Carrots

I love carrots- firm, crunchy tasty carrots. My granddaughter, Emily is not so enraptured. At four years old her reasoning was, “Papa, you know, I’m not a rabbit!”

I haven’t had a lot of luck growing carrots. Either the soil is too hard, the resulting crop looks like a bunch of tortured, arthritic fingers, or the seed fails to germinate, or they are so thick they never make any size.

This year I was determined to succeed. I picked that special spot and added enough peat and sand along with copious nutrients to guarantee just the right growing medium. Then with the soil nicely warmed up I seeded- not too thick, or deep- and gently covered the precious seed. And waited. And waited some more.

When only weeds came up, I checked the seed packet. It was dated 1998.- apparently a hold over from my pre-Rainy River days.

Quickly, scurrying around Drizzle Creek to get some fresh seed, I soon discovered “sold out” was a common theme, with the next delivery truck scheduled for March 2009. A trip to Fat Frantic, and Emu- home of some really strange birds- was similarly unproductive.

Nearly sobbing I laid my tale of woe on Len who solved the problem in short order.

“Why didn’t you get your order in early, you ninny? But you’re in luck. Here’s a couple spare packets. Now do a good job,” he lectured as he returned to his own patch.

Lovingly, I reseeded. The gentle rains came. The sun shone. And voila, a week later I was treated to a few wisps of green emerging.

Every day I checked on the six rows. Carefully weeding out the volunteer poppies and sunflowers. “Gently! Gently, now,” I cautioned myself taking care not to damage the precious seedlings.

I was similarly dedicated to watering my patch. Just enough. Don’t over do it. All summer my carrots grew like gangbusters and I religiously thinned enjoying the first tender roots- boiled and slathered with butter or raw- straight out of the garden with a careless swish under the fawcet- after all a bit of good, bacteria-laden, dirt is just the thing to challenge the immune system.

Finally at the height of the harvest season, I put on the heavy boots, got out the fork and set to. Carefully I levered them out of the soil making sure not to injure or break a single perfect root. Out the beauties came in great, orange clumps. Nine inches long, gently tapered, perfect in every way. A bumper crop!

I shook off the fertile soil, snapped off the tops, and gave them a final wash. Proudly I presented the bounty too my wife, the Pearl of the Orient. She was suitably impressed and took charge of the crop. After all, it was my first really successful carrot crop.

A week later the Pearl announced we would be having honeyed carrots, a real favourite of mine.

“Bring in some carrots, before you go for coffee,” she directed.

“Sure thing. Where are they?” I asked as I headed out for the Bakery.

“They’re in the garage in that garbage bag, next to those wormy apples, I asked you to throw out,” stated the Pearl, referring to my recent apple sauce production project.

I stopped short remembering how thorough I had been at gathering up all the garbage bags the day before. I’d had a real mountain out for Frank and per usual he had cleaned up every last bit of it.

I don’t suppose anyone has any surplus carrots, eh?

Secrets, hunt camps, and headaches

It was a quiet weekend followed by a slow news week here in Drizzle Creek. It had taken most of the previous week to recover from the Thanksgiving celebrations, which included a week of cleaning up leftovers. That meant there was not a lot of extra blood to send to the brain as the stomach had first call on all reserves.

Then by the weekend a major segment of the male population had loaded up and headed for moose camp. This left the Bakery devoid of surplus bread and some of the best liar….er, conversationalists, the town has to offer. The truckloads of supplies and equipment that were headed out of town in the convoy suggested a major military excursion, or a mass permanent exodus. Outfitting a full brigade with tents, and ATVs, as well as enough food to last a couple of months was obviously complete. Ample medical supplies to ward off snake and frost bite was also in evidence.

