She: “Please pass the salad dressing?”

He: “OK … Dang!“

She: “What dang?”

He: “Something else we can’t use because we have town water.”

She: “I like town water. Or do you really wish to go back to flushing the toilet with a bucket?”

He: “Not I. But it means we can’t use the salad dressing. Read.”

She: “‘Shake well.’”

He: “Exactly! We don’t have a well. And if you think I’m going to interrupt my dinner to track the Honolulu Water Department’s lines mauka five miles and up two thousand feet to shake their well, just so I can have a spot of sauce on my lettuce, you can think again.”

She: “I’m so glad I asked …”

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2009 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

He: “Hey, this is good stuff. What is it?”

She: “It’s hummus.”

He: “No, love, speak boldly. I can’t understand you when you hum. What is this stuff?”

She: “I told you. Hummus!“

He: “Sweetheart, I’m overjoyed that you want to join me in the choir. But the rehearsal’s not ’til Saturday, and none of the music calls for humming. Which will disappoint you, on present evidence. And in the meantime, I’d really like to know what I’m eating here. Or are you trying to not tell me something?”

She: “I’m trying not to tell you that you’re eating mashed garbanzo beans!“

He: “Oh. A purée of the legume Cicer arietinum. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

She: “Why did I have to take up with a botanist?“

He: “To inspire you to write about strawberries, of course. But I gotta ask you.”

She: “What?”

He: “How come we’ve only ever heard of chickpeas? Aren’t there any dude peas?”

“Peace, dude. You called me?”

He [whispers]: “Pipe down, dude!”

“Gnarly, dude. Got a light?”

She: “La-la-la-la, I can’t hear you …!”

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2009 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

She went to the airport to pick him up.  He’d been away for a week at a conference.  He returned unscathed.  His luggage did not return at all.  After questions and explanations, and more questions and report filing and more questions and more report filing, they left the airport.

He, driving out of the airport parking garage:  “Where would you like to go to eat?”

She: “I will let you choose.  You are the one who just subjected your tummy to a six hour flight and a time change.  I am fine and can eat just about anything.”

He: “How about Island Burger?”

She:  “Sure.  Fine with me.”  But she wonders why he chose there when it is in the wrong direction from home.  “Are you wanting to stop at your office?”

He:  “Not really.  I’d like to get some rest first.”

She: “Well, then why Island Burger?  Don’t tell me that you spent a whole week in SF longing to come home to your favorite burger shop?”

He:  “No.  I had some good food in SF.  We didn’t go anywhere really memorable, but I had no reason to complain.  I’m just in the mood for plain food.  Island Burger sounds like what my stomach can handle.”

She: “Then you’re going the wrong way.”

He, looking around, “Wha-?  Huh?  Wha-?”

She:  “We need to go back to the airport.”

He, obviously confused, “Why?!”

She, patiently:  “Because, Honey.  You said you wanted plane food.  The only place I know to get that is at the airport.”

He nods his head and taps his fingers on the steering wheel (yes, while he’s driving).

She sees a smile fight through his defenses and curve his lips.  She snuggles close, rubs her cheek on his shoulder and queries, “Did you miss me, Honey?”

Finally, He laughs.

Moments after joining him in the pizza joint, she said, “It misted here all day today. It didn’t really rain. The air just stayed thick and damp, but the ground never looked wet.”

He said, “You’re lucky. It poured in Manoa all day.”

She said, “No mud puddles formed here. In fact, nothing really looked wet. After work I headed for the parking lot and when I got to the bare patch in the field — the bright red clay — looked perfectly dry. I was walking along and then, splat!, I was sitting in the mud.”

He provided her with a lovely, scientific description of the mud’s composition and explained why it was red.

She said, “My shoes will never be white again. Luckily, I was wearing my black slacks.” He made sounds of agreement. She said, “I was walking along and my foot just slipped. There’s this two and a half foot long gouge in the field where I fell. It only took a second. My foot just shot forward, plowing clay in front of it like a bull dozer. There’s the gouge, and this little mound at the end of it. The mound would be bigger, but the clay piled up on the end of my toe. When my butt hit the ground, a big glob of the stuff shot into the air and came down on my right knee.

He snickered.

“Are you laughing at me?” She demanded.

He shook his head, tried to straighten his face, and said, “Of course not.”

“Because not even Jane, the janitor, laughed when I showed up with both my hands covered in mud. Jane just asked if I wanted her to unlock the bathroom. That’s when I turned around and showed her my backside and said I thought a hose might be a better idea.”

