You... you... duck "coot"! Now, wrap yourself in copper wire and fly away into that electrical storm! 
Duck Hunting!
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Chuckwagon
- Veteran
- Posts:4494
- Joined:Tue Apr 06, 2010 04:51
- Location:Rocky Mountains
OOOOooooo .... You danged rabid duck! You`ve got "duck jealousy"! Yup, just because ducks can`t grow mustaches! So just you never mind my babe-gettin`, trophy-winnin`, award-winnin` all-American mustache! You... you... duck "coot"! Now, wrap yourself in copper wire and fly away into that electrical storm!
You... you... duck "coot"! Now, wrap yourself in copper wire and fly away into that electrical storm! If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it probably needs more time on the grill! 
With apologies for being out of order (which I seem to have had to do for most of my life), we now present... somethin` else. (You were hoping for a reprieve, no doubt.) The management hope you enjoyed attending the Fort Griffin Fandangle.
...and now, on with our previously unscheduled program, or whatever this is. (...diatribe, maybe.) Rewind a bit, back to where we wandered into the Texas Panhandle, somewhere (and somehow) west of Amarillo. The astute reader (there`s bound to be one of ya out there) is bound to notice that straighter lines have been drawn by pre-kindergarten students with inner ear infections. We`ll leave it to you, Gentle Reader, to decide whether it`s better to color outside the lines or think outside the box, or to color outside the box and think outside the lines. ..and while you ponder that, me an` ol` CW is goin` inside...
Where El Ducko and Chuckwagon Enjoy Quality Entertainment and Truck Stop Cuisine in New Mexico
Up about where some of the cattle drives cross Interstate 40, we started encountering all sorts of traffic. You see, just about every truck in the galaxy uses I-40 on the way to and from Santa Monica. Why they all want to go to Muscle Beach is beyond me, but maybe that`s okay, because just as many seem to be heading the other way, coming back. Maybe there`s a Mussel Beach on the northeast coast.
Anyways, we could do nothing but fall into the traffic pattern. After an hour or four of eating other people`s dust, we finally made it to the head of the pack, only to find ourselves diverted into the parking lot at a local elementary school by a mean-looking group of volunteers. (Not even your worst nightmare of a sixth-grade "World Studies" teacher could hold a candle to these people. ...not without flammability concerns.)
We parked in the indicated, mandated place, dismounted, formed a line, held hands, and marched inside like good little cowboys, sat in those little bitty seats that are made of a minimal amount of molded plastic and bent to accommodate your body in the most uncomfortable way possible, and didn`t speak unless spoken to. (Raised hands, even to "go potty," were ignored.)
The Talent Show program started. Little Miss Somebody got up and did a tap dance to recorded music from the scratchy 1940`s, then three girls sang "Let It Go" from the recent Disney movie, in various keys and timings. Johnny and Larry Whosis got up and demonstrated a few fumbling kung fu moves suitable for use the next time you attempt to use a drive-up ATM. Mary Somebody haltingly played "The Soldiers` March" from some long-forgotten piano instruction book, a fitting introduction to an a cappella version of "Let It Go" from the recent Disney movie, while waving miniature action figures from the recent Disney toy promotion movie of the same unforgettable name, I think. (Maybe not, but it shoulda been.)
We looked at each other, squirming in our seats like first graders at a talent show, as Riley and Amy Something came out dressed in a cardboard box and gave a short, inaudible sock puppet show. Next, Brenda and Jamie and Laura and Judy treated us to a rendition of Disney`s "Let It Go" with all the angst that seven-year-old girls are capable of having. About a third of the way through, poor Laura was overcome by the emotion of the song and dashed off-stage in tears. About two thirds of the way through, overcome by emotion applied by her mother offstage, Laura came back on stage and finished, lip-synching.
At this point, I spotted a kid with a bag of popcorn. Where there`s a public school, there`s junk food. I motioned to it, motioned "Where...?" and was rewarded with a "Huh...?" After a few indignant warnings from various parents, I got a direction from the kid and got up to check it out. Three overweight women jumped at my seat, which I graciously relinquished before potentially being crushed.
Down the hall, in the cafeteria, there was a large group of parents and kids, all feeding money into the pop and candy machines. "Eat a Nutritious Lunch!" admonished a sign overhead, required by law but ignored by all, especially those companies placing junk food machines on school property. I shoved my way to the head of the line, poked some lunch money into one and was rewarded with a can of root beer. Over to the side, Chuckwagon was standing, working on a can of what`s known on those parts as "sodey-pop." I sidled over, which is what you do when you are saddle-sore from sitting in an elementary-school-sized chair for more than five minutes. (No wonder that kids of all ages squirm if made to sit for more than five minutes.)
"Whataya think, Chuckles?" I asked.
"If Ah hear that dang `Let It Go` song one more time, I think Ah`m a-gonna kill somebody," he grumbled.
"Cheer leaders are up soon," I said, trying to lighten his mood. "You`d like that, wouldn`t you?"
"...nuthin` sexier than a seven-year-old, huh, Duck?" He rolled his eyes. "Gimme a break." From down the hall came the mangled strains of "Let It Go" by another group of young girls. ...or was it, stray cats?
"How about we pass the word to meet at that humongous truck stop at Cline`s Corners, New Mexico?" I suggested. "That way, we could straggle in at our own pace, eat some sausages and a pancake or two, and regroup."
A grin stole over his face, somehow leaking out from beneath that moustache of his. "Yeah. ...not bad. You`s a team player, Duck!"
I grinned.
"...wonder which team," he muttered as we wandered back to the auditorium to spread the word.
- - -
In that part of the world, Interstate 40 follows the route of the fabled old Route Sixty-Six, and we were all a bit relieved to abandon our wandering and follow the trail blazed by our noble ancestors on their trek to fame and fortune and all things plastic in Southern California. You can stock up on all sorts of necessities, from shot glasses labeled for all the states to those nasty little pickled red hot sausages, to authentic "Canned South Carolina Road Kill (non-edible meat product)." Seein` as how we were all interested in the making (but mostly the consumption) of sausages, we drifted in and browsed in the gift shop, looking for supplies.
As you probably are aware, you can buy just about any type of food that you can think of, and some that you can`t or shouldn`t, in a truck stop restaurant, just as long as it`s fried. CW and I sat down at the counter, and soon a portly waitress wearing the latest scent from the gift shop, `eau de tobacco smoke,` came over. "Whut kin Ah git you boys? ...coffee?"
"No, thanks," we both said as she proceeded to pour us two cups anyway.
"...cream and sugar, Boys?" she asked, fluttering her eyelashes at us, causing a dust storm of black particles reminiscent of the Oklahoma and Texas that we had so recently left behind. We waited, hoping for a breather, but she didn`t move to get it.
"Whut kin Ah git you boys too-natt?" she asked. "We got the blue plate special, we got the... uh... Wait here." She shuffled off to confer with the short order cook.