But by late Monday the entire crew was back arranged around the debating table, holding their heads and reliving the adventure- that is the parts they could remember. Moose were of course absent from the mix. This is not uncommon, but it is rumoured Pickle’s annual solution to this lack of meat is to stop at brother Gherkin’s farm at Hooterville on the return trip. For twenty bucks apiece, the crew is allowed to drop one cull cow, drag the carcass around the pasture a couple of times to simulate usual moose extraction techniques, before loading it on the pick up and taking it in for processing.

No one will ‘fess up’ to this actually happening, but the rumour persists, and what’s that they say about ‘where there’s smoke.’

The Runt was also at the debating table, again foregoing this year hunt, preferring instead the safety of a soft bed where there is far less chance of being mistaken for a Sasquatch. He did however manage to break into the moose discussion to brag about his new car.

“Runs real sweet, but the missus has pretty much taken claim of it and is personalizing to suit herself,” he stated as he looked longingly at the latest tray of chocolate long-johns being delivered to the display case.

“It has only a metric speedometer- no mph numbers, so I see she’s made up a little conversion chart for the equivalents and pasted it to the dash. She’s got it topping out at a 110 mph,” he explained as a puzzled look crossed his face.

“I wonder where she’s figuring on doing 110 mph? Maybe there’s something she’s not telling you?” I observed as I sheltered my cookie from the Runt’s lust-filled eyes.

“I don’t think I’ll ask. Husbands and wives should keep a few secrets from each other,” concluded the Runt philosophically as he pushed back from the table and gave the long-johns one lingering, wistful glance.

As I rose to leave, Pickle picked up the aspirin bottle that had been seeing more combined service than the sugar dispenser, and shook out a couple of tablets.

“Boy, I can’t figure out how we all came down with these terrible headaches. Must have been a virus going around that hunt camp,” he stated as the assembled crew nodded in agreement.

A pre-election prediction

I took in the all candidates meeting out in Hooterville the other night and it was predictable to say the least. Obama and McCain were at their best…. Whoops, sorry… wrong election.

The candidates visiting the Drizzle Creek District were arrayed across the front like a bunch of convicted terrorists awaiting the firing squad.

The assassins were scattered throughout the audience trying to get their jabs in at the victims they didn’t support, while deflecting criticism from their own favourite. Bombast and hyperbole was rampant. Even the candidates were slinging a bit of mud.

All in all, we didn’t learn much and no one changed their minds. It seems to be the status quo. But someone must be changing their allegiance; otherwise what would be the point of having an election. Well, I’ve got it figured out. A sure fire poll, I reckon is accurate. Here is how I stumbled on it.

I started listening to women. My wife the Pearl of the Orient says it isn’t true. She claims I haven’t listened to her more than once or twice in nearly forty years of wedded bliss. I had to explain it was other women I was listening to- eavesdropping actually. Husbands and wives aren’t supposed to listen to each other.

I started picking up these tidbits while waiting at the checkout, picking up the mail, paying my Stupid Tax at the 649 counter, or offering refills to the ladies crowding the front table at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek. I started keeping track.

“Did you see that hunky John RiffRaff outside the post office this morning,” gushed one lady of maturing years.

“My yes! Those flowing locks of glistening silver. I’d sure like to run my fingers through his hair,” replied a companion letting out an audible sigh.

“Well I like that Kenny BiffBoff. He has that cute little wave of hair flipping down over his forehead and such a lovely smile,” said a third and with a giggle added, “He’s single, you know.”

“That Rusty Lusty seems like a very nice young man,” observed another thoughtfully.

“Too young. He’s just a baby. You’d have to spend all your efforts mothering him,” snorted a Red Hatter obviously fed up with raising kids and ready to wear purple.

“Well how about that Ricky Oldmann. He’s a mature military man. I always was a sucker for a man in a uniform” wondered another wag, dreamily running her tongue over her lips.

“Nope! He’s overweight and overbearing. Just like my second husband when he’d had a belly full of beer,” snapped an obviously bitter matron.

“And that leader of his Stephen Heartless with his school boy good looks. Reminds me of that boy that had his way with me back in school. (Gasps all round) Lied to me and dumped me. Broke my heart. How could you trust a man that perfect,” the tirade continued. ‘Hell hath no fury like a women scorned’ and all that.

