Beer Can Chicken

It was beastly hot and there was no way we were going to roast the house and ourselves just to do up a chicken for our guests that Sunday. They were special guest, but not that special.

“Why don’t you do something up on the barbecue?” suggested my wife, The Pearl of the Orient. The Pearl is very good at delegating chores to me, even if I am resistant to taking direction.

“I think we’re about out of propane,” I offered hoping, against hope that would put the ball back in her cooking court. You see I had the afternoon all planned out with a cold six-pack.

“Well fix it Dear Jackie, Dear Jackie, Dear Jackie. Well fix it Dear Jackie. Dear Jackie, fix it!” the Pearl rhymed off in here best Harry Belafonte accompaniment fashion.

I dragged out the obsolete, rusted, empty propane cylinder and headed off to the service station for an exchange.

“I can’t give you any credit on that old piece of junk. It’s obsolete,” the attendant informed me.

“Obsolete! Why I just got it from here two months ago!” I lied indignantly; hurriedly trying to wipe off the five years of accumulated cobwebs and grime it had collected in my garage.

“Yeah, right!” commented the attendant ringing up 23 bucks for the refill plus another 25 for the replacement tank. I grumbled all the way home.

As I lay on the deck hooking up the propane, the first of the six pack sitting at the ready to soothe my parched throat and assuage my soon to be scraped knuckles, the mosquito settled lovingly on my head and proceeded to extract a blood sample.

I gave it a good swat with my free hand, remembering too late, that was the hand holding the crescent wrench. I missed the mosquito, but not my skull.

Parents and children exiting the church next door, made a pointed retreat for their cars rather than tarrying around to exchange pleasantries. Looks like another friendly neighbourhood petition will be circulated.

Now, what to cook? The Pearl handed me a hunk of metal that came with the new barbecue and announced, “Beer can chicken. Read the directions.”

To my horror, those directions included the sacrifice of half a can of beer to be shared with the chicken, stuffing can and all up its backside. Well let me tell you, no way was I sharing half a beer with any chicken. It’s all or nothing.

Fortunately, beer is considered a necessary service during the summer season in a tourist community, so I was able to obtain a re-supply at the local snakebite remedy store. Otherwise I would have been forced into a smuggling run and would probably have wound up in the slammer for the rest of the weekend.

In the end I got more beer and managed to get the chicken on the barbecue shortly before the guests arrived. Norm and I settled onto the deck in the shade, with the new six-pack as I explained how I had set up the beer can chicken.

“I know,” interrupted Norm, “ I’ve done it lots of times. Just open a can of beer and stuff it in the chicken and sit ‘er on the grill.”

“Open..?” I asked as the dawn of reason began to suffuse my befuddled brain and I headed for the barbecue.

With a look at first of amazement and then one of sheer terror, Norm dove for cover behind the picnic table as I raised the lid on the grill.

It was just the little added shock the beer can needed as the pop-top popped and the chicken achieved lift off. By the time it reached the top of the house it had achieved orbital velocity. It must have burnt up on re-entry as we never found it, but the neighbour’s shiatsu did develop an awful case of indigestion.

However, the takeout pizza was great and we had just enough left of the six-pack to wash it down.

The truth of the matter

The secret to a happy, long, and lasting marriage is mutual respect, devotion, and truthfulness, right?

Well maybe the truthfulness part should only be attempted as a last resort. The Pearl of the Orient and I have kept the knot tied for going on 39 years and we hope to keep the divorce lawyers at bay for a couple more decades.

Also regarding the Pearl’s little truth tidbits, I simply don’t want to know. One surprise visit with the undertaker was enough. So I will not use this forum for “digging up bones.” After all true love has to have a good dollop of mystery.

However, this past weekend’s Rainy River Walleye Tournament, revealed some real truths amongst the contestants, for the entire world to see. Take Cathy and Ziggy for example.

Ziggy, a long time competitor in the RRWT was happy with his fishing partner. It was male bonding at its best. Friendly banter, spirited competition, and no strings attached.

Then it happened. The unthinkable. Cathy put her name on the waiting list and was drawn. But she didn’t have a partner. Who would she select? Ziggy was in a real pickle. He finally offered to partner, and when the initial spousal interest was cool, he finally insisted.

Morning of the Tournament Cathy showed up with her survival kit. A roll of duct tape to silence Ziggy. A revolver to keep him in line and coerce him back to the dock for potty breaks. Two bottles of medicinal potion to ward off malaria, snake bite, west nile, and the plague. A sign directing him to shut up and fish. A set of handcuffs to keep him from going AWOL. And lastly, a big tub to put the fish in.

