Now that I live near downtown MudHole ....

Ode to the Lime

From within a tiny flower,
emerging, glimmering, by moon,
a round, near neon meteor shower,
harvested none to soon.

Tenderly pierced by serrated blade,
through pungent exocarp of jade,
exploding pulp one should evade,
teeter totters now displayed.

Pieces of a miracle, squeezed.
Acidic. Sweet. Alive.
From the hemispheres, the Gods appeased,
this fragrance does revive.

Cathedral spears perched above foam,
waiting a push and a plunge,
to a secret, ritualistic home
(salted chips to act as a sponge).

This mixture with the agave blue,
like drops upon an altar,
the icy waves combine, imbue,
this nectar can not falter.

So, when in hand, consider this.
The brilliance, the sublime.
Take a slice, a smile, a kiss,
pause, enjoy this Lime.

I've Been Labeled

I’m Mud. And I’m a Gastrosexual.

Gastrosexuals, per the Daily Mail, are a new breed of man who "use their kitchen prowess to impress friends and prospective partners." Muses include Gordon Ramsay and that "Naked Chef" dude Jamie Oliver, both of whom evidently have to fend off comely females with frying pans due to their ability to whip up tasty meals and look good while doing it. Says a spokesperson for food company PurAsia: "Male Gastrosexuals in particular are no longer content with what they can find at the back of the kitchen cupboard. They are looking for something much more satisfying in terms of taste, participation and effort.'"

I didn’t know it, but yes, I am. I have been a Gastrosexual for years. Now they have named it and declared it a trend in our modern culture. I’ve been discovered. Game’s up. I’m coming out of the pantry.

A couple things clued me in. Here are some of the highlights of the 'Emergence of the Gastrosexual' report:

• The average Gastrosexual male is aged between 25-44 and is upwardly mobile, well travelled and cooks for their own pleasure and the praise of others .... CHECK
• 60% of respondent men now regularly cook for friends and family, favouring complicated foreign dishes over traditional .... CHECK
• 50% of men say they consider cooking to be a hobby and not a chore, compared with only 40 per cent of women .... CHECK
• 50% of the men surveyed prepare meals using separate ingredients everyday spending on average 41 minutes cooking on a daily basis .... CHECK
• The number of families where men help in the kitchen has risen from 27.5% in the post war period to 66.5% in 2008 .... CHECK

So that's me. I'm not affraid of the kitchen. Actually, it is my favorite room in the house. I've been cooking for myself and others since I was a teenager. I enjoy it.

Not only that, I admit to watching all the classic, modern cooking shows on t.v. from Iron Chef (the original Japanese version), The Naked Chef, to Good Eats. And, I have to say, Alton Brown rocks. I dig these shows and freely admit to having more than a thing for Giada De Laurnetiis that goes beyond just cooking, if you know what I mean (and I think you do). Seriously! To cook along side Giada … Mmmmm. Yeah!

There is no doubt I am a Gastrosexual. Just last night, for example, I made Beer-Steamed Shrimp (steamed with a seductive and potent concoction of red onion, whole cloves, allspice berries, black peppercorns, orange zest and a couple of beers) with a West-Indian Cocktail Dipping Sauce made from scratch. Along with some bbq’d vegetables tossed in my sherry/honey vinaigrette, some crusty bread, and a couple bottles of wine, it was quite the successful dinner with new friends.

But all that just means I dig cooking, right? No, that is not all of it. This new term, Gastrosexual, hints at one more element, a key ingredient. It is the reason this study and this term are in the news right now. So, you ask, have I ever used my kitchen prowess to seduce a woman? ... CHECK and Abso-freakin’-lutely!

Liscensed Tequila

Sam: What's the story, Norm?
Norm: Boy meets beer. Boy drinks beer. Boy meets another beer.
- Cheers

I take a ridiculous pleasure in what I eat and drink. - James Bond

I, literally, have no plans this weekend (save an hour or so of ignored yardwork and my favorite local band). So, I think I might go to school on how to make the perfect margarita over a few beers.