CW looked down the counter at what a couple of the truckers were eating, and motioned with his thumb. "UFO," he said. "...unidentified fried object."
"Whataya figger the special part of the blue plate special is?" I wondered out loud.
"...start off with a clean plate, mebbe," he replied.
Our waitress came back. "Roy sez they got plenty of blue plate special, so don`t you boys worry none, okay? Now, what`ll it be?"
"...got any menus?" I asked, looking hopeful.
"Yeah. You want one?" she shot back.
"Well, I thought..."
"Look, Boys, you`ll be better off with the blue plate special." She cocked an eye at Chuckwagon, made eye contact, and nodded her head toward me. "...unless yer friend, here, likes waitin`."
"...two blue plate specials," CW said. "What`s the sides? Do we git a choice?"
She nodded. "Bacon an` beans, or beans an` bacon."
"He`ll have one with bacon an` beans. I`ll have one with beans an` bacon," I said, trying to salvage my credibility. About the only thing more necessary than credibility in a truck stop is... uh... cash, maybe.
"Make that two with bacon an` beans," CW said, having the last word as usual. Moderators are that way, y`know, and ol` CW is typical of the finest. (Others might have chosen "archetypal," but that would be showing off to write it that way. ...or maybe, rat it that way.) "Ain`t that rat, Duck?"
"Whut`s a rat duck?" the waitress shot back, opening up a new comic venue which, if you`re smart, you`ll slam shut real fast. (...and you thought THESE jokes were bad!)
The first course, then the main course, came in due course. The salad was memorable in that it gave me indigestion right away. The main course, whatever it was, probably was a member of the animal world at the final point in its miserable, hopefully short, existence. ...or maybe, throes of...
"Good bacon an` beans," CW said, his mouth full. "Duck, did Ah ivver tell ya how Ah done come by mah recipe fer bacon an` beans?"
I settled myself in for a long one. Chuckwagon goes into great detail, even into the microbiology of this sort of thing. He quotes Latin. He quotes people quoting Latin. He even quotes references to people what quote Latin fer a livin`. Man, if I could quote Latin like ol` CW quotes Latin, well... maybe I could bust my buns ridin` a buckboard too, instead of running free with the wind on a friendly horsey.
...not much of a trade. "No. Tell me, Chuckles, Ol` Buddy, how DID you come up with...?"
"Ah thought you`d never ask," he began.
- - -
"Try this here black `un," Blackie said, and handed Whitey a cheap felt cowboy hat, thankfully avoiding the pink ones.
As you can imagine, ducks have a hard time finding hats that fit, particularly in truck stops. Whitey put it on. It was miles too big, and slipped down over his whole head like a cowl. ...so he did the obvious- - he imitated heavy breathing and, in as deep a Darth Vader voice as he could muster, growled, "Come over to the Duck Side. We not only have cookies, we have ice cream too."
Blackie thought that was the cleverest thing he had ever heard. They were cackling, make that, quackling up a storm, making light saber sounds at each other, when one of the sales staff came over. She out-weighed the pair of them about ten-to-one, and looked like she had modeled for one of the "Mess with me and ya mess with the whole trailer park" redneck tee shirts.
"Uh... No Ma`am. We wuz jes`... uh...
"We wuz jes` movin` on, thank yuh," Whitey said, snatched the hat off his head, and put it back on the rack.
"Too bad," she said. "You looked kinda cute with that hat over yer haid. If Ah could jes` find one big enough ta cover yer whole body..." ...at which she laughed, and shook when she laughed like a bowl full of jelly. But that was the wrong poem, and the wrong time of the year, too.
At that point, the public address system announced that "shower number three is ready for customer number ten." The two ducks pointed to each other, grinned, and sprinted for the back of the men`s locker room area.
"Momma warned me about pickin` up wimmin in truck stops," Blackie said to his friend.
"...don`t think ya coulda lifted that one," Whitey replied.
- - -
"Heck of a way to avoid payin` a tip, but he tries it every time," I thought, as CW wound the story down. The restaurant lights had been flickered at quarter-til-closing, at ten-til, at five-til, at one-til, at five-after, and now, thirty minutes after closing, we sat alone at the counter, in the cone of illumination of one can light. I yawned again (never works).
"...and that`s how it was, movin` west," CW finished. "Let`s mosey on outside and bed down fer the night."
So, after an abortive start at a campfire which ended with the truck stop firefighters shooing us away from the gasoline tank vents, we bedded down for a night under the New Mexico stars. They`re the same stars as those you find anywhere else in the west, only they are accompanied by trucks engine-braking down the long hill to the west, honky-tonk music competing with bible-thumping preachers on about fifty idling diesel trucks` radios, and that dang P.A. system pleading for someone to come take a shower.
We awoke next morning, the sun peeking over the horizon to the east and lighting up the Sandia Mountains to the west. The view was spectacular, interrupted only by about a bazillion `eighteen wheelers` and several RVs which arrived during the night. We went in, filled our tummies with sausages and a pancake or egg or two at the breakfast bar, and made ready to hit the trail again.
Kelly came in from the front sales area holding a pair of CB radio antennas to his head. "Hey, guys! Just think what we could do if we had CB radios and stuff. We could..." He was hit in the head and chest by a couple of stray biscuits which had somehow become airborne when no one was looking, and beat a hasty retreat. "Okay, okay! Never mind."
Over at the fruit bar, Whitey told Blackie, "Hey! Look! Yore girlfriend from last night musta been here. Look at them melons!" Blackie looked around for something to fling, but a couple of us got to him in time to stop what would have become a free-fer-all.
CW knew when it was time to rally his troops- - that special moment when rally threatened to turn into riot. We "headed `em up an` moved `em out," as the saying goes, leaving Cline`s Corners, New Mexico, relatively intact and far back in the dust.
...and I have a souvenir shot glass to prove it.
...and now, on with our previously unscheduled program, or whatever this is. (...diatribe, maybe.) Rewind a bit, back to where we wandered into the Texas Panhandle, somewhere (and somehow) west of Amarillo. The astute reader (there`s bound to be one of ya out there) is bound to notice that straighter lines have been drawn by pre-kindergarten students with inner ear infections. We`ll leave it to you, Gentle Reader, to decide whether it`s better to color outside the lines or think outside the box, or to color outside the box and think outside the lines. ..and while you ponder that, me an` ol` CW is goin` inside...
Where El Ducko and Chuckwagon Enjoy Quality Entertainment and Truck Stop Cuisine in New Mexico
Up about where some of the cattle drives cross Interstate 40, we started encountering all sorts of traffic. You see, just about every truck in the galaxy uses I-40 on the way to and from Santa Monica. Why they all want to go to Muscle Beach is beyond me, but maybe that`s okay, because just as many seem to be heading the other way, coming back. Maybe there`s a Mussel Beach on the northeast coast.
