Oh BroJoe, Where Art Thou???

We thoroughly enjoyed the 666 barbecue of my earlier post.   In fact, I’d give it a 9-9-9 (with a nod to Herman Cain) on a scale of 10-10-10.

Doctors don’t recommend The Southern Diet.  In fact, they recommend moving our appetites to another warm locale, say, with The Mediterranean Diet.

My brother, the health nut, has always turned up his nose at Southern-fried anything.  When our mother used to want to go out for “fish fried so that it curls up at the edges,” BroJoe would shake his head in horror.   Just the word “grease” could set off his gag reflex.  So when he sent this photo, I was surprised that he’d even gone inside any place that served this stuff.  I couldn’t imagine him bellying up to the buffet line just to take a photo!

What th'...?

(Take a guess.  I know what they are, but not how they taste.  I’ve never eaten either.)

I wrote back to BroJoe that the one on the right used to be one of Mother’s favorite dishes.  As a joke, I asked which one he tried.

Astonishingly, he answered, “Both.  I ate them for lunch.  Now they’re eating me.”  

Not a 666, though the aftermath does sound beastly.  Nope, I’d say this one was an o o, possibly an o o o o.

“In God we trust. All others must pay when they order.” – Sign at Southern barbecue joint

(Okay, Connoisseurs,  the pans hold fried chicken livers and gizzards–livers on the left.  Expecting something else?  Nope, this is a chitlin-free blog.))

Circling The Drain

Yesterday was one of those days that I didn’t really do anything except run around in circles, a one-woman April fool.   I circled my circles.

I don’t recall how we came to have a lampless guest bedroom, but with some of the grandsons arriving tomorrow, that needed to be remedied.  They’re big-time readers.  I started with the return of the too-small lamp I’d bought earlier in the week, but my hope of  finding another at the same store was dashed when lamp likability and price tag likability didn’t mesh.  It took two more stores before I found another possibility.  Its price tag is still dangling, in case I change my mind.

Plants were next on my list and I had no problem finding them at Home Depot.  When  I opened the car trunk to load them, however, I found the old pots I’d planned to take to Lowe’s for recycling.  That’s where I’d planned to go for the plants.  Sigh.

I circled over to Lowe’s for the pot drop.

Because we’re having the kitchen jazzed up here at the beach-house-not-on-the-beach, we’ve been without some basics like stove, oven, sink, dishwasher, microwave, cabinet doors, sink, countertops, and drawer fronts for a week now.  There has been no cooking, except for the evening I cut a frozen pizza into quarters and baked it in the toaster oven.

Not that I recommend that.

After the supermarket foray for juice and bananas but before the pet store stop, I realized that I hadn’t come up with anything for lunch.  Perhaps it would be a good time for our we-only-do-this-once-a-year barbecue and slaw meal?   I called Dearly Beloved, who thought it sounded like a capital idea as long as (a) he didn’t have to go out for it and (b) it wasn’t on bread.  He’s sandwiched out.

I drove to the favorite place in town for eastern NC barbecue, a completely different animal from western NC barbecue.   (Okay… technically, it IS the same animal, but a different method of preparation.)  This place once fed Martha Stewart.  It wouldn’t feed us, however.  Closed on Sunday.

I drove west to another barbecue restaurant we’ve seen but never tried.  Closed on Sunday.   

Now I was on a mission, hellbent to find barbecue.   I’d heard of a third place, so groceries, lamp, and plants got to ride east with me to find this one, which turned out to be  in the next town.

Forget lunch.  Now it would be lunch and supper.  Lupper.  I found the place after only one wrong turn into the driveway where a giant lighted sign bore the name of the restaurant.   Nope–it was about 50 feet farther down the highway, hidden from view by the damn sign.

I went inside and gave my order to a young woman at the counter.  She had a blond ponytail,  a French manicure, and an eastern NC drawl as authentic as I hoped the  barbecue would be.

She started to circle my order number on the receipt, but stopped her pen in midair and  gasped.

“I don’t like this.  I don’t like this at all,” she said, her face deepening into a frown.

“What?  Did it charge me too much?”

“No, but this number shouldn’t be here.  This is not good.  This order number is so wrong.”

I looked around.  There was no one else in the place except for a couple eating at a back table.  Why did I even need an order number?  When it comes out of the kitchen, it’s mine!

“It’s okay,” I reassured her, having no idea what she was talking about.

Reluctantly, she circled the number and handed me the receipt.  It wasn’t exactly a lottery winner.

6 6 6.

“Are you SURE?”  she asked me.  “ I can probably ring it up again and get a different number.”

I assured her it was fine.  She looked unconvinced.

I told her that I felt pretty beastly anyhow.

When the food was ready, instead of simply handing me the bag,  the young woman came from behind the counter to usher me out the door.