He had a squeaky little coughing fit and covered his face in his hands. She stared at him suspiciously and demanded, “Are you sure you’re not laughing at me?”

He said, “Darling, I am just happy you weren’t injured.”

She said, “Jane took me to the fenced lanai behind the kitchen. There was hot and cold running water — looked like a set up for a washing machine — coming out of the wall about waist-high. I went ahead and showered in that. I figured soaking wet clothes were better than muddy clothes.”

He made more choking noises. She frowned at him. He took a gulp of soda and blamed the pizza. Then he changed the subject. “You say the ground never looked wet?”

“It looked just the same as it always does, red and powdery, but underneath it was slippery as snot!”

He queried, “How wet? How far down did the water go? Did it look wet underneath?”

She said, “I really don’t know. It wasn’t like I sat down to investigate the mud, you know, and I don’t have eyes on my butt.”

He made some warbling noises and stuffed a chicken wing into his mouth. She frowned and accused, “You are laughing at me! You aren’t in the least bit concerned!”

He said tried valiantly to assure Her that he was indeed concerned, but there wasn’t enough pizza on the table to stifle his laughter.

She said: “I have to see to the soup.”

He said: “Shouldn’t you “S” the soup?”

She frowned and said: “Huh?”

He said: “Shouldn’t you “S” it? After all, it’s ssssoup.”

Her frown cleared. “No. I am going to “C” the soup. You knew I was spelling challenged long before you took up with me.”

~ * * * ~ * * ~ * * * ~

She said: “I’m going to iron your shirt.”

He said: “Steel them.”

She said: “Steal what?”

He said: “My shirts. In this day and age I am certain you should steel them.”

She said: “You aren’t making any sense! Why would I want to steal . . . Oh! Steel. Right.” She gave him that look and said dryly, “That was really very funny, honey.”

~ * * * ~ * * ~ * * * ~

She said: “I just washed this table cloth and it’s dirty already. Look, there is a ring all the way around your plate!”

He said: “The nachos were messy!”

She moved her plate. “Look,” she said. “Not a crumb. Not a spot. Not a mark.”

“Yes,” he nodded his head. “But my shirt is still clean.”

“Oh!” Her hand flew to her chest and she stared at him open-mouthed.

He sauntered away smirking.

She made a bowl full of popcorn and set it on the couch between them. As she read her hand dipped in the bowl once, twice, three times. The fourth time she dropped her hand to the bowl she found only grease stains and popcorn hulls. “Hey!” She said, “Where’d the popcorn go?”

He looked up from his reading in surprise and said, “I guess I ate it.”

She said, “I expected it would last the better part of the afternoon.”

“Oh,” he said. “I like to eat it while it’s hot.”

“Fine,” she said, “Eat your share hot. Leave my share alone.”

Later in the week, She made a lovely plate of cheese, crackers, fresh veggies and beef stick. She set it on the coffee table between them. She ate a couple of the crackers and some of the broccoli while he was on the phone, but only a bit because she was expecting they’d eat together. When he finished speaking to the caller he handed her the receiver — and while she talked he ate everything on the plate. Later defending himself by saying, “Well how was I supposed to know you made only one plate of food for two people?”

Today she fixed lunch for the two of them, but because her tummy was upset, she ate only a bit. Later, after she’d napped, she realized she was hungry and went into the kitchen and made herself a snack. She put a little extra on the plate in case he wanted a bite or two, then She joined him on the couch.

He did have a couple of bites of her snack. She reached for her beverage and realized that she’d prepared one for him, but not herself. When she exclaimed aloud that She had forgotten her drink, He held out his hand and said, “Here, I’ll hold your plate while you go get it.”

She actually started to put the plate in his hands, but before his fingers closed around it She came to her senses and cried, “No,” jerking the plate away from him.

He laughed and said innocently, “A person would think you don’t trust me.”

“Huh,” she said. “Fancy that.”

She said, “Would you like your ice cream now?”

He said, “Why yes, I think I would.”

She said, “Anything else?”

He said, “No. Nothing I can think of.”

She queried, “Nothing else?”

He said, “Not one single thing.”

She said, “Not even a bowl and a spoon?”

He looked quite startled. “Uhm, a bowl and a spoon would be rather nice, actually. I naturally assumed … “

She admonished, “You should be more careful.”

He said, “Obviously.”

She asks if he’s ready for his nightly bowl of ice cream.  He has been nibbling peanuts for the last two hours.  He looks at the peanut jar, its resources noticeably depleted, and says, “Yes, but you have to serve me little.”