Anyways, we could do nothing but fall into the traffic pattern. After an hour or four of eating other people`s dust, we finally made it to the head of the pack, only to find ourselves diverted into the parking lot at a local elementary school by a mean-looking group of volunteers. (Not even your worst nightmare of a sixth-grade "World Studies" teacher could hold a candle to these people. ...not without flammability concerns.)
We parked in the indicated, mandated place, dismounted, formed a line, held hands, and marched inside like good little cowboys, sat in those little bitty seats that are made of a minimal amount of molded plastic and bent to accommodate your body in the most uncomfortable way possible, and didn`t speak unless spoken to. (Raised hands, even to "go potty," were ignored.)
The Talent Show program started. Little Miss Somebody got up and did a tap dance to recorded music from the scratchy 1940`s, then three girls sang "Let It Go" from the recent Disney movie, in various keys and timings. Johnny and Larry Whosis got up and demonstrated a few fumbling kung fu moves suitable for use the next time you attempt to use a drive-up ATM. Mary Somebody haltingly played "The Soldiers` March" from some long-forgotten piano instruction book, a fitting introduction to an a cappella version of "Let It Go" from the recent Disney movie, while waving miniature action figures from the recent Disney toy promotion movie of the same unforgettable name, I think. (Maybe not, but it shoulda been.)
We looked at each other, squirming in our seats like first graders at a talent show, as Riley and Amy Something came out dressed in a cardboard box and gave a short, inaudible sock puppet show. Next, Brenda and Jamie and Laura and Judy treated us to a rendition of Disney`s "Let It Go" with all the angst that seven-year-old girls are capable of having. About a third of the way through, poor Laura was overcome by the emotion of the song and dashed off-stage in tears. About two thirds of the way through, overcome by emotion applied by her mother offstage, Laura came back on stage and finished, lip-synching.
At this point, I spotted a kid with a bag of popcorn. Where there`s a public school, there`s junk food. I motioned to it, motioned "Where...?" and was rewarded with a "Huh...?" After a few indignant warnings from various parents, I got a direction from the kid and got up to check it out. Three overweight women jumped at my seat, which I graciously relinquished before potentially being crushed.
Down the hall, in the cafeteria, there was a large group of parents and kids, all feeding money into the pop and candy machines. "Eat a Nutritious Lunch!" admonished a sign overhead, required by law but ignored by all, especially those companies placing junk food machines on school property. I shoved my way to the head of the line, poked some lunch money into one and was rewarded with a can of root beer. Over to the side, Chuckwagon was standing, working on a can of what`s known on those parts as "sodey-pop." I sidled over, which is what you do when you are saddle-sore from sitting in an elementary-school-sized chair for more than five minutes. (No wonder that kids of all ages squirm if made to sit for more than five minutes.)
"Whataya think, Chuckles?" I asked.
"If Ah hear that dang `Let It Go` song one more time, I think Ah`m a-gonna kill somebody," he grumbled.
"Cheer leaders are up soon," I said, trying to lighten his mood. "You`d like that, wouldn`t you?"
"...nuthin` sexier than a seven-year-old, huh, Duck?" He rolled his eyes. "Gimme a break." From down the hall came the mangled strains of "Let It Go" by another group of young girls. ...or was it, stray cats?
"How about we pass the word to meet at that humongous truck stop at Cline`s Corners, New Mexico?" I suggested. "That way, we could straggle in at our own pace, eat some sausages and a pancake or two, and regroup."
A grin stole over his face, somehow leaking out from beneath that moustache of his. "Yeah. ...not bad. You`s a team player, Duck!"
I grinned.
"...wonder which team," he muttered as we wandered back to the auditorium to spread the word.
- - -
In that part of the world, Interstate 40 follows the route of the fabled old Route Sixty-Six, and we were all a bit relieved to abandon our wandering and follow the trail blazed by our noble ancestors on their trek to fame and fortune and all things plastic in Southern California. You can stock up on all sorts of necessities, from shot glasses labeled for all the states to those nasty little pickled red hot sausages, to authentic "Canned South Carolina Road Kill (non-edible meat product)." Seein` as how we were all interested in the making (but mostly the consumption) of sausages, we drifted in and browsed in the gift shop, looking for supplies.
As you probably are aware, you can buy just about any type of food that you can think of, and some that you can`t or shouldn`t, in a truck stop restaurant, just as long as it`s fried. CW and I sat down at the counter, and soon a portly waitress wearing the latest scent from the gift shop, `eau de tobacco smoke,` came over. "Whut kin Ah git you boys? ...coffee?"
"No, thanks," we both said as she proceeded to pour us two cups anyway.
"...cream and sugar, Boys?" she asked, fluttering her eyelashes at us, causing a dust storm of black particles reminiscent of the Oklahoma and Texas that we had so recently left behind. We waited, hoping for a breather, but she didn`t move to get it.
"Whut kin Ah git you boys too-natt?" she asked. "We got the blue plate special, we got the... uh... Wait here." She shuffled off to confer with the short order cook.
CW looked down the counter at what a couple of the truckers were eating, and motioned with his thumb. "UFO," he said. "...unidentified fried object."
"Whataya figger the special part of the blue plate special is?" I wondered out loud.
"...start off with a clean plate, mebbe," he replied.
Our waitress came back. "Roy sez they got plenty of blue plate special, so don`t you boys worry none, okay? Now, what`ll it be?"
"...got any menus?" I asked, looking hopeful.
"Yeah. You want one?" she shot back.
"Well, I thought..."
"Look, Boys, you`ll be better off with the blue plate special." She cocked an eye at Chuckwagon, made eye contact, and nodded her head toward me. "...unless yer friend, here, likes waitin`."
"...two blue plate specials," CW said. "What`s the sides? Do we git a choice?"
She nodded. "Bacon an` beans, or beans an` bacon."
"He`ll have one with bacon an` beans. I`ll have one with beans an` bacon," I said, trying to salvage my credibility. About the only thing more necessary than credibility in a truck stop is... uh... cash, maybe.
"Make that two with bacon an` beans," CW said, having the last word as usual. Moderators are that way, y`know, and ol` CW is typical of the finest. (Others might have chosen "archetypal," but that would be showing off to write it that way. ...or maybe, rat it that way.) "Ain`t that rat, Duck?"
"Whut`s a rat duck?" the waitress shot back, opening up a new comic venue which, if you`re smart, you`ll slam shut real fast. (...and you thought THESE jokes were bad!)
The first course, then the main course, came in due course. The salad was memorable in that it gave me indigestion right away. The main course, whatever it was, probably was a member of the animal world at the final point in its miserable, hopefully short, existence. ...or maybe, throes of...
"Good bacon an` beans," CW said, his mouth full. "Duck, did Ah ivver tell ya how Ah done come by mah recipe fer bacon an` beans?"