So why did Ziggy insist on fishing with his wife?

Was it a sense of chivalry? Ziggy? C’mon!

Was it loyalty? They have dogs for that?

Loneliness? Maybe a bit.

Mid life crisis? Ziggy’s way past that!

Mating season? Not on your life, says Cathy!

No, it was none of these reasons. The truth is, it was cold, white-knuckled fear!

Fear that his manhood would suffer unrecoverable damage.

Fear, his male ego would be squashed like the migrating frogs crossing #11 the past couple of weeks.

Fear, smashed like his prop hitting a boulder.

Fear!

Fear, that Cathy with another partner, would scoop poor old Ziggy at the RRWT.

The bare, raw, truth is not to be taken lightly.

I’m lost

Everyone knows that real men don’t ask for directions, but few know the real reason why. It’s fear plain and simple. Not fear of being lost, or being wrong, or any minor shortcomings the fairer sex might heap upon us.

The real reason we males are more than reluctant to ask for directions is the overriding fear some female might try to give us directions. That is a sure path to disaster.

For example, my wife the Pearl of the Orient is a very talented lady, but directions and reading maps aren’t her forte. A typical trip question after we have been traveling west for a half-day goes something like this.

“So now we are at west, what direction is that?” she’ll inquire earnestly, while pointing off into the sunset. But in her defense, I must admit she’s a real whiz at keeping the road maps folded neatly and keeping track of my faux pas.

Should the male take his wife’s advice- admittedly, a rare occurrence- and ask the cashier at the gas station for directions, I’ll bet the response from the helpful lady behind the counter will go something like this.

“… that place is just the other side of town. Go up the street to your right,” she says waving her hand left, “up past Mrs. Johnson’s house. It the one with the gingerbread trim and the pink peonies.”

“Then on past Mrs. Smith’s… she’s got that beautiful long porch, with the swing set, and the fuchsia curtains, and turn right before the bridge,” she continues again waving her left arm….

You ask if she might draw you a little map. Mistake number two. This requires a group effort with the other cashier and the food prep staff converging with a napkin and a tube of lipstick. Placing the napkin on the counter, they begin a cooperative work of art, rotating the napkin as lines are drawn and notations noted.

The matter finally comes to a head when the big fat biker waiting impatiently in line behind you snarls, “Three blocks down the hill past the beer store and hang a left!”

You stammer your thanks and hurry off, leaving the staff all huffy about not appreciating their effort.

Luckily things are changing, as Moe showed me on a recent trip in his new van. It was GPS equipped and it only took the better part of two hours for me to get it up and running. The sarcasm and running commentary from Giggles and the Pearl in the back spurred on my efforts. Finally, I got the home address in the gadget changed from California to Drizzle Creek (I think all mini vans naturally home in on California- it’s a Grapes of Wrath thing)

From then on the little red arrow faithfully traced our course down the blue line of the designated highway, except for a couple times when it showed we were driving through a cornfield. Moe assured me we never left the pavement and sure enough we arrived at our destination without once stopping for directions.

On the way home, I continued to tweak the new toy and found a menu that offered voice prompts. I pushed OK and a chill of the coldest ice ran up and down my spine. The computer-generated voice was definitely female. I lost all confidence and began putting it to the test.

“Prepare to turn left in one quarter mile’” it prompted politely.

“Turn left in 300 feet,” it soon added in a stronger tone.

“Turn left in 50 feet,” it ordered even more sternly

“TURN NOW! TURN NOW! TURN NOW!” the voice shrieks, beeps twice, and flashes an error message as we cruise blithely on through the intersection.

“If possible make a legal U turn in 300 feet,” are the new orders, in a voice now dripping with disdain. We ignore the new directions and continue homeward.

And so it went for the next four hours as I furiously programmed in mis-destinations and we joyously ignored the voice prompts. The co-pilots in the back kept making pointed comments about boys and their toys.

But I think the system was learning from our truancy as we prepared to make the last left turn, it directed us to “Turn right and proceed on past Mrs. Johnson’s house, the one with the gingerbread trim and …”

Fish or eat bait

With the Rainy River Walleye Tournament just a few days off, the crew at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek were bemoaning the paucity of fresh shiners, their favourite bait. Even Pickle couldn’t scrounge up a supply from his older brother Dill, nor his younger sibling Gherkin. I dug through my archives and came up with this tidbit penned in 2003 for just such an emergency.