Chainsaw Therapy

Crying, no doubt is emotionally releasing. I released a lot this weekend. I also spent a lot of time listening to headphone music on the iPod. I did nothing but sit out on the back deck, gazing out into a back yard that has been ignored for way too many weeks now. There existed little ambition to do anything about it.

However on Sunday, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t crack a beer until I’d dealt with a large, oak branch. It had fallen from the neighbor’s tree into our yard and has been stretched out over sprinkler heads and deadening grass for a couple of weeks now. The grass was getting ugly under it. I couldn’t let it go another day. I needed to stop being all emotional and get my head back in the game.

I needed some chainsaw therapy.

I changed into ripped, yard workin’ jeans and boots with a t-shirt that should have been thrown away after college. I ignored the mess in the garage, found the goggles and gloves, and plowed my way to the cabinet which hold all things electronic and gas powered for cutting stuff (skill saw, hedge trimmer, sawsall, chainsaw, etc.). Not to get all Tool-Time on you, but I thoroughly enjoy using my Echo CS-330T chainsaw. It is small, compact and highly efficient. I’m not going to joust with any lumberjacks or compete in any tree felling competitions, but for medium to large oak branches this thing zips through these jobs like “a hot knife through butta’”. Yes, it was a Land ’O Lakes moment on Sunday.

Chainsaw therapy achieved!

All the logs are now neatly stacked next to the fire pit, awaiting some toasted marshmallows when the kids get back. The miscellaneous, scraggily branches have been hauled to the green waste pile (to be cut even smaller next weekend). The sprinkler heads have been repaired. The yellowing grass is returning to normal.

Beer after chainsaw therapy is refreshingly good.

You’ll Do Nothing, And Like It

I used to master the Zen-like art of doing nothing. I was usually one of the first among my college friends to achieve nothingness on a Saturday when I should have gone to the library or architecture studio. But I wasn’t wasting time. I was doing nothing. It is an important aspect of life.

Sure, we all have in inkling on how to Do Nothing. We all know how to just lay around and waste time. But I’m not talking about wasting time. I’m talking about Zen here.

I know, I know. You are too busy to do nothing. You don’t have time. And when you do Do Nothing, your mind just can’t get around work and family responsibilities and mortgages and groceries and all the daily affairs that go on in life. You can’t relax when your head is racing. I so get that. But you must achieve nothingness soon. It is imperative to your well being. Trust me on this (but not these people ... DoNothingDotOrg ... they just want your money).

Doing Nothing (or DN from here on out) is an art form. Here are some tips:

Start Slowly
You can’t master DN all at once. Sometime it helps to start out slowly. Don’t overwhelm yourself. Find a park at your lunch hour and just go sit in a shady spot or sunny spot of your choice and relax. Don’t bring a book. Don’t listen to music. Just sit comfortably for five to 10 minutes. Or, after you get home from work, sit on the back porch and stare out to the horizon. Let your mind shut out any and all distractions. Turn off your cell phones and the tv. Leave the computer off. DN demands no communication.

You can close your eyes. But don’t fall asleep. That is doing something. It is called a nap. DN is not Napping.

Practice DN as often as possible. Every day is good. Nobody becomes a DN Master over night without weeks, months, and maybe years of practice.

Relax
If you are tense in any way, DN can not be achieved. So, get comfortable. Breathe deeply and regularly. Stretch out. Put your feet up. Hammocks were made for those who DN. Once you feel relaxed, see if you can relax even more.

Enjoy a Beverage (and maybe a snack)
DN is sometimes best when enjoyed by beverage. Wine and beer are probably best. Concentrate on the liquid and the Art of the Sip (to be blogged at another time). Savor the drink. If drinking wine, however, try to ignore any and all attempts to find ways of describing the wine. Then you are wine tasting, WT. WT is not DN. If having a beer, well, you can’t really over think a beer, so just enjoy beer. A cold bottle with a lime always helps.