I settled myself in for a long one. Chuckwagon goes into great detail, even into the microbiology of this sort of thing. He quotes Latin. He quotes people quoting Latin. He even quotes references to people what quote Latin fer a livin`. Man, if I could quote Latin like ol` CW quotes Latin, well... maybe I could bust my buns ridin` a buckboard too, instead of running free with the wind on a friendly horsey.
...not much of a trade. "No. Tell me, Chuckles, Ol` Buddy, how DID you come up with...?"
"Ah thought you`d never ask," he began.
- - -
"Try this here black `un," Blackie said, and handed Whitey a cheap felt cowboy hat, thankfully avoiding the pink ones.
As you can imagine, ducks have a hard time finding hats that fit, particularly in truck stops. Whitey put it on. It was miles too big, and slipped down over his whole head like a cowl. ...so he did the obvious- - he imitated heavy breathing and, in as deep a Darth Vader voice as he could muster, growled, "Come over to the Duck Side. We not only have cookies, we have ice cream too."
Blackie thought that was the cleverest thing he had ever heard. They were cackling, make that, quackling up a storm, making light saber sounds at each other, when one of the sales staff came over. She out-weighed the pair of them about ten-to-one, and looked like she had modeled for one of the "Mess with me and ya mess with the whole trailer park" redneck tee shirts.
"Uh... No Ma`am. We wuz jes`... uh...
"We wuz jes` movin` on, thank yuh," Whitey said, snatched the hat off his head, and put it back on the rack.
"Too bad," she said. "You looked kinda cute with that hat over yer haid. If Ah could jes` find one big enough ta cover yer whole body..." ...at which she laughed, and shook when she laughed like a bowl full of jelly. But that was the wrong poem, and the wrong time of the year, too.
At that point, the public address system announced that "shower number three is ready for customer number ten." The two ducks pointed to each other, grinned, and sprinted for the back of the men`s locker room area.
"Momma warned me about pickin` up wimmin in truck stops," Blackie said to his friend.
"...don`t think ya coulda lifted that one," Whitey replied.
- - -
"Heck of a way to avoid payin` a tip, but he tries it every time," I thought, as CW wound the story down. The restaurant lights had been flickered at quarter-til-closing, at ten-til, at five-til, at one-til, at five-after, and now, thirty minutes after closing, we sat alone at the counter, in the cone of illumination of one can light. I yawned again (never works).
"...and that`s how it was, movin` west," CW finished. "Let`s mosey on outside and bed down fer the night."
So, after an abortive start at a campfire which ended with the truck stop firefighters shooing us away from the gasoline tank vents, we bedded down for a night under the New Mexico stars. They`re the same stars as those you find anywhere else in the west, only they are accompanied by trucks engine-braking down the long hill to the west, honky-tonk music competing with bible-thumping preachers on about fifty idling diesel trucks` radios, and that dang P.A. system pleading for someone to come take a shower.
We awoke next morning, the sun peeking over the horizon to the east and lighting up the Sandia Mountains to the west. The view was spectacular, interrupted only by about a bazillion `eighteen wheelers` and several RVs which arrived during the night. We went in, filled our tummies with sausages and a pancake or egg or two at the breakfast bar, and made ready to hit the trail again.
Kelly came in from the front sales area holding a pair of CB radio antennas to his head. "Hey, guys! Just think what we could do if we had CB radios and stuff. We could..." He was hit in the head and chest by a couple of stray biscuits which had somehow become airborne when no one was looking, and beat a hasty retreat. "Okay, okay! Never mind."
Over at the fruit bar, Whitey told Blackie, "Hey! Look! Yore girlfriend from last night musta been here. Look at them melons!" Blackie looked around for something to fling, but a couple of us got to him in time to stop what would have become a free-fer-all.
CW knew when it was time to rally his troops- - that special moment when rally threatened to turn into riot. We "headed `em up an` moved `em out," as the saying goes, leaving Cline`s Corners, New Mexico, relatively intact and far back in the dust.
...and I have a souvenir shot glass to prove it.
Experience - the ability to instantly recognize a mistake when you make it again.
-
Chuckwagon
- Veteran
- Posts:4494
- Joined:Tue Apr 06, 2010 04:51
- Location:Rocky Mountains
-
Chuckwagon
- Veteran
- Posts:4494
- Joined:Tue Apr 06, 2010 04:51
- Location:Rocky Mountains
Alright Duk... you web footed, pseudo - seagull! Here is the agenda for July. Notice there is NO National Duck Wing Flappin` Day... NO National Duck Observance Day... NO goofy Duck -day of any kind!
However, there is a national Cow Appreciation Day on July 11th and National Cowboy Day on the 26th! Yeeee Hawwww!
And of special interest to YOU... you... you... powderburn-plumaged, porch-perching, cuckoo - should be July 7th! Yes, yes, yes! It is national "Tell The Truth" Day!
July 01 Canada Day - National Doctor`s Day in India - Hong Kong Est. Day - Independence Day in Somalia
July 02 National I Forgot Day
July 03 Idaho Statehood 1890
July 04 American Independence Day / Filipino-American Friendship Day
July 05 Independence Day in Algeria and Venezuela / Moon - 1st Quarter
July 07 National Tell the Truth Day / National Chocolate Day / National Father Daughter Take a Walk Day / Global Forgiveness Day
July 09 Independence Day in Argentina and South Sudan
July 10 Independence Day in Bahamas / Wyoming Statehood 1890 / National Teddy Bears' Picnic Day
July 11 National Cow Appreciation Day
July 12 Phases of the Moon - Full Moon
July 13 National Embrace Your Geekness Day / International Puzzle Day / National French Fries Day / Japanese Marine Day
July 14 Bastille Day
July 19 Phases of the Moon - Last Quarter
July 18 International Mandela Day
July 20 Colombian Independence Day / National Moon Day / National Lollipop Day
July 21 Belgian Independence Day / Global Hug Your Kid Day
July 22 National Spoonerism Day / Foundation Day in Cleveland
July 23 National Hot Dog Day / Revolution Day in Egypt
July 24 Utah`s Founders Day / National Cousins Day / National Tell an Old Joke Day
July 25 Puerto Rican Constitution Day / National Talk in an Elevator Day
July 26 National Day of the Cowboy / New York Statehood 1788 / Independence Day in Maldives
July 27 National Barbie in a Blender Day / National Parents Day
July 28 Independence Day in Peru
July 29 National Lasagna Day
July 30 Independence Day in Vanuatu / National Paperback Book Day / Foundation Day in Baltimore / Australian National Tree Day
July 31 Throne Day in Morocco
Here is the agenda for July. Notice there is NO National Duck Wing Flappin` Day... NO National Duck Observance Day... NO goofy Duck -day of any kind! However, there is a national Cow Appreciation Day on July 11th and National Cowboy Day on the 26th! Yeeee Hawwww!
