It's been a while since I wrote a diary that didn't revolve around food (cooking or eating it) or the death of my mother. Writing the draft, I still have no idea where it's going to go. I'd remarked today, at the Seattle & Puget Sound Kos meetup, that I planned to write a diary relevant to the Duggar molestation scandal; instead, my thoughts led me elsewhere.
Mostly, about grudges and escapes.
There's a poem by Langston Hughes, titled, "Harlem," which has haunted me since I read it in the sixth grade:
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
There's a great deal of excitement about Bernie Sanders' candidacy for President, and I share it. Here's a man who has not only spoken out against corporate and conservative interests, he's introduced legislation to fight them. I welcome seeing him campaign, and I hope he gets to show the media how well a socialist can wipe up the floor with a bunch of bigoted, money-hungry conservatives.
What I'm also seeing isn't just the excitement of people liking what Sanders has to say and what he's done. I'm seeing people look into the abyss of a future where the Democrats not only lose the White House in 2016, but fail to retake Congress by either House. Losing the White House would be a disaster; losing the legislative and the executive branches to the GOP would be a catastrophe.
The Republicans can probably take the credit for Sanders' popularity in one way: they have proven themselves to be fractious conspiracy theorists, more dedicated to idiotic wild goose chases than governing, even severely. By Congress's standards, it's no wonder that Scott Walker looks like a winner; he's actually accomplished something (even if that something is the utter destruction of the state of Wisconsin, tradition by solid tradition). And at least Sam Brownback of Kansas could get a budget passed; the GOP shut the government down in 2013 because they couldn't behave like a governing body and raise the debt ceiling - something that even George W. Bush's administration could count on with their budget-busting, utterly unjustified wars. John Boehner's House of Representatives is the largest clown car in existence; they strain over adding poison pills to legislation that, with Democratic help, would pass, and offer up bills that would leave many Americans without insurance, Social Security, or even food stamps. They'd sooner regulate a woman's uterus and what occupies it than see to it that veterans have decent medical care, that people are able to find decent-paying jobs, that children get good educations, or that the elderly are able to survive on Social Security without resorting to living on cans of Friskies.
Even if Sanders doesn't win the Democratic nomination, he can take pride in one thing: he's got more Democrats fired up and ready to go than we've seen in quite some time. And after months of hearing, "Run, Elizabeth, Run!" (when it was clear the Senator did not want to do so), I'm so damn glad to hear, "Run, Bernie, Run!" instead.
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So Dennis Hastert apparently paid over $3 million to a man whom he sexually abused while he was a teacher and the man a teenaged boy.
Dennis Hastert is one of the three main Republicans who led the charge for President Bill Clinton's impeachment in 1998.
Irony is down at the corner bar with my sanity and good will, drinking herself stupid on Monarch gin and singing really, really bad '70s tunes. I'm not sure, but I think Steely Dan is playing hot and heavy on the jukebox there.
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Have you ever gotten an ingredient for a dish, thought, "Oh, boy, this'll be GREAT!," make the dish . . . and been utterly disappointed?
That was me last Friday.
I love fried potatoes. (I love potatoes, period). Last year I got a container of duck fat from a little store in Pike Place Market, and kept waiting for events (like my housemates actually cleaning up the kitchen when they finished utterly destroying it, so I didn't have to spend 1 1/2 hours cleaning it, another hour cooking in it, and then an hour cleaning up the dishes that otherwise wouldn't get done) to make the perfect dish of either roasted or fried potatoes. I've heard that duck fat is one of the most exquisite fats you can use to fry anything, let alone a heaping pan of russet spuds. There's a recipe for poutine that calls for deep-frying the French fries in duck fat, and the comments from those who'd tried it were just this side of X-rated. Seriously, when you nearly have an orgasm reading about food, you know you've found something good.
So I had the duck fat. A friend had a clean kitchen and the potatoes. I made a pork roast with gravy, and then fried the potatoes in her cast-iron skillet.
And they came out mushy . . . and bland.
Where was that terrific crispiness and wonderful fat flavor I'd been promised?!
I wanted to cry. The potatoes were still good, but they weren't fantastic. They weren't out of this world. They were just regular old potatoes. And my friend pointed out what went wrong - too many potatoes in too small a space, and I hadn't used enough fat.
So we're trying again this weekend. We're going to do bacon butties with home fries. And I'm going to use half the damn tub this time.
It's possible I may have a heart attack. If the potatoes come out the way I hope they do, I will not give a single fuck. In fact, I will lead you to the field in which I've planted my fucks, and behold, you shall see how barren and still it lies!
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My beloved Stefan is up in Alaska again, working another season at the fish processing plant stockroom and helping fishermen find parts for their boats. This year started out differently from past years. For one thing . . . this year, there's a marine safety crew (I forget the name of the agency, sorry) checking out the fishermen's boats - and that includes the plant's own fleet.
Stefan's been working there for over 20 years. He's never seen this group there before. Most of the fishermen haven't seen these guys before. And so they were all floored when they were told that they were missing vital equipment from their boats.
Flares.
. . . and this is where I started shaking my head and asking Stefan, "What the hell?! These guys don't have flares on their boats?"
"Nope, and they keep asking me and my boss if we knew they needed flares. And I'm going, 'How the fuck do you guys NOT know that you need flares? Every single year, we remind you to make sure your first-aid kits and safety gear is in order, and that fucking includes flares!'"
Seriously, Stefan's told me of several boats sinking while out at sea, with the captains treading water until help came back (or out) for them. And I can't believe these guys did not comprehend the necessity of flares. The only thing that would have me more flabbergasted would be if they'd questioned the necessity of lifejackets.
Well, it's only the start of the year. I'm sure this month, Stefan will tell me of somebody beaching their boat, having their boat sink, or have their boat catch fire due to questionable cooking practices. And that's just the fishermen. The processors are bound to do something like ask their relatives back home to send them fresh produce. That happened a few years ago. Someone asked for homegrown eggplant, from California. Mail's not too dependable at Port Moller. What arrived was oozing out of the (badly beaten-up) box, and hastily dumped. I don't think even the bears touched it.
And speaking of bears, recently Stefan had an encounter. He curtailed his beach walks long ago because of young bears that liked to raid the plant's dump for food. Last week, he was taking a walk (and carrying a loaded rifle), and noticed prints on the road (which is basically a dirt path), as well as a load of fresh scat. Then two guys from the plant went rumbling by him on a four-wheeler. Stefan called out, "Hey - you two might want to head back. There's bear sign."
"Yeah, whatever," answered one. Laughing (they were drinking as they drove), they kept on up the road.
Stefan headed back towards the plant, but slowly (he did have the gun, and he was sure they weren't armed). Within five minutes, he heard the engine of the four-wheeler, as well as shouting. The two men rushed past him, screaming, "BEAR!" as they hauled ass back to the plant. Stefan looked back and saw a young bear loping down the road. It came to a stop as the four-wheeler drove out of sight, and Stefan kept very still until (thankfully) it decided he was too boring to examine, and headed back the other way.
He had a few words with the assholes on the four-wheeler, and they included, "I told you so." He said he wasn't really worried about the bear, as he was armed, and it looked more interested in the four-wheeler than people. And that was where I blurted, "Holy fucking hell, it could have EATEN you!"
"Well, it didn't," Stefan assured me. "And now you know why I don't walk far around here."
I've been playing the lottery twice a week since he left. My goal is to hit a jackpot large enough to give him a decent annuity, so he can say goodbye to Alaska. Bad enough I lose him for 4 1/2 months to the Aleutian Peninsula; losing him to a bear would be the end of enough.
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And that's a little of what's going through my head. All scattershot and mundane.
How's by you?