She gives him that look.

“Wha–?!” He says.

She points at the refrigerator.  “Between here and there I don’t have much time to get smaller.  I have to bring you the ice cream this size, or you’re going to have a long wait.”

He says, “Okay. Your size is fine. Just bring me little ice cream.”

She said, “You’ll get Dryers Ice Cream, because that’s what I’ve got.”

He said, “Okay, but in a small bowl please.”

She complied, happy he was finally being reasonable.

When OC comes home tonight he is apt to find me sweeter than usual. And stickier than usual, as well. I have a new mixer. The eject beaters button on my new mixer is where the power slide was on my old mixer, and vice versa. That means that tonight after I mixed up a batch of extra thick, dark chocolate brownies and attempted to remove the beaters from the machine, I instead splattered myself, the counter, the cupboards and the floor with chocolate batter.

I had chocolate measles; chocolate polka dot glasses; a chocolate striped shirt; chocolate counter tops; chocolate cupboards and chocolate Pergo. Thankfully, I have 12 foot ceilings. If there is any chocolate up there, I can’t see it. And if I can’t see it, it isn’t there.

My original plan was to offer OC brownies and Macadamia nut ice cream for dessert. Now I am thinking I might just give him a cupboard door to lick.

He Said: she cleaned it up nicely. If she hadn’t told me, I never would have noticed. Except for the smell. OK, the aroma. When did “smell” always have to be bad news? It’s the same nose. Pass the brownies, Hon.

There’s a large birthday notice splashed on the front page of the local newspaper today (3 October 2007). And the whole lead page of the Features section is given over to the celebrant.

No, it’s not a member of the Hawai’ian Royal Family. Or a survivor of the Pearl Harbor attack. It’s not even a him or a her. It’s an it. It’s …

[cue the Vikings]

… spam spam spam spam spam spam spam spam spam spam spam spam …

Ayup. That’s right. The first can of Spam, that spreadable, allegedly edible, slab of fat and salt and nitrites and maybe a little bit of pork protein if your microscope is powerful enough, first hit store shelves seventy years ago today.

“The World’s Favorite Canned Meat.”

OK, mainland Americans. Hands up. How many of you would be caught dead with a can of Spam in the house? Anybody?? I thought not. The ridicule would be more than flesh and blood can bear. And the local paper knows it. The story doesn’t show up on its website. Go on. See for yourself.

Here in Hawai’i? It’s everywhere. People buy the stuff in case lots. You can even get it served with your breakfast sandwich at your favorite fast food palace.

Hey. It’s cheap. It’s … well … strongly flavored. And people are familiar with it. Have been ever since World War II, when it was issued as canned rations to everybody on the island – since just about everybody on the island was either in the military or helping to feed it. A reminder that we probably wouldn’t have food in tin cans if it weren’t for the military; canned food was invented in response to a competition hosted by Napoleon Bonaparte, who sought a way to preserve large volumes of food for his army.

And in a place with such a high cost of living as here, where lots of the people you don’t see promenading on Waikiki have to make choices between paying rent and buying groceries, cheap is good.

Come to think of it, the people who, through my life, have razzed me the most about Spam were the same ones who gave me grief about yellow lettuce. “We can do better. What’s your problem?”

Um … the rent?

- O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2007 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

Okay, the personal goal for our Friday Harbor vacation was for O.C. and I to get to know each other before I quit my job and changed my entire life irrevocably. That way, if it didn’t work out, I wasn’t left jobless, homeless and hopeless.

Until lunch time yesterday, I thought things were going pretty well, then …. well, judge for yourself:

He: Hi, Love.

Me, standing in the doorway so he can’t get in the house: Hi!

He, hugging me: What’s for lunch?

He tries to enter the house. I don’t move.

Me: You want inside?

He: Well, yeah, if you don’t mind.

Me: Did I tell you today how much I love you?

He, wary: Yeah.

Me: And have I ever told you how happy I am that you are kind and patient and reasonable?

He, still wary: Yeah.

Suddenly his face clears. He smiles and nods, then he gently nudges me out of the doorway and steps into the house sniffing the air.

He: So, what’dya burn?

Can you believe that? He just automatically assumed that if I wouldn’t let him in the house to eat I must have burnt his lunch. How rude is that?

Scientists are strange. I know. I live with one. To him everything is an experiment — even dinner.