And of special interest to YOU... you... you... powderburn-plumaged, porch-perching, cuckoo - should be July 7th! Yes, yes, yes! It is national "Tell The Truth" Day!
July 01 Canada Day - National Doctor`s Day in India - Hong Kong Est. Day - Independence Day in Somalia
July 02 National I Forgot Day
July 03 Idaho Statehood 1890
July 04 American Independence Day / Filipino-American Friendship Day
July 05 Independence Day in Algeria and Venezuela / Moon - 1st Quarter
July 07 National Tell the Truth Day / National Chocolate Day / National Father Daughter Take a Walk Day / Global Forgiveness Day
July 09 Independence Day in Argentina and South Sudan
July 10 Independence Day in Bahamas / Wyoming Statehood 1890 / National Teddy Bears' Picnic Day
July 11 National Cow Appreciation Day
July 12 Phases of the Moon - Full Moon
July 13 National Embrace Your Geekness Day / International Puzzle Day / National French Fries Day / Japanese Marine Day
July 14 Bastille Day
July 19 Phases of the Moon - Last Quarter
July 18 International Mandela Day
July 20 Colombian Independence Day / National Moon Day / National Lollipop Day
July 21 Belgian Independence Day / Global Hug Your Kid Day
July 22 National Spoonerism Day / Foundation Day in Cleveland
July 23 National Hot Dog Day / Revolution Day in Egypt
July 24 Utah`s Founders Day / National Cousins Day / National Tell an Old Joke Day
July 25 Puerto Rican Constitution Day / National Talk in an Elevator Day
July 26 National Day of the Cowboy / New York Statehood 1788 / Independence Day in Maldives
July 27 National Barbie in a Blender Day / National Parents Day
July 28 Independence Day in Peru
July 29 National Lasagna Day
July 30 Independence Day in Vanuatu / National Paperback Book Day / Foundation Day in Baltimore / Australian National Tree Day
July 31 Throne Day in Morocco
If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it probably needs more time on the grill!
...better get those porta-potties on order, CW
In emergency session, the American Board & Conference of Ducks has just passed a resolution designating July as National Ducks Day Month. According to ABCD custom, every day of the month of July is now designated National Ducks Day, and some of the days of August and September, too, just in case anyone missed a few.
This year's ABCD convention has been moved to the front yard of a certain ol' coot living in the mountains of Utah, so that a smoker and a refrigerator will be available for storing the various sausage-related goodies that this year's host has been designated to provide. See ya September 31st, guys & gals, and thanks in advance to this year's lucky winner and designated host (who might not know it yet), Chuckwagon.
WooHoo! WooHoo!
This year's ABCD convention has been moved to the front yard of a certain ol' coot living in the mountains of Utah, so that a smoker and a refrigerator will be available for storing the various sausage-related goodies that this year's host has been designated to provide. See ya September 31st, guys & gals, and thanks in advance to this year's lucky winner and designated host (who might not know it yet), Chuckwagon.
WooHoo! WooHoo!
Experience - the ability to instantly recognize a mistake when you make it again.
-
Chuckwagon
- Veteran
- Posts:4494
- Joined:Tue Apr 06, 2010 04:51
- Location:Rocky Mountains
COOT? Coot? Ca certain ol' coot living in the mountains of Utah,
T! Just who are you callin' an ol' coot... you... you... deranged blackbird! You... you... you haywire hummingbird! Coot? OOOOOOooooo...Dang Rabid Duck!
If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it probably needs more time on the grill!
In Which A Parting (Of The Ways) Ain`t Such Sweet Sorrow
Inevitably, we came to the point where Chuckwagon and I were the only ones left on the trail drive. We had scrupulously avoided "fork in the road" jokes long enough. At the first tee intersection, we both knew that it was time to part.
"See ya next drive, huh?" I said, hoping that he was say "Naw. That`s okay, Duck." Ya see, there was that danged contract, and even though I had my life`s calling awaiting me, back home, threat of a breach-of-contract lawsuit called louder. Besides, I`d lose that fabulous bonus of... how much was that, again?
"Yup. Ya got that rat, Duck. See ya."
"...you gonna be alright by yourself, CW? After all, don`t forget that time that..."
"Fergit about it, Duck."
"Oh. Okay."
We stood there awkwardly for what seemed like forever, each one figuring that an embrace was in order but guessing it more likely that the other guy would try to pick his pocket.
"Hey, remember that time that...?"
"Yeah. ...glad THAT`s over. But what about...?"
"Yeah. Know what ya mean."
We stared at each other awkwardly. It was obvious that, during all the ridin` and dust and work and dust, we had formed a bond that few others had. Shared adversity works that way, somehow. ...not to mention that CW carried the supply of toilet paper and moist towel-ettes in his wagon.
"Whale," he said, and stuck out his hand, "put `er there, Duck" We shook, I ignored the buzzer that he tried to use on me (having fallen for that old gag once before), he ignored the wad of tar that I`d been saving for the right opportunity, and we parted friends.
I turned east, he turned west, and the last I saw of him, he was disappearing over a ridge, looking back to make sure that he wasn`t being followed. I waved. He waved. ...and then he was gone.
But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I swear that I can hear that snore of his. ...and swear at him to knock it off, only to hear my own voice echo. Other times, when I hear a honky-tonk piano, I think about that unique style of his, start tapping my foot while I plan my revenge, and... But that wouldn`t be right. We were ol` saddle-mates, Chuckwagon and I, having shared many a sausage recipe and laughing at his infectiously funny bacterial humor. Behind that scruffy-looking moustache lurks the keen mind of a...
Hmmm. They said the same thing about all the arch-villains in the Batman comic books. Maybe I ought not to go there. But next year, come cattle drive season, I guess I WILL go there. ...must be the dust in my veins.
Passing through Big Spring, Texas, I turned into the first used car and horse emporium that I found and traded my good ol` reliable horsey for something with about six hunnert of `em under the hood. It`s a real beauty- - teal-colored, with a canvasback top. I put the top down, cranked the stereo up... and immediately switched it off. ...never been much for country music.
What I like better is the wind on my scalp, the dust in my eyes... On second thought, I put the top back up, cranked the air conditioner to the "arctic" setting, bought a vanilla malt at the Diarrhea Queen, and aimed the car southeast. ...punched the coordinates for The University of Northern South Texas at Swinney Switch into the GPS, and the familiar road map of the area between Big Spring and Corpus Christi was a comfort to my eyes. They`re water skiing and drinking beer, cooking sausages and burning s`mores over the campfire, out there on the shores of Lake Mathis about now, and my share won`t be there long. I`d better hurry.
. . . . . . . . . . [fini]
[Narrator] And thus ends another chapter in the saga of the new old west, brought to you by WD Brand and all the folks who "ride" with us. Stay tuned for another exciting season, whenever I get around to it [ed.: and accumulate enough corny jokes].