“You have a nice day, Honey,”  she said, patting me on the shoulder in benediction.  When she handed me the hush puppy-scented sack,  I was pretty sure I could read her mind.

I was receiving The Last Lupper.

Packing It In?

When the neighbors saw a pile of old packing crates in his yard, I’ll bet they thought this guy was moving.

Hmmmm.

Not exactly. . . !

March: Madder Than You Knew

The NCAA Sweet Sixteen begins today and Dearly Beloved is bummed that the first game isn’t until 7 PM.  He’s carping on behalf of our grandsons as well as basketball-loving kids everywhere because they’ll probably be able to watch only one of tonight’s games.

Some of DB’s mutterings are on his own behalf.  He knows he’s apt to doze about midway into the second game.

“Why did they DO that?” he whined when he saw the TV listings.

I’m sure that not everyone feels the same way he does.  There are groups that applaud the schedule.  Take, for instance, the Vasectomites.

The number of vasectomies increases dramatically during March Madness, according to a USA Today article.  The head of the Dept. of Regional Urology at the Cleveland Clinic says that he had them scheduled every 15 minutes… twice as many as he usually performs.

These days, the procedure can be scalpel-free and the anesthesia doesn’t even require a needle, so the sobs should be down to mere whimpering.

Guys who have steadfastly ignored their wives’ pleas for assistance in the birth control department decided the Big V could be an option, provided it was scheduled during NCAA playoff rounds.  A  couple of recuperative days on the sofa are just what the doctor orders.

Good enough!

Not only that,  the ice packs keep them from dozing….

There has been no outcry from the political candidates.  Or Congress.

I suppose it’s only humane to schedule the rest of the games after work hours, as optional appendectomies aren’t that easy to come by.

At our house, DB is making game preparations of his own:  an early nap. beginning now.

If that’s not enough to keep him alert tonight, ice packs are stashed in the freezer.

When creating wives, God promised men that good and obedient wives would be found in all corners of the world.

And then She smiled and made the earth round.  (Unknown)

Never Iron a 4-Leaf Clover*

My friends Beanie and Hoot toured Ireland via back roads and lanes in September.  They planned their own itinerary, rented a car, stayed in small inns or B&B’s, ate at small local restaurants, and visited the neighborhood pubs for the delightful music of local musicians who gather for impromptu sessions.

Beanie’s  photos make me want to go there.  You come, too.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

May the Irish hills caress you.
May her lakes and rivers bless you.
May the luck of the Irish enfold you.
May the blessings of Saint Patrick behold you.
~Irish Blessing

*You don’t want to press your luck.  - Daryl Stout

Beverly at How Sweet the Sound has plenty of Irish links  on her Pink Saturday post.  

Proof That BroJoe Reads My Blog

Also proof that he has a diabolical sense of humor.

Why else would he send these…?

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

You can’t be friends with a squirrel! A squirrel is just a rat with a cuter outfit.     

-Sex in the City

(These are also posted on BroJoe’s World with a different text.)

Seeing Red, Instead

I love bluebirds.

Dearly Beloved and I put out a new  house this winter, hoping to lease it to a bluebird family.  We’ve had bluebirds visiting our feeders daily and they spend a lot of time in the oak and cherry trees.  Sometimes there are six or more.

We worried that the blackbirds which bully their way to the front of the food line would discourage the gentler songbirds.  Whenever I witness this boorish behavior, however, I do my lunatic lady imitation (not a stretch for me) and run at the large birds, shrieking and waving my arms.  By pure chance,  I found that shaking my red sweatpants at the sunroom window works well, too. . . and no,  I wasn’t wearing them at the time.  I was folding laundry.

Look at this guy.  Doesn’t he look like he’s ready to sign on the dotted line?  The missus is probably already selecting drapery fabrics.

He sits there often during the day, observing, I hope, the endless buffet,  new house, a fence to deter cats, a bird bath.  We have everything but a hot tub.  How could he resist our luxury digs?

Today, however, I looked out the window and my blood pressure shot up about 50 points.   I was not expecting this:

I’ve seen how he does it.  He simply stands on the ground an takes a flying leap, right over that baffler.  A small group of squirrels paused from their bulb-digging heist at the base of the feeder to applaud this feat, then scrambled for the seeds which rained down on them.  Manna from heaven.

I’ve chased the little bastard away three times today, but he’s still managed to empty the two feeders in less than 24 hours.   He’s probably teaching gym classes in the big oak tree so that his buddies can learn the same trick.

The bluebirds may decide to go elsewhere–someplace without tree rats so bold that they sit atop the bird houses, contemplating mischief and mayhem.

Last year, after trying grease, aluminum pie pans, and a host of other tacky devices, we found this baffler which… well…  baffled the damnsquirrels.  I don’t know what to try next.  Any ideas?  So far, I have come up with only two options:

Which would you recommend:  mountain or moat?