I made deviled eggs — well, I tried — but the only vinegar in the house was balsamic, and it pretty much over-powered the eggs. O.C. took a bite of one, looked at it askance, then finished it.

Me:  Do you not care for the eggs?

He:  Maybe just a bit too much mustard for my taste.

Me:  Maybe, but I really think it’s the vinegar. All I had was balsamic and it’s just too sharp.

He:  Oh? [Then he picks up another egg and takes a bite.]

Me:  [shocked]  What are you doing? I don’t expect you to eat them if you don’t like them!

He:  I know, but you gave me new data. I wanted to recheck my facts and better understand why I don’t care for them.

[Oookay, folks, I don't know about you, but for me, "I don't like it!" is sufficient enough data to get me to stop eating!]

* * *

I finished writing this post and read it to O.C. He cracked up laughing.

He:  “Touche!”

Me:  May I post it? Do you mind?

He:  [persecuted]   Can I say anything to stop you?

Me:  [laughing]  Well, I didn’t make it up.

He:  I know. More’s the pity. [shakes head then shrugs, resigned] Sure. Post it.

Me:  I adore you.

He:  I love you, too. [very heavy sigh]

Me:  Hey!

He:  [evil giggle]

In Harry Turtledove’s “alternate history” Civil War novel, The Guns of the South, Robert E. Lee, General-in-Chief of the Army of the victorious, independent Confederate States of America, is serving, with the USA’s Ulysses S. Grant, as an Election Commissioner. Lee and Grant are overseeing the elections that will determine whether Kentucky and Missouri join the Union or the Confederacy. And in that capacity, one fine morning in the Bluegrass State, an attempt is made on Lee’s life – a black man fires a Springfield musket at the principal hero and symbol of the Confederacy through his hotel room window.

Grant, having ascertained that Lee is not injured, and that the danger has passed, suggests breakfast. Lee is just sitting down to ham and eggs, his favorite, when a parade of local Kentucky officials comes into the dining room of his hotel, one after another, expressing shock and dismay and apologies for themselves and their State. By the time the interruptions have ceased, Lee’s breakfast is cold, congealed, ruined.

He eats it anyway. Lee still remembers the winter of 1864, when the crumbling Confederate economy meant that he and his men of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia knew true hunger. The troops were down to half of the already meager official rations, and spent hours hunting sassafras buds and wild onions in a desperate attempt to ward off scurvy. Even the horses were starving, for lack of grain and grass. To Lee, a bad breakfast is preferable to no breakfast, ever again.

It is four o’clock in the afternoon, Hawai’i Standard Time, in July of 2007, and I am in an airliner suspended at 30,000 feet or so over the Pacific Ocean somewhere between Honolulu and Seattle. And the patrons on the hibiscus airline’s 767 are being served …

Airline food!

Now, silly me, I thought airline food had gone the way of the dodo, a victim of the slings and arrows of jest and outrage by anyone, it seems, who’s ever been on a jetliner. An endangered species that appeared on no red list, whose demise has been met by cheer rather than jeers, by my academic peers and colleagues at least as loudly as anyone else. Even when the alternative is nothing – except the stuff of even more dubious quality that’s on sale in the terminal buildings for double the market price.

The evidence for the continued survival of the species is before me. And it is the real McCoy. The lettuce on the small side salad has freezer burn. The “cacciatore” is barely-visible strips of chicken breast under red paste. The vegetables are hard. The potatoes are soft. The bun has the consistency and taste of styrofoam, and everything has too much salt in it. Which one has to try to eat with the miserable little plastic knife and fork.

I eat it anyway. All of it. Scrape the plastic tray, even.

A few days ago, I was scraping the kitchen looking for something that would convince me that I wasn’t as hungry as I felt. The cupboard was pretty bare (not Old Mother Hubbard bare, but I don’t ever want to get any closer thank you), and there was no money for more. I found a bag of brown rice, and resolved to cook some up. As you surely know, billions of people around the world subsist on a daily ration of rice, and not much else. I picked up the bag – and it was swarming with tiny, almost invisibly tiny, long black bugs. I didn’t recognize them, and I still don’t know what they were. I brushed off as many as I could find. Any that remained went into the pot with the rice. I reckoned that if Asian peasants have to eat the weevils with the grain, then so could I, and I would survive. A little rice (bugs and all), a little soy sauce, and I could face the morning with one less distracting noise.

Airline food is better than no food. Ever again.

-O Ceallaigh

Copyright (c) 2007 Felloffatruck Publications.

All wrongs deplored. All opinions are mine as a private citizen.