...because, folks, that's the way it was, moooovin' west. [curtains][music]
Inevitably, we came to the point where Chuckwagon and I were the only ones left on the trail drive. We had scrupulously avoided "fork in the road" jokes long enough. At the first tee intersection, we both knew that it was time to part.
"See ya next drive, huh?" I said, hoping that he was say "Naw. That`s okay, Duck." Ya see, there was that danged contract, and even though I had my life`s calling awaiting me, back home, threat of a breach-of-contract lawsuit called louder. Besides, I`d lose that fabulous bonus of... how much was that, again?
"Yup. Ya got that rat, Duck. See ya."
"...you gonna be alright by yourself, CW? After all, don`t forget that time that..."
"Fergit about it, Duck."
"Oh. Okay."
We stood there awkwardly for what seemed like forever, each one figuring that an embrace was in order but guessing it more likely that the other guy would try to pick his pocket.
"Hey, remember that time that...?"
"Yeah. ...glad THAT`s over. But what about...?"
"Yeah. Know what ya mean."
We stared at each other awkwardly. It was obvious that, during all the ridin` and dust and work and dust, we had formed a bond that few others had. Shared adversity works that way, somehow. ...not to mention that CW carried the supply of toilet paper and moist towel-ettes in his wagon.
"Whale," he said, and stuck out his hand, "put `er there, Duck" We shook, I ignored the buzzer that he tried to use on me (having fallen for that old gag once before), he ignored the wad of tar that I`d been saving for the right opportunity, and we parted friends.
I turned east, he turned west, and the last I saw of him, he was disappearing over a ridge, looking back to make sure that he wasn`t being followed. I waved. He waved. ...and then he was gone.
But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I swear that I can hear that snore of his. ...and swear at him to knock it off, only to hear my own voice echo. Other times, when I hear a honky-tonk piano, I think about that unique style of his, start tapping my foot while I plan my revenge, and... But that wouldn`t be right. We were ol` saddle-mates, Chuckwagon and I, having shared many a sausage recipe and laughing at his infectiously funny bacterial humor. Behind that scruffy-looking moustache lurks the keen mind of a...
Hmmm. They said the same thing about all the arch-villains in the Batman comic books. Maybe I ought not to go there. But next year, come cattle drive season, I guess I WILL go there. ...must be the dust in my veins.
Passing through Big Spring, Texas, I turned into the first used car and horse emporium that I found and traded my good ol` reliable horsey for something with about six hunnert of `em under the hood. It`s a real beauty- - teal-colored, with a canvasback top. I put the top down, cranked the stereo up... and immediately switched it off. ...never been much for country music.
What I like better is the wind on my scalp, the dust in my eyes... On second thought, I put the top back up, cranked the air conditioner to the "arctic" setting, bought a vanilla malt at the Diarrhea Queen, and aimed the car southeast. ...punched the coordinates for The University of Northern South Texas at Swinney Switch into the GPS, and the familiar road map of the area between Big Spring and Corpus Christi was a comfort to my eyes. They`re water skiing and drinking beer, cooking sausages and burning s`mores over the campfire, out there on the shores of Lake Mathis about now, and my share won`t be there long. I`d better hurry.
. . . . . . . . . . [fini]
[Narrator] And thus ends another chapter in the saga of the new old west, brought to you by WD Brand and all the folks who "ride" with us. Stay tuned for another exciting season, whenever I get around to it [ed.: and accumulate enough corny jokes].
...because, folks, that's the way it was, moooovin' west. [curtains][music]
Experience - the ability to instantly recognize a mistake when you make it again.
-
Chuckwagon
- Veteran
- Posts:4494
- Joined:Tue Apr 06, 2010 04:51
- Location:Rocky Mountains
I moved the Duk's "rib" post to the "rib" section. I thought I'd better notify him so I wrote:
Yes, I`ve long suspected you had a bonafide, undeniable, "no-sauce" problem. Following years of serious "BBQ Sauce Deprivation", the absence has taken its toll on you. Just look at how you droop and drool! Just look at how your eyelids remain half-closed. Just look at how pale and anemic you are after years without barbecue sauce! My goodness man... errr.... My goodness duck... get with the program and start eating barbecue sauce - before you quack up one last time!
Then that danged rabid duck wrote back to me:Hey, hey, Duk! I moved your "Ribs" post to the BBQ section. It sounds like you "did 'em up right" eh?
Why you feathered, fraudlelent, funny-farm fugitive! No wonder you`re only firing on 7 cylinders! Small wonder you waddle into walls! No wonder you quack and stutter instead of enunciating - you don`t eat sauce with your barbeque! Wow, are you sick? That`s terrible. No sauce with your barbecue....? Don`t you realize you could go blind? Or even worse, you could go deaf or even lose your sense of smell... no longer able to detect the aroma of bovine llano guano in all WD posted material.Eeeeeeeewwww! No sauce. Raise your right hand and repeat after me: good smoked meats do NOT need sauce. That's better. Now, then......
Yes, I`ve long suspected you had a bonafide, undeniable, "no-sauce" problem. Following years of serious "BBQ Sauce Deprivation", the absence has taken its toll on you. Just look at how you droop and drool! Just look at how your eyelids remain half-closed. Just look at how pale and anemic you are after years without barbecue sauce! My goodness man... errr.... My goodness duck... get with the program and start eating barbecue sauce - before you quack up one last time!
If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it probably needs more time on the grill!
Do you eat barbecue sauce on salami? ...pepperoni? ...mortadella? ...summer sausage? ...liver wurst? (...or, for that matter, cereal, green beans, mushrooms, sushi...?)
Of course not.
In our part of Texas, there's a saying found in many a barbecue joint- - "It's about the MEAT." Why bother to smoke meat if you plan on drowning it in sauce? In fact, in our travels eastward, we have come to suspect that they use chopped wood chips soaked in sauce until the grain separates, for "barbeque." (Nobody notices a difference.) In my part of the world, "chopped barbecue" refers to the scraps which we save and serve to tourists from out-of-state.
...and, as we also say, "Now ya know."
Of course not.
In our part of Texas, there's a saying found in many a barbecue joint- - "It's about the MEAT." Why bother to smoke meat if you plan on drowning it in sauce? In fact, in our travels eastward, we have come to suspect that they use chopped wood chips soaked in sauce until the grain separates, for "barbeque." (Nobody notices a difference.) In my part of the world, "chopped barbecue" refers to the scraps which we save and serve to tourists from out-of-state.
...and, as we also say, "Now ya know."
Experience - the ability to instantly recognize a mistake when you make it again.
-
Chuckwagon
- Veteran
- Posts:4494
- Joined:Tue Apr 06, 2010 04:51
- Location:Rocky Mountains
Yeah! And ice cream too.Do you eat barbecue sauce on salami? ...pepperoni? ...mortadella? ...summer sausage? ...liver wurst? (...or, for that matter, cereal, green beans, mushrooms, sushi...?)
