I Have a Pudding Question.

Some people hate pudding skins, I love them.
I always thought they were pretty cool. Peel them off the top of the pudding and you have a rubbery flavor thingie that you can also use as an editable Frisbee. What more could any kid ask for? Of course I don’t care too much for the name given to it, skin. Skin should be reserved for … well … skin. Not food, people don’t want to eat skin, unless your plane crashes in the Andes, and even then it’s more of a survival thing then a gourmet preference.

People are funny, when it comes to food, especially in America. We really don’t want to know anything about our food, in fact we prefer to disassociate our food from the original source as much as possible. We’ve become a society of Nancy-pants culinary school girls.

We prefer food that has been sliced, diced, chopped, filleted, processed, dyed, flavored, homogenized and preserved. No fish heads, no pig snouts, no turkey necks. It’s getting to the point where we don’t even want to know it was once on a bone. It’s true, have you seen the boneless spareribs? Think about this one for a second. People want a rib but no bone. Am I the only one who sees the problem here?

Seriously. I think the words have taken on other meanings in out brains. Familiarity with food terms leads to Meatsticks who don’t know what meat is. It’s a complete loss of connection. As if food is made in a machine from partially hydrogenated artificially flavored preserved generic stuff. And that’s just nuts. Isn’t it?

I think calling it meat may have been the start of it all. Meat is nothing, it’s not chicken, it’s not pig, it’s not cow, it’s just meat. Meat should be called by its origins. Sure we can call it beef or pork, which is at least more accurate then just meat, but how about cow meat or pig meat. We don’t do that because people needed to distance the animal from the product. It’s all marketing, even if it’s a meat market.

Meat doesn’t run and you’ve never seen beef walk or pork stroll, it’s just pork; but pigs squeal and cows moo. We don’t want to think about that. You know who does think about it, hunters, people who eat deer and call it that. Sure a few restaurants will serve venison but hunters eat deer meat, they’re not afraid to get their hands dirty. Hunters embrace the food chain and eat meat off the bone.

It’s true. Hunters realize that we are animals, killers. Even if we aren’t the ones doing the killing, we must kill to survive, that’s how we were made. We don’t photosynthesize, so we must kill a living organism in order to live. There is no getting around it. And still if you come out and say I eat deer meat, people look at you like you farted in the fruit punch. How dare you, you murdered Bambi’s mom?

I’d like to take a moment to address the Bambi issue for a moment. The name Bambi is best associated with a male Disney cartoon deer and female strippers, HUH? How did this happen? Between Chip & Dale, and Bambi I just don’t get it. Why are Disney characters in the porn business? Who made this connection and why? It’s almost as unsettling as flower ovaries, but I’m not going down that road again today. Speaking of flower wasn’t that Bambi’s pet skunk? My brain hurts.
OK people, we’re walking, we’re walking.

So we can agree, that we Americans have some weird food issues. Most likely propagated by those slick bastards on the avenue called Madison who make lots-o-cash to convince us that a submarine, hoagie, wedge, grinder sandwich is a healthy lunch made from something called cold cuts. (For those keeping score, subs in my neck of the woods) The truth is, food isn’t pretty, but we sure as hell do are best to make it that way, even if it takes a truckload of dow chemicals to do so.

I understand the conflict. I really do, it’s about food appeal, like sex appeal only Victoria Secrets doesn’t have a catalog for bacon; cheesecake maybe, but not bacon. And if I haven’t gone off topic enough today, WHO on Earth dubbed hot women cheesecake? The analogy makes me want to swallow that nasty stuff that rises to the back of my throat after a shot of tequila. Which by the way is one nasty ass drink. But I digress.

What have we so far… (you may want to take a deep breath before reading this next sentence)

Victoria Secrets models don’t eat bacon cheesecake but maybe pudding skins and don’t fear crashing in the Andes because they are super angels, who although in the sex industry, would never go by the name Bambi but dig The Motor City Madman Ted Nugent because he knows his place in the food chain even if they support PETA which is an insane group with really good Madison Avenue marketing guys who learned a thing or two from Walter Disney who may or may not be a very well preserved frozen Meatstick with a pet skunk named flower who does shots of tequila to forget about the fruit ovary thing.