Bait! What’ll it be? Worms? Too much work. Minnows? No money. Blew it all on beer. Time to get creative. Take a look in the kitchen and see what else might do.

Voila! Answer to both you and your wife’s prayers.

A shrimp ring.

Now this is the answer to your wife’s prayers, because although said ring was intended for the Church Women’s meeting this afternoon, she realizes unless you have an adequate supply of bait, there’s always a chance you may come home early…. before the meeting’s over and all the other members of the Auxiliary have safely departed.

She still remembers the last time this occurred when you and your buddies, fresh out of bait, but not beer, arrived in the middle of the luncheon, and took over the kitchen to clean up the rest of the beer, and that stringer of ripe fish.

If nothing else, it sure provided a good serving of gossip- as well as a few new cuss words- for the Auxiliary for the next couple of months.

So you can be assured your wife is more than prepared to negotiate your guaranteed absence for the duration.

Bargaining from a position of strength in this marriage is a completely new experience for you, but don’t let it go to your head. If you play your cards right, not only will you not ever have to waste money on minnows again, you’ll be the envy of all your fishing buddies as well. Here’s how.

The shrimp ring is key, You should be able to negotiate for at least half of it- maybe even all of it, if the Minister’s wife and mother are attending this day. Whatever. On special at $3.99 for 80 pieces, cooked shrimp are way cheaper than minnows at $4.50 a dozen. And they are not as slippery and taste way better. That’s right, “taste better”. Here’s the methodology.

Place your supply of bait- shrimp- in one of those zip lock plastic baggies in one pocket. In another pocket, another baggy of cocktail sauce- the spicy kind if you have an abundant supply of beer and Tums. Then you can bait your hook or snack at your leisure.

If the catching’s slow, ( the fishing itself is always good) you will be the envy of your group. While they cuss, swat flies and try to keep their minnows alive, you enjoy a succulent shrimp cocktail.

On the other hand if the catching is great, as soon as the shrimp bait on your hook starts getting a little tattered, simply dip it, jig and all, into the cocktail sauce and daintily nibble it straight off the hook. Um, Um good! And grossing out your buddies is a top-notch fringe benefit.

A word of caution at this point, make sure you use only barbless hooks.Catch and release takes on a whole new meaning when it’s your tongue or lip that gets caught trying for that last morsel on said hook. You hook yourself, it’s a sure bet, after recovering from a fit of hysterical laughter, your buddies will embellish and spread the news of your misfortune faster and further than the Auxiliary’s review of the Preacher’s current affair with the choir leader.

Aside from the embarrassment, such a tale on reaching the wife’s ears could seriously impair all future supplies of bait from the shopping cart.

So the choice is yours, fish or eat bait..

Off Balance and loving it.

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott

© Copyright

Some marital relationships get can pretty staid with about the only excitement happening when the cat gets its tail caught under the rocking chair. What kind of a life is that anyways? Just sitting there rocking, watching the world go by, and waiting to die.

With the Pearl of the Orient, my wife, life is never that dull, but near death experiences are pretty common for me, so I’m informed.

“Just leave the toilet seat up once more!” or “You bought what?” are the kind of responses I’ve long grown accustomed to. And in my defense, I have to actively seek little earth tremors just to keep the score close to even.

In the last thirty-eight odd years, I have been choked with peach juice, had my butt assaulted with a vicious pinch, my privates zapped with static electricity, my prized wild game cache given away, and my computer drive terrorized, amongst other indignities to my manhood.

So on occasion, I make a pre-emptive strike just to keep the score close and the marital mystery alive. Perhaps you’d like to spice up your relationship. Here’s a few ideas.

While sitting at a charity fundraiser, after your sweetie has cautioned you not to bid twenty bucks on pie because you’re already too fat, drop a $500 bid on the 3-day wilderness fishing trip. Even if you get stuck with the winning bid, the look of “awe and shock” on her face will be worth the pain. When she starts to sputter, simply counter with, “Well, you didn’t really want that new chesterfield anyways, did you?”

However don’t ever expect to come out ahead. It’s not in the cards. I’m still trying to pull even with the Pearl after her classic “gotcha”

I had spent a long morning on the computer doing books and filing junk- a chore I detest. A break was in order so I descended from my inner sanctum.

A gentleman in a suit was sitting at the dining room table enjoying a coffee and in deep discussion with the Pearl. There was an assortment of documents and brochures spread before them. My eyeballs were pretty much burnt from staring at the computer so I couldn’t really focus on the literature and before I could the gentleman jumped up and began pumping my arm with a shake that would have intimidated a seasoned politician.