We even stir a little "Rocky Mountain Red" into our coffee!If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it probably needs more time on the grill!
Colombia, South America. Yup, it's That-a-way, Folks.
In Which el Ducko Travels to Colombia
If you have done any traveling lately, you may have noticed that few, if any, ducks travel by commercial air. However, as the availability of transportation has increased, ducks too are availing themselves of opportunities to see the world. True, the cost is still high, but is possible to do such things as fly to Miami, have a cafe cortado ("filtered," i.e. a sugary double espresso), and have enough energy to go trans-atlantic. ...or pan-galactic, if the full amount of sugar kicks in.
...much like what happened recently on a trip to Cali, Colombia.
Like other special-needs passengers, ducks have sought, and succeeded in receiving, special accommodations. It is rare to see a duck in the main cabin of an airplane for several reasons. For one thing, ducks like the feeling of free flight, so they like to roll the windows down and stick their heads out periodically. Then, too, they like to get up, stretch and wander around a bit.
Okay, Wise Guy- - Who shut the window?
The result: a special cabin, aft of the rearward flight attendants' service area, with a pressure-resistant, sound-proof, bulkhead which doubles as a projection screen during World Cup matches. Pets have long had a special compartment. It`s well past time that ducks did, too. Our only regret is that the rear door once installed in all Boeing 727 aircraft wasn`t retained for our use.
And then, there is the need for special restroom accommodations. You can imagine the problems created by flying over a populated area, standing out on that convenient platform formerly called the horizontal stabilizer, "taking care of business" at Mach 0.8, so airline companies were quick to recognize the benefits of catering to this new waste stream / revenue stream by providing adequate facilities. As a result, today's flying public includes ducks more and more often, and any "fallout" problems are almost totally voided. ...er, avoided.
In-flight meals are still their own problematic item, however. Ducks dislike cardboard meals just as much as people do, preferring rice, sausages, sushi, Pad Thai, and eggs (chicken, that is) over easy. What sort of trip would it be if, for example, one were to sample the sausages of Central and Eastern Europe, only to have "crepes du fibre au jus d'starch glue" on the way home? ...not a good one, I guarantee. Ducks would, instead, opt for travel by cruise ship. (Ten billion seagulls can't be wrong.)
So, in a fit of pique (make that a confit piquant), I offer a few upcoming recipes which are amenable to both the airline traveler and the airline cost analyst. No need to set up charcoal braziers in the aisles, as is rumored to be attempted on pilgrimage flights to Mecca by less-savvy third-world travelers (may Allah grant them peace). These sausages may be prepared on board by a variety of the usual methods such as poaching In lukewarm coffee, microwaving until crisp, or hanging skewered sausages out the window and into the jet exhaust. Uh... better leave this last one to ducks or cabin crew.
SLIP-STREAM SALAMI
LOW-ALTITUDE LONGANIZA
BAROMETRIC BOLOGNA
CUMULONIMBUS CHORIZO
PITOT TUBE PASTRAMI
WHEELWELL WURSTCHEN
= = =
So, on a recent trip to South America, I found myself on final approach to the airport at Cali, Colombia. These days, the nation of Colombia is prosperous, peaceful, and despite recently losing too early in the World Cup games in Brazil, delightfully non- violent. (...unless you insist on spelling the country's name with a "U". They really HATE that "Columbia" business. Wouldn't you, if you were called a "dock" instead of a "duck"? Well, that's backward, but you know what I mean.)
Standard procedure during air trips is for us ducks to hop off a bit early. When landing, we like to come in low and slow, checking things out, just in case there are hunters or other unscrupulous carnivores present. Ya see, ducks are just now discovering how good sausages and other meats taste, and when the ducks begin to arm themselves and begin hunting the hunters, it's not going to be pretty.
For the moment, though, I called in to Cali Approach Control, got connected with a parrot named Lorenzo, was offered a cracker and directed to a more comfortable altitude, and was soon on the ground in our own more-forgiving sugar cane field "digs," without the dubious benefit of those oh-so-helpful officers at the "Migración" desk. A mere hour and a half later, my taxi had covered the 11 kilometers to town, miraculously without killing the bazillions of "motos" that surrounded us at every one of the millions of traffic lights.
Our group was staying at an old hacienda in south central Cali (not related with South Central Los Angeles, but there are parts of town that surely ARE). The old place had been converted to a hotel, its protective walls reassuring, its swimming pool inviting, especially for ducks. Meal service was catered and, like ALL meals in Colombia, featured rice. There are many of ways of preparing rice, all of them delicious, featuring various broths and add-ins. Needless to say, this was a big hit with us ducks.
I have to mention a couple of interesting drinks that you would enjoy. "Agua Con Panela" is hot water with crude cane sugar dissolved in it. Cones of crude sugar called "Pilloncillo" are widely available in grocery stores in the USA, in the "Hispanic"section, and hopefully where you live, too. Heat up a pan of water with a liter or quart of water, add in a cone of sugar, and stir until it dissolves. In Colombia, they often add a large slice of "queso fresco" (fresh white cheese) whey, stir slowly as they sip, and the whey mostly dissolves. ...simple, but tasty. If you can't get queso fresco or whey, either, you could try using mozzarella if you have too. Queso fresco is a bit more soluble in water than mozzarella. Perhaps some day the Italians will learn how to make good cheese (wink, wink).
The other item is best described as hot chocolate with a slice of that same type of cheese. Don't skip the cheese- - it's what distinguishes both drinks.
The sausages available in Cali vary widely. Very little of the food is spicy, so leave your Mexican expectations behind. The locally-made chorizos were simple affairs, pork or beef or chicken seasoned with a bit of paprika, salt, nitrite cure, garlic, aji (South American version of red pepper, but a different species from cayenne and the like), a little cumin, and white pepper. (Surprisingly at least to me, black pepper is hard to find.) I had a "chorizo Santa Rosano" which was good, the meat ground finely, maybe 30% fat, cure added, stuffed in hog casing. This type features tripe as one of the (minor) ingredients. Some of the more rustic versions, which you can purchase alongside the roads, are of irregular diameter, the meat and fat coarsely hand-chopped before mixing and stuffing.
The star of the dinner table show, in Colombia, is the "Arepa." It consists of corn meal, formed into a cake a centimeter or so thick, grilled. The authentic form of corn meal is called "choclo," yellow cornmeal with a little bit of cane sugar mixed in. The taste reminds me of the "cornets" that we used to have, 45 years ago, at the San Antonio Country Club- - masa harina amarilla (yellow corn meal) plus water and a little sugar, plus melted butter or lard, dropped in spoonfuls onto a hot griddle. It is lamentable that a few years ago, thanks to a screw-up by a certain chemical company that was busy genetically modifying corn, some of the FrankenCorn escaped, contaminated the yellow corn crop, and they had to buy it all up and destroy it. That, combined with our government's subsidies on corn-based ethanol (guess who lobbies for it) has really disrupted corn supply. ...so hold out for the good stuff, the yellow corn. Down with maiz blanca!