Oh and my pudding question. Does anyone have any extra pudding skins? I’m really in the mood.
(Well in this highly processed world in which we live in, how else would you have me ask?)

Melon Baller

Melon Baller.

Yup, melon baller.
Weird words, weird device, weird thing to do to food.
I mean, really, why do we need fruit balled to begin with? Or is melon a vegetable?

I just checked or at least I tried to check; I just found a very interesting definition of fruits and vegetables. Botanically speaking, fruits are the mature ovaries of a flower, while vegetable is a term used by grocers and are parts of the plant (presumably not the ovary). Are you confused yet? I think or at least I thought the difference was a legislative issue, government, taxes, imports, that sort of thing; not an ovary thing. But then again I had no idea flowers had ovaries, so maybe my two cents should be spent elsewhere. Honestly this whole thing is freaking me out.

Okay melon is a fruit because the seeds are inside the ovary. Are you with me? Did I mention I really hate the idea of eating ovaries? I curse this day and the words of which I laid my eyes upon. Well I would curse this day if I knew how to throw a curse on the day, but I don’t even know how to do a proper maloke malocchio, or spell it for that matter. (spell - get it? stay with me here, this is good stuff) Maybe I should just hex the sexually frustrated delusional white-coat wearing reproductively obsessed vegetablestick botanist that came up with ‘flower ovaries’. But I’ll give him a pass; he probably doesn’t get out all that much. And by out, I mean laid. Which probably should be in, but I digress.

Do you see where this is going?
Melon is an ovary and you can walk into any Williams-Sonoma and purchase a devise to ball it. Am I the only one who thinks this is kinky as well as borderline illegal? I mean what sort of nut job balls fruit? Don’t answer that!
Let’s move on.

Forget about ovaries, even though I can’t seem to; and forget about that twisted botanist who really needs to spend more time in the Red Light District of Amsterdam. And lets think about the need to take fruit and change it’s shape.

First question: Why?
Second question: Why?

I’m sure Martha Stewart is behind this in some way.
Yea, yea I know, you’re thinking, ‘people have been balling fruit long before Martha thought it was a good thing’. But I still think that meddlesome chippy is behind all this, she must be. Seriously, fruit in an orb like shape is not easy to eat. It can roll. Rolling fruit is not easy; non-rolling fruit - much easier. Yes I realize melons are already round, but that just makes it more ridiculous. Why turn a big sphere into a littler one? More balls to chase; it just doesn’t add up. Does anyone know how to get in touch with Martha? I have a bone to pick with her.
Balling melons – the nerve!

It’s a plot I tell you, it must be. Cooked up by Martha Stewart and some Madison Avenue, suit wearing, partially hydrogenated, marketing numb-nut, to get us to spend our non-fruit balling money on fruit balling devices. It’s sick! Could you imagine if they went to some tribal community in South America’s Amazon basin, like the Yanomama and tried to sell them a melon baller?

Yanomami Shamen: Nice to meet you Martha, but we don’t need to ball our flower ovaries before we eat them.

Martha: When you are entertaining, it would provide the perfect ambiance a fun and stylish …. Ummm excuse me, do you need a tissue?

Yanomami Shamen: No.

Martha: You sure? Here have a tissue, you have a little …

Yanomami Shamen: I don’t mean to be rude Ms. Stewart, but I don’t need a tissue and what sort of crack pot balls melons?

Martha: But there’s some green stuff hanging, right under your nose.

Yanomami Shamen: Good day Ms. Stewart.

See, it just wouldn’t work.
Of course you’d need a translator, but that’s exactly how it would go.
The Yanomama don’t ball fruit and neither should we.
Mellon Baller Indeed.

The Somewhat Dear John Letter

Funny thing happened last week. Not funny a ha ha ha, and not funny as in, the fish tastes funny sort of way, more of a Marvin Gaye ‘Ain’t That Peculiar’ sort of way. But nothing to do with love, less harmony, and without the power of Motown behind it.

I lost a friend. And not in a misplaced, where the hell did I leave them sort of way, and not in the pushing up daisy sort of way, but more of the, I can’t be your friend sort of way. Weird isn’t it? I agree.