Advanced DNers might try some light snacks. Cheese and crackers are good with wine. Chips and salsa are good with beer. Eat slowly and leisurely. Don’t concentrate on eating. Just casually play with your food as needed. And, don’t make too much out of the food because then you are Snacking, not DN. Nobody can achieve perfect DN with a grumbly tummy. So, food is OK.

Seek Out Nature
Once you can regularly achieve a Zen-like state in your daily dose of DN, you might start venturing out into a more natural setting. The beach is perfect. The bank of a river is always an excellent choice. Nature and water together are usually solid choices for DN. Any place where you can be completely away from the sounds of those racing between life’s chores are the best places in nature. So, get outta Dodge.

DN with Others
This is a highly tricky level of DN. Inevitably, getting others involved starts things like Talking, Cuddling, Tickling, among other things. You must practice DN with only another practiced DNer. The rules must be worked out ahead of time. To achieve DNness with another, however, is the most rewarding level of DN there is.

Good luck. Let me know how you do and if I can be of assistance in any way.

DN Master Mud

Childhood Revisited

My kids reminded me this evening it is our last night together until early August. They are leaving to go join my folks at my childhood safe place, a lake in the northern Midwest. This year I have too much going on to join them for part of it. Actually, because of Europe, I just don’t have the vacation time. But, …

My kids get to live my childhood for a bit, the childhood as far back as I can remember.

The Girlie will collect colorful, unique rocks harvested from the Big Lake near by and lovingly house them in empty Quaker Oatmeal containers with a paper towel between each layer. She will collect Queen Anne’s lace, dandelions, and young ferns from the shadow in the woods. She’ll put them in a large Mason jar and present them to my mom with that beaming, prideful smile.

The Boy will spend hours rowing around in the cool, clear water. I taught him to fish a few years ago. Maybe this is the year he will develop the nerve to touch the fish and remove it from the hook on his own. He is an explorer now. And the lake will provide countless hours of solitary entertainment.

They’ll eat outside on the picnic table in the shade and have fresh white corn and bbq’d steaks that my dad expertly prepares. My mom will make her pea and peanut salad. There will be lemonade, cheap beer, and even cheaper wine. They will eat in their slightly damp swim suits and sit on their drying towels. They will play board games at night with the windows wide open and the bugs bouncing off the screens. Through the glass in the front door, they’ll watch a spider make a nearly perfect web just underneath the overhang by the porch light. They’ll walk up to the small grocery store for candy and random errands from my folks. If they catch the right week, there will be renters with other new friends staying in the cottages near by. Bonfires. ‘Smores. Ghost stories. Jokes. Romance. Crushes. Silence.

The lake water holds my sanity. It is my safe place. Maybe it is the way it regularly captures a calm in the late evening to go with a mango sunset. Or, the way on a windy day the water matches the clouds in the sky and treats me to a marching rhythm of white caps that play a beat on the shore like a metronome. It is where I go at night when I’m far away and can’t sleep.

I’m going to miss my Lake. Not too much, though, because my kids will bring back two weeks worth of stories. Not having them be there would be worse because home and family need to continue on even if I can’t physically be there this year. There is a wonderful sense of balance knowing that some traditions are kept safe.

It comforts me to know that my Lake is still alive for my kids. They will bring fresh breath and a stronger heart home to me when they return.

Life's Lyrics 6 - A Work of Fiction

I'm striking while the inspiration is fresh. I've decided to take the lyrics from Solsbury Hill and turn it into a short story. If you don't know the song, I strongly suggest you download it and listen while reading as that is how I wrote it. If not Peter Gabriel's original, then the cover version from Ingram Hill is quite impressive. Remember, this is fiction (with a smile).

Part I
Pete walked into the empty house, cascading his keys down the lengthy kitchen counter. They slid right off the end landing by the trash can. He made no attempt to retrieve them, hoping as he deposited his backpack on the dining room chair that he’d remember his keys resting place later. Instinctively, Pete opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He just stood there and drank it, numb. He’d been like this now for nearly three months and it wasn’t getting better.