So, uh, where were we? Oh, yeah, arepas. You can stuff an arepa corn cake with anything edible and it tastes great! The pita bread guys got nuthin' on arepas. The menu at one of the restaurants we stopped at listed 27 kinds. The one with deep-fried pork belly is to die from. No! ...die for. There are various meats, cheeses, fruits, mushrooms of various types, various hamburger and cheeseburger styles (hamburger with a fried egg is quite good), various pizza styles (one with ham and Kabanosy sausage), seafood, ...endless varieties. If you can whack a chunk of anything edible off and stuff it in, you're good to go. Add some chimichurri sauce, or maybe some of the fairly tame pepper sauce while you are at it.
...more, later. Now, finish your rice like a good duck.
If you have done any traveling lately, you may have noticed that few, if any, ducks travel by commercial air. However, as the availability of transportation has increased, ducks too are availing themselves of opportunities to see the world. True, the cost is still high, but is possible to do such things as fly to Miami, have a cafe cortado ("filtered," i.e. a sugary double espresso), and have enough energy to go trans-atlantic. ...or pan-galactic, if the full amount of sugar kicks in.
...much like what happened recently on a trip to Cali, Colombia.
Like other special-needs passengers, ducks have sought, and succeeded in receiving, special accommodations. It is rare to see a duck in the main cabin of an airplane for several reasons. For one thing, ducks like the feeling of free flight, so they like to roll the windows down and stick their heads out periodically. Then, too, they like to get up, stretch and wander around a bit.
Okay, Wise Guy- - Who shut the window?
The result: a special cabin, aft of the rearward flight attendants' service area, with a pressure-resistant, sound-proof, bulkhead which doubles as a projection screen during World Cup matches. Pets have long had a special compartment. It`s well past time that ducks did, too. Our only regret is that the rear door once installed in all Boeing 727 aircraft wasn`t retained for our use.
And then, there is the need for special restroom accommodations. You can imagine the problems created by flying over a populated area, standing out on that convenient platform formerly called the horizontal stabilizer, "taking care of business" at Mach 0.8, so airline companies were quick to recognize the benefits of catering to this new waste stream / revenue stream by providing adequate facilities. As a result, today's flying public includes ducks more and more often, and any "fallout" problems are almost totally voided. ...er, avoided.
In-flight meals are still their own problematic item, however. Ducks dislike cardboard meals just as much as people do, preferring rice, sausages, sushi, Pad Thai, and eggs (chicken, that is) over easy. What sort of trip would it be if, for example, one were to sample the sausages of Central and Eastern Europe, only to have "crepes du fibre au jus d'starch glue" on the way home? ...not a good one, I guarantee. Ducks would, instead, opt for travel by cruise ship. (Ten billion seagulls can't be wrong.)
So, in a fit of pique (make that a confit piquant), I offer a few upcoming recipes which are amenable to both the airline traveler and the airline cost analyst. No need to set up charcoal braziers in the aisles, as is rumored to be attempted on pilgrimage flights to Mecca by less-savvy third-world travelers (may Allah grant them peace). These sausages may be prepared on board by a variety of the usual methods such as poaching In lukewarm coffee, microwaving until crisp, or hanging skewered sausages out the window and into the jet exhaust. Uh... better leave this last one to ducks or cabin crew.
SLIP-STREAM SALAMI
LOW-ALTITUDE LONGANIZA
BAROMETRIC BOLOGNA
CUMULONIMBUS CHORIZO
PITOT TUBE PASTRAMI
WHEELWELL WURSTCHEN
= = =
So, on a recent trip to South America, I found myself on final approach to the airport at Cali, Colombia. These days, the nation of Colombia is prosperous, peaceful, and despite recently losing too early in the World Cup games in Brazil, delightfully non- violent. (...unless you insist on spelling the country's name with a "U". They really HATE that "Columbia" business. Wouldn't you, if you were called a "dock" instead of a "duck"? Well, that's backward, but you know what I mean.)
Standard procedure during air trips is for us ducks to hop off a bit early. When landing, we like to come in low and slow, checking things out, just in case there are hunters or other unscrupulous carnivores present. Ya see, ducks are just now discovering how good sausages and other meats taste, and when the ducks begin to arm themselves and begin hunting the hunters, it's not going to be pretty.
For the moment, though, I called in to Cali Approach Control, got connected with a parrot named Lorenzo, was offered a cracker and directed to a more comfortable altitude, and was soon on the ground in our own more-forgiving sugar cane field "digs," without the dubious benefit of those oh-so-helpful officers at the "Migración" desk. A mere hour and a half later, my taxi had covered the 11 kilometers to town, miraculously without killing the bazillions of "motos" that surrounded us at every one of the millions of traffic lights.
Our group was staying at an old hacienda in south central Cali (not related with South Central Los Angeles, but there are parts of town that surely ARE). The old place had been converted to a hotel, its protective walls reassuring, its swimming pool inviting, especially for ducks. Meal service was catered and, like ALL meals in Colombia, featured rice. There are many of ways of preparing rice, all of them delicious, featuring various broths and add-ins. Needless to say, this was a big hit with us ducks.
I have to mention a couple of interesting drinks that you would enjoy. "Agua Con Panela" is hot water with crude cane sugar dissolved in it. Cones of crude sugar called "Pilloncillo" are widely available in grocery stores in the USA, in the "Hispanic"section, and hopefully where you live, too. Heat up a pan of water with a liter or quart of water, add in a cone of sugar, and stir until it dissolves. In Colombia, they often add a large slice of "queso fresco" (fresh white cheese) whey, stir slowly as they sip, and the whey mostly dissolves. ...simple, but tasty. If you can't get queso fresco or whey, either, you could try using mozzarella if you have too. Queso fresco is a bit more soluble in water than mozzarella. Perhaps some day the Italians will learn how to make good cheese (wink, wink).
The other item is best described as hot chocolate with a slice of that same type of cheese. Don't skip the cheese- - it's what distinguishes both drinks.
The sausages available in Cali vary widely. Very little of the food is spicy, so leave your Mexican expectations behind. The locally-made chorizos were simple affairs, pork or beef or chicken seasoned with a bit of paprika, salt, nitrite cure, garlic, aji (South American version of red pepper, but a different species from cayenne and the like), a little cumin, and white pepper. (Surprisingly at least to me, black pepper is hard to find.) I had a "chorizo Santa Rosano" which was good, the meat ground finely, maybe 30% fat, cure added, stuffed in hog casing. This type features tripe as one