 (zero), the beginning of the day. Others, looking at the case from the other side, eventually added a modifier to the number and called it “12 o’clock midnight”, the Witching Hour, the end of the day, or  some other verbal description of what the first “12” means, other than the number 12.

No matter how you look at it, there is a second “12”. It is the very same “12” and it also is different. At the same time. Shades of quantum mechanics. But it does not designate the same time as the first. Thank God we found a word for it or we would never get our lunch at noon.

At Nassau in the Bahamas, where I attempted to relax from my trials and tribulations, I was so relieved when lunch was offered at 12, dinner at 19, and bed time was at 23:00 hours, Eastern time. In Nassau it is perfectly clear what the numbers mean. At home things run on Pacific time, three time zones away. I find it amusing that the international standard 24 hour clock has not reached the West Coast yet. Thus a person eating  something at the same moment in Los Angeles would have had lunch at 9 (i.e.12-3), dinner at 4 (19-3 {19 being 7}), and gone to bed at 8 (23-3). Except that just then Los Angeles had given up daylight savings time and set the clock back an hour. Nassau had not. So our West Coast times  would have been lunch at 8, dinner at 3, and bedtime at 7, by the clock, before mental AM/PM interpretation.

Makes me wonder what time it really is. Or if time really is, if time can be. Or which of us is crazy, me or the philosopher (Martin Heidegger) who wrote a book entitled Being and Time. 

(c) 2016 by Herbert H. Hoffman