Life had changed beyond his control. His wife, his love, just left him, abandoning and crushing all he valued in one simple sentence, “I’m done”. The cavernous house felt like a mortuary. He felt the need to flee, to run away, and find an answer to mend the pain.

Maybe in a moment of pure inspiration or the simple need to move (or die), Pete set his unfinished beer in the middle of the counter. He retrieved his keys and grabbed his backpack slamming a locked door behind him.

He didn’t really know where he needed to go. He was lost yet he continued to drive around aimlessly. The radio was on, an old Genesis song, but it didn’t provide the needed distraction which is ironic because he really loved that song. After a while, Pete found himself on a vaguely familiar road winding up a hill into the darkening skies.

“Perfect,” Pete said out loud to break his own silence. He put the clutch in, took it out of gear, and coasted the car into a small pull out section with a view overlooking the city. It really was quite the perfect time and he wished he’d remembered to pack a few beers. He rolled down the windows to let the music ring out quietly and set the parking brake. He was only going to look for a few minutes. No sooner had he unsnapped his seat belt than the engine died.

“Shit,” he swore almost casually, “now what?” The needle was below “E”. He was out of gas.

“Figures,” he groaned and dropped his head onto the steering wheel, his hands fished for the keys and turned it to off, which did nothing but turn off the radio and the lights.

Sitting on a boulder, Pete gazed out over the city. The wind was blowing and he felt as if time was just standing still. His cell phone sat before him in his open palms. He no longer had anyone to call and for every twinkling light he counted down below in hopes to identify someone to help, he felt himself slip further into despair. He looked away to the silhouetted mountains on the other side of the valley and the purplish sky. He caught a glimpse of a big bird flying and followed it as it dipped under the horizon line only to be identified again as it cascaded up into the sky once again. It stretched its wings and swooped behind a large tree down below him by the road. And for a minute, as it vanished from view, it held the illusion of transforming itself immediately into an upcoming motorcycle. Pete blinked and cleared his eyes from tears in order to see a bit better.

It was a big bike and it pulled up slowly but with a sense of purpose. It was an amazing vehicle being almost all chrome. Even the bulging tank was shiny and reflective in the moonlight. It was something to observe and the driver pulled the bike up close, right next to the boulder.

Pete heard a voice, “You ok?” It was a deep, gravely voice.

“Yeah. Out of gas,” Pete pointed to the car. Funny, the presence of another person was comforting despite the larger than life persona in front of him.

“Mind if I join you,” the man said placing his helmet on the tank. “I’m Gabe”. He stood and stretched out a long arm. They shook hands and Pete noticed a taught, comforting grip. Gabe was a man easily in his late 60s yet had the physique and the moves of someone half that age.

“Pete!” he remembered to say, “My name’s Pete.”

The conversation immediately continued as if they were fast friends. Pete could not believe what he was hearing. This man, this complete stranger, was lifting a cloud. They laughed. They talked about everything and nothing at the same time. More than a couple of times Pete felt it might be a dream that it was all in his imagination. At times he even felt energized, like his heart felt lifted and healthy, like the downbeat of a song with an odd time signature in 7/4 time. He had to listen. He had no choice.

“It’s getting late,” Gabe stated. “Can I give you lift somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Pete blinked. “I’ll get my car tomorrow.”

“Son,” he said, “Grab your things. I’ve come to take you home.”

Part 2
A new chapter, no doubt, Pete still found himself months later in a rut. He was living day to day yet holding it together. He’d stopped having the arguments in his head with his ex-wife and was resigned to silence.

Much of the pain was drowned turning water into wine. Or beer. Occasionally tequila.

Friends and family took sides, as is typical in a divorce. It was only natural and Pete couldn’t really blame them. But, what were once open doors now were shut. He thought of things to say to them. He thought of all the losses and which friends were worth fighting for and which ones he should just cut and let go. It wasn’t like him to consciously hold those thoughts. It wasn’t part of the person he used to be. But sadly, he faced things he never thought he’d have to endure.

Pete saddled into a now familiar bar stool and ordered a beer and shot. He threw his work bag down by his feet. The t.v. was on above the bar with a news story of some sort of monkey experiments. He looked away and to the beer in his hand. The news made him feel even more desperate these days what with the high gas prices, a depressed housing market, the ongoing war, and a lack of even minimal leadership or solutions to any of it.

He didn’t want to be much in the world anymore having lost everything he believed in. So, he just existed. He was just a part of the scenery.

Pete ordered another drink before the long walk home. With gas nearly $5 a gallon, he’d starting using the bus to and from work. And although he loved the idea of green transportation and not leaving a carbon footprint, not using his car seemed like he lost yet another part of his identity. The beer was placed in front of him and he turned to watch the next patron come in from the bright light of the outside world. It was a familiar silhouette.

He’d completely forgotten about Gabe. His black jacket crunched with a comfortable leather sound as he made his way next to Pete and placed his helmet on the stool. He pushed a long strand of gray hair behind his ear, caught the bartender’s eye, and pointed to my beer.

“Good to see you again, son,” Gabe said casually. “How you holdin’ up?”

“Fine. Hangin’ in there,” Pete uttered.

And they talked. They continued right where they left off. They talked art and philosophy. They agreed Ayn Rand was right and wrong at the same time. They chided each other about the bands they both liked and disliked. They shared stuff together over a few more beers.

“I just don’t get it,” Pete said at an introspective moment in the conversation. “I consider myself a survivor. But I’m not doing a very good job of it right now. It’s too easy to just exist. Its a mess just trying to hold on to what pieces of my life I have left.” Pete elevated the last of the beer in his glass and drained the last drop.

Gabe turned from talking to Pete through the bar mirror and looked at him squarely. Pete returned the gesture.

Gabe’s voice held the weight of the world, “You need to rethink this place of yours. This is about being prepared to lose what you have for what you might get. It’s about what you are for what you can be. It’s about letting go.” Thumping his chest and pointing to his head, “Be the person in here and here. Go create. Make.”

Pete felt his heart beat faster. Gabe was right. “Make … that’s a good word.”

Gabe dropped some bills on the counter and picked up his helmet. “Hey,” he said, “Grab your things. I’ve comet to take you home.”

“Yeah. Back home,” Pete echoed. He knew where that was now.

Part 3
Pete sat with his heals in the sand. The heat felt good on his face. He leaned back and looked out to the water between his outstretched feet. He thought it would be a good picture. The water in front of him sparkled. He looked at surfers paddle out farther into the water and pirouette for the next wave.

Life is never where you want it to be. And he thought of the Stone’s lyrics, You can’t always get what you want. But if you sometimes, you might just find, you get what you need. Pete laughed because he figured Gabe would have issue with that saying something about “thinking your free.” But, it didn’t really matter.

His cell phone rang. Pete picked it up to see who called. He was shocked to see a number from an old friend, a friend who at one point became one of the empty silhouettes who watched the hurt and pain from a distance. They all closed their eyes then, but they saw. They watched. They just didn’t know and they weren’t taught the etiquette. It's all ok now.

Pete decided to call back later. He was enjoying new places, new opportunities, and new friends. Today, Pete was making. And tonight he promised a friend he’d make ... dinner.

He watched a surfer stand and spin. Tomorrow he might join in.

He picked up the cell phone and searched for a number. There was a guy holding onto a few boxes of his stuff from his old place. It was mostly furniture and some tools. Pete had managed to let go of most of his material things. These were things next on his list of what to let go. In fact, he’d paired his life down to what he could pack up and go in about 20 minutes.

There was familiar music in the air from a passing car. It was a familiar anthem and worked for the time and place. Pete sang along while he dialed the number.

The surfer rode a wave almost all the way into the shallow water. Pete’s heart was going boom, boom, boom.

Pete got the answering machine. “Hey,” he said into the recording, “Listen. You can keep my things.” The surfer was walking up the beach with a board under her arm. “They’ve come to take me home.”