I was receiving some hostile looks so I drifted out of earshot, but I’ve been keeping score and the prediction is, RiffRaff edging out BiffBoff by a hairdo. Oldmann will be a distant third- broken hearts are vindictive, and Rusty Lusty could make a surprisingly strong showing if the empty nest syndrome kicks in.

Statistically, this poll is considered accurate within 50 percentage points, ten times out of twenty- maybe.

Lessons Learned

With the chill winds of autumn reminding us the summer is over, reminiscing over the past season’s follies was in high gear down at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek the other morning as I pulled up a chair.

“When did you say you were heading south?” Pickle quizzed me as I extracted a pencil and began recording his latest escapade on a napkin. My short-term memory is just not what it used to be.

Pickle was silent for all of thirty seconds, trying desperately, but in vain from not exercising that profound ability of his- getting his foot in his mouth.

Turning to Dr. Goodwrench, he stated flatly, “Don’t bring that lawnmower back anymore. The warranty has expired. Fix it yourself.”

“You don’t understand, I only work on major pieces of equipment, that require substantial professional repairs. I leave that rinky-dink stuff to you backyard doctors,” retorted Dr. Goodwrench as he swept his hair back out of his eyes so he could find his coffee cup.

“No I don’t have time! I’m busy electrifying my wood splitter, and I have to finish a major tune-up on the missus’ lawnmower. All that rain and mild weather has really kept the lawn growing,” explained Pickle, as he checked his watch, then settled back in his chair. After all it was only 45 minutes into the coffee break.

“What do you mean electrifying your wood splitter? I thought you powered it off your truck,” remarked the Runt who to this point had been too deeply involved with his toast and peanut butter to comment on other matters.

“Gas is too expensive, so I mounted a couple of old electric motors on it. Just plug it in and it runs for nothing,” explained Pickle, ever on the lookout for any way to save a nickel.

“Why don’t you have to pay a Hydro None bill like the rest of us?” wondered Moose, who had been uncommonly quiet to this point.

“Oh no. I just run an extension cord under the hedge an plug it in that side outlet on Dot’s house,” bragged Pickle and then realizing he had spilled the beans, reddened and concentrated on his coffee.

A pool was immediately started on how long it would take Dot to detect the errant extension cord. My money’s on Dot.

Pickle will be out of town this week on the mighty moose hunt, so he’s safe for a few days. But he has to tune up that lawnmower first. It must be humming, not so he can cut the lawn. Oh no, he planned carefully the first time he did that a few decades back and made such a mess of it, his good wife hasn’t let him touch it since. Insists on doing it all herself.

Hmmm, is there a lesson to be learned here?

The Magic of Mushrooms

Continuing education was on the agenda around the debating table at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek the other morning. Maury from the hill country north of Hooterville broached the subject.
“Have you seen the crop of mushrooms out in the wild the last week? It’s simply amazing,” he stated with wonder as he sucked in his first mouthful of high test.
“You’d better be careful what you go stickin’ in your mouth,” lectured Moose, an authourity on all things wild.
“I’m pretty careful when I’m out pickin’ mushrooms, but I think someone in the last group snuck in one of them poisonous or magic specimens,” he added pausing only to reflect and refresh his cup.
“Well whatever happened? You’re still with us,” needled Pickle, delighted to dig up some dirt on Moose.
“I fried up a big pan of ‘em fer my supper with lots of onions and butter, and I must say, they were delicious. I’m quite a cook when I turn my hand to it,” bragged Moose as he pointedly ignored Pickle and tied into his toast.
“But somethin’ was amiss ‘because I woke up in the middle of the night with the curse upon me. Couldn’t hardly move and I’m sure my heart wasn’t beating more’n a few rpms a minute. Just sat there on the edge of the bed a sweatin’ and a moanin’,” he remembered as he washed down a bite of toast with half a cup of scalding coffee.
“Then the worst part started. Spiders, snakes, and monsters started comin’ out of the walls. It must have been a couple of hours till I sort a’ came back to my normal self,” stated Moose, the terror of the experience obviously still vivid.
“Sounds pretty scary. What did the missus think of it?” I asked, wanting all the juicy details, but wondering at the same time just what was Moose’s ‘normal self’.
“Oh she was absolutely beside herself. Spent the rest of the night and most of the next day pouring over the life insurance policies to make sure mushroom poisoning was covered. Didn’t really settle down until she discovered not only was it covered, but would probably qualify for double indemnity benefits,” said Moose as a puzzled look crossed his brow.
“Anyways, the long and the short of it is, you don’t want to be pickin’ mushrooms unless you know which are the safe ones,” he concluded, blessing the table with his insight.
“Oh I figure on taking that course Honey Bee is holding next week out in the high country, on identifying wild mushrooms,” assured Maury, chastened by Moose’s close encounter.
“Say, I’d kinda like to take that seminar in too. I kinda fancy a feed of wild mushrooms,” mused the Runt, as he licked the last of the peanut butter off his knife.
Pickle looked up quickly with some alarm.
“Runt, before you start picking, would you mind stopping by the lawyer’s office? Make sure your will is updated to specify cremation. No one at this table has a back strong enough to be your pallbearer,” he observed.
All round it seemed like a sensible precaution.

Liars’ Convention

This past weekend was the Annual Gathering of Liars down in Drizzle Creek. No I don’t mean the participants in the Walleye Tournament, although I must admit those folks are no slouches when it comes to spinning tall tales. They’ll be here this coming weekend and they’ll certainly have to stretch things a mile or two if they expect to regain championship status.
Nor am I referring to the hopefuls in the upcoming election, although they should have been on hand to take a few pointers. After all whoever is successful in that race will have to spend the next four years- or portion thereof, depending on the whims of the PM obeying laws he has passed.
No, I’m, of course, referring to the crème de le crème of the lying fraternity- Giant Pumpkin Growers or Lords of the Gourds. Their leader in Drizzle Creek, Sir Eltjo ‘Hard Luck’ Whimpering has been setting the stage all year how everything was conspiring against him and his efforts to produce a prize winning Giant Pumpkin. By ‘prize winning’, I mean the largest. Not the ugliest, not the most misshapen, not the smallest, not the scabbiest, but the biggest.
Over the past 14 years past there have been, frosts, droughts, and plagues of insects, marauding Great Beavers, mice, weed infestations, humming bird attacks, groundhogs, and accidental shootings.
This year the range of excuses pretty much ran the gambit.
“I’m so disappointed. Not one of those expensive seeds I imported sprouted,” whimpered Hard Luck over coffee early one morning last spring.
“There, there, young fellow. Don’t cry! Don’t cry! I’ll supply you with one of mine… supply you with one of mine,” soothed Archie Archie, patting Hard Luck on the back.
“I’ve got plenty of extras… plenty of extras,” he added reassuring the hapless Hard Luck.
A month and a half later, it was another crisis.
“I finally got a couple pollinated, and wouldn’t you know, it rotted right off during that last wet spell,” Hard Luck explained, shaking his head sadly.
“Look’s like I’ll be shut out of the winner’s circle again,” he concluded.
“But what about the other one. Surely it’ll make it,” I encouraged, trying to lift his spirits.
“Nope. It met with a small misfortune when I was trying to thin out those pesky groundhogs. Direct hit with a 30-06. She’s toast,” he explained.
Two weeks later, it was the hail and the wind that tore up the punkin’ patch. Then it was the algae bloom on the river plugging up all the holes in his irrigation system. An early frost touched his vines, stunting any further growth.
Saturday morning of the weigh in Hard Luck sat with the other growers picking at his pancakes.
“You know I’ve been sitting up nights to make sure the deer stayed out of the patch, but last night I figured I needed a really good rest in preparation for today, and wouldn’t you know it the terrorists slipped in and ate a hole right through my biggest punkin. Ruined it!” Hard Luck stated, as a tear rolled down his cheek and he set the final stage for another year of defeat.
Around him all the other Lords of the Gourds echoed tales of woe covering everything from bears, to plagues of frogs, to crop circles, and alien spacecraft beaming up their prize orbs.
You never heard such a professional, pre-race’ parade of excuses and position jockeying, all entitled, “I didn’t win because…”
When the smoke had cleared after the weigh-ins, Hard Luck took first, his wife second, and his daughter and grandkids, the next three spots.
My entry was disqualified due to squirrel damage. Maybe there’s something fishy about the judges and the scales?
At least, that’s my excuse… for this year.

In the sauce

One of the wondrous things about this season is the bountiful harvest and all the good things you can make to eat. In case you didn’t know, eating is about my most favourite thing- right next to lying. My wife, the Pearl of the Orient, has been trying to discourage this habit, the eating that is- she’s reluctantly accepted the lying. But things came to a head when I showed up with the latest haul, 30 plus gallons of crab apples.

“Just what do you expect me to do with all those apples? I’m not making pie. Your cholesterol is still way too high and I can’t let out the waistband on your pants any further,” the Pearl snorted with a level of disgust generally reserved for door-to-door peddlers.

“You aren’t bringing them into MY house. It’ll be totally infested with fruit flies before you have to haul them out to the garbage,” she emphasized totally ignoring my protest that it was MY house as well.

“But they were free! And they’ll make great applesauce. You know how healthy that is supposed to be,” I informed her as I began to drool over the prospect of brown toast with lots of butter slathered with applesauce.

“Well have at it. You can make it out here on the deck. Stay out of MY kitchen and put all MY utensils back when you’re finished,” was the final response I got as the door closed in my face.

Undaunted, I set to washing- sort of, quartering and potting the apples. I had every pot full before I had finished the first bucket. Only six more buckets to go. Then I loaded up the cook top as well as the barbecue and set the containers to cook. It was exhausting work, so I took a little break on the sofa while things came to a boil.

I guess I had the lid on that one pot on a little tight, but when it blew, ricocheting off the cupboard, the attendant ‘Boom, Clatter, Clatter!’ brought me fully awake. Fortunately, at the time, the Pearl was off to an extended swim and exercise class, so there were no personal injury or marital abuse issues to deal with. A mop and a bucket quickly cleaned up the mess and the stain on the ceiling is hardly noticeable.

With the apples all nicely boiled, I did a bit of mashing, and it was onto the straining. A couple of windows screens pressed into service speeded up that operation. Besides we don’t open those windows very often and the bug season is pretty much over.

When the Pearl arrived home, I proudly had my production displayed on the counter. The Pearl was impressed and not too put out by the slap dash job I had done of cleaning up. I cleared out to let her bring that area up to her standards. After all, what’s that about discretion being the better part of valour.

Since we were off to Emily and Norm’s for brunch the next day, I insisted on taking a quart of the ambrosia along as a token gift. Emily is a very gracious hostess.

“Isn’t this wonderful. I just love fresh applesauce,” she gushed as she spooned up a servings all round.

“You know you just can’t beat it mixed up with yogurt like this,” she added as we all dipped in with gusto.

“I wanted Norm to make some from our apples, but he said they were too wormy. How did you manage to find crab apples without worms?” Emily continued with unabated enthusiasm.

“Who said my apples didn’t have worms?” I replied.

“Well how did you get them out? It must have involved a lot of cutting,” wondered Emily.

“Who said I got them out?” I replied.

Emily’s spoon stopped someplace between her bowl and her sweet mouth.

Emily’s spoon returned to her bowl.

And it’s amazing how that woman can suppress a gag reflex.

But that’s what being a perfect hostess is all about.

Norm just kept eating.