The Art of Being Adorable

On CAPTCHA's and Crock Pots

CAPTCHA’s... 

          Am I the only one who feels as though I’m going through someone’s underwear drawer, or as if I’ve ratted out a best friend to save my own hide, when I key in CAPTHCHA figures that are obviously the photographed address numbers of god knows whose residence?

    If you knew me—and you kind of do, but not this well—you would know that I hate Crock Pot food. Hate. It. And I’m not a picky eater. Well, I wasn’t. I’m not now either, not really, as long as whatever I’m served is whole, minimally processed, with no egg, sugar, oil, or animal involved. That’s not too picky, is it? I do gluten.

          Anyway, I’m guessing you love your Crock Pot. Most do. Thing is, every meal I’ve ever had from one seemed just shy of baby food, mush. Especially meat. I don’t know, maybe mush is the point. I mean, mush would seem easier for the stomach to convert to... well, mush. But I’m a gnawer. I like chewy. I like crunchy. I don't want a meal that comes with the option of being taken intravenously.

         That said, it was nothing short of bewildering for at least one human to learn that I, Hater-of-all-things-Crock Pot, recently purchased a 4-quart slow cooker. No, not like the one in the picture. Please.

          But here was my thinking: Beans. The musical fruit.

        I had planned to cook beans in the Crock Pot. Throw them in. Turn it on. Leave. Come back. Voila! Beans enough for a couple of day’s worth of meals. Minimal effort. No worries. Genius.

          Think again.

          Crock Pot Hints and Tips

         ‘Beans...’

         ‘Dried beans, especially red kidney beans, should be boiled before adding to a recipe.’

          ‘Boiled’. As in: on a stove, where I can forget them and scorch them permanently to the bottom of yet another pan.

          Stupid Crock Pots.        

                              

Yesterday I drove through a rainbow tunnel. 

          Seriously. A perfect arch over Highway 52. Two lanes and a bit of gravel. That’s it. Just me. Out in the country. A shaft of sunlight hits this patch of fog, and there it is. 

          At first, there was no way I was going to drive through it. Too beautiful. I’d ruin it. Then I’m like, The hell with that. We’re talking once-in-a-lifetime here, with possibility of Unicorns. 

          Woof! I’m in. 

          Woof! I’m out. 

          I look in my rear-view. Nothing but a hole, widening in the pale fog. 

          I look ahead. 

          Far, far ahead. 

              

Posts

I, Mattress

September 25

My heart is a warm pocket, in which I carry birthday wishes and what remains of a curious old man.

        

          Of the Buckley’s, I wondered which would better sing Hallelujah,

          Father? Son?

          of the muddied rivers that seized their young throats, I thought,

          of my own dark waters,

          of how, aged, I am beyond the tragedy of such angels

          and, should hope, 

          not to be found snared in the shallows,

          but rather, by tender hands,

          tumbled by luck and longevity, smooth as glass.