That’s never happened to me before, and never in a Dear John sort of way, not that my name is John … maybe that’s why I’ve never gotten one? I wonder if all you poor bastards named John get sad letters on a regular basis? That would suck the proverbial toe jam. Today I’m happy to not be a John. Anyway, I’ve never received a letter before, ending a friendship, and as courteous as it sounds, it was more like a Burgess Meredith, Twilight Zone experience. But I guess stranger things have happened.

Oh, you want to know why, fair enough.

I have(correction) I had a friend, that is a girl, female of chick proportions who’s dating a guy, a male of Assholian proportions. Now to be fair, I really don’t know him all that well and have never seen his papers, but it’s a pretty safe assumption that he is indeed a card-carrying citizen of Assholia. We all know them when we see them, and you couldn’t miss this chump if you were 1 week from cataract surgery and 2 payments behind on your healthcare.

Enough about the origins, lets get to the meat of the story. I was dumped as a friend, as was every other male that may be friends with this chick, because we have… umm how do I put this without being too rude? …. Junk. Stuff, bits & pieces, hammer & nails, bait & tackle, rod & reel, frank & beans, cherries & stem, staff & subjects, pole & bag, meat & potatoes, in short (or long), genitalia.

That’s right, it would seem the very exclusive club that I am a member of (about half the population at last count) has been ousted, banished, removed, expelled, exiled (on & off main street), cast out, thrown out, stomped out, ejected, rejected, evicted, sacked, discarded, disposed of like a superfluous tail, deleted from the cell phone, names stripped from all literature, in short excommunicated. All for the reason that he, her beau, the Assholian Meatstick doesn’t want her talking to people of the opposite sex for fear that we all will have our way with her when he is looking the other way.

And it doesn’t matter if we, the banished ones, are single, attached, married, gay, friends, co-workers, church goers, waiters, or just happen to be crossing the street when she walks by. We are all secretly lusting for her and the very second that he bends over to tie his own shoe we will have already planted our seed and made her our vessel to sire our next of kin. That’s right the whole lot of us want nothing more then to rock her world at any given moment. To be honest I can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t already installed a chastity belt. Maybe too much chaffing, who’s to know?

At least that’s the way he sees us, (those that stand up in rest rooms). Truth be told, not every guy on Earth wants to sleep with her. She’s really cool and all, but every guy? Not even Angelina Jolie can boast such numbers, so without, in any way shape or form, insulting my now friend-once removed, ARE YOU KIDING ME?

By the way did I mention that he is pushing 50? I don’t think I added that tidbit. And although I’ve always believed years on this Earth does not automatically grant you maturity, growth or even a little bit of common sense, I have to scratch my head with this one. I understand the jealous thing, I understand insecurity, I can even be somewhat be on board with the idea that you love someone so much you can’t help but think everyone else would be crazy not to want them, but this brings sick to a whole new level.

Have I also mentioned that although she is a friend, it’s someone I see maybe once or twice a year, and talk to maybe once every other blue moon? We don’t live anywhere near each other for the drop by, and our lives travel in completely different directions, but she was someone that was worth talking to when we had the time. And even I got the ‘Letter’, could you imagine all the guys she sees on a daily basis? Thank God for broadband, that’s a lot of email.

So to sum this up, he laid down the law, there is to be no more contact with any guys on the Earth, and as crazy and impossible as that sounds, and is, she agreed. And although she knows this isn’t rational behavior she made the choice for love. I have another theory, which can be summed up in one word. Loneliness. But I could be wrong, I have been before, and who am I to pass judgment?

I wish people didn’t feel there was nothing else out there just because we can’t see beyond the horizon. I wish people could break their bad habits and routines long enough to realize they are prisoners of their own devices. I wish my friend all the happiness in the world, even though I know she isn’t going to find it where she is now.
I wish I had better answers.

Oh well, sing it Doris Day …. Que Sera Sera, what ever will be will be, the future’s not ours to see Que Sera Sera.

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** UPDATE

As fate would have it, last night I got an email from my friend once once-removed, meaning no longer removed, saying that things didn't work out and they broke up again. She felt like a shmuck for writing and sendind the 'Letter'. I of course made fun of her and said I was sorry things didn't work out and I knew I'd hear from her again, but even I thought it was going to be longer then a week.

She's going to be alright, even if she doesn't know it yet. Relationships are hard, but impossible ones are ...well... impossible