I was curious. What was going on? Who was this dude? There was no mention from the Pearl earlier of anyone coming and the last door-to-door peddler that stuck his foot in the door on the Pearl is still taking physio for the shattered ankle. Something was afoot here.

“I’m just making funeral arrangements- yours, and maybe mine,” said the Pearl, directing the guest back to his chair.

He almost had his first pick-up right there and then. I know I stopped breathing and I think my heart stopped. My mouth was probably hanging open and a stunned look of shock froze my face. Never at a loss for words, I was speechless. I think you call it sucking wind.

So you see I need help. Any of your suggestions on one-upsmanship, would be greatly appreciated. Please contact me- not the Pearl.

Bountiful harvest

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott

© Copyright

By the time the Emo Fair is over, you have a pretty good idea of how this year’s gardens have turned out. You think strolling through the displays of award winning fruits and vegetables gives you the answer? Think again. You also will not be able to depend on the lies… er, reports, from neighbours of a bountiful harvest.

So how do you gauge that bountiful harvest? You have to use more subtle investigative techniques.

Sweet corn is one delight that used to be pretty much dependable, but with the current massive infestation of raccoons, skunks, bears, and corn borer, across the District, you’ll have to be more than lucky to harvest a good supply. And if you do luck out, there’s a better than even chance, the poachers, announced by slamming car doors in the wee hours, will signal the final decimation of your crop.

In the old days, simply viewing the traffic to the area outhouses could pretty much tell you how bountiful the corn crop was. But not with today’s indoor plumbing.

Here’s the trick. Observe the crowd heading down to pick up the mail, preferably Monday morning, after a weekend of family feasting and when the heavy load of bills and flyers arrive.

You can bet those with a hurried confident stride, taking the steps two at a time, have a total crop failure.

Meanwhile those taking short cautious steps and intently concentrating on their location and progress have a bumper crop. You can confirm this by watching to see if they quickly detour into the café, and make a beeline for the john.

Nothing quite like a massive feed of sweet corn, particularly if accompanied by a big plate of ripe tomatoes and burpless cucumbers, to test the control of bodily functions.

So now you know how to locate the bounty, and who to mooch off, proper garden season etiquette comes into play. Avoid embarrassment by following these few important rules.

First, don’t insist on stopping that fidgeting friend on the street and relating the latest belly-laugh inducing story.

Secondly, never…NEVER… poke that same friend unexpectedly in the belly, or some other bodily location, particularly if they are bent over checking their mailbox. You’ll both be sorry.

Thirdly, that old two-holer outback should be cleaned of cobwebs and certainly sprayed for wasps and hornets. Throw in a couple of past editions of the paper and post a welcome sign on the door. But caution, make sure the inside latch is removed. After all it is a two-holer, and you never know when unexpected company might have to drop in.

Frying pan Justice

Squirrel Pie

By Jack Elliott

© Copyright

Since real men don’t shop, I was killing time while my wife, The Pearl of the Orient, selected a new bathing suit. There were several thousand in her size range. It promised to be a long process.

As I wandered the houseware aisles heading for a gander at the new giant flat-screen TVs, another shopper on a mission hurried past. Abruptly, 20 yards in front of me at the frying pan display, she stopped and began a detailed inspection of the wares. With a pan in each hand, she tested the heft, and inspected the bottom of each. A real study in concentration.

As I sauntered past, I glanced at her. We made eye contact, so I had to do the socially correct thing and speak.

“You know, neither one of those is heavy enough to kill him with one whack,” I opined, while trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smirk.

Without hesitation she shot back, “That’s okay. I don’t mind hitting him twice.”

I moved out of range. Nothing more dangerous than a decisive female.

Back in Drizzle Creek, while relating the incident over coffee at the Bakery some days later, Pickle and the Runt, exchanged strange glances. A modicum of prodding managed to pry out the story.

It seems while on one of their regular fishing trips, while unstowing the gear for a shore lunch, Pickle turned around unexpectedly and caught The Runt across the top of the head with the cast iron frying pan.

It is unclear how long The Runt was laid out on the island or if there were any repercussions. But it couldn’t have been too serious as they are still fishing buddies.

As he picked up another piece of toast slathered with peanut butter, The Runt, however, gingerly explored his scalp with his left hand and commented, “No physical scars, just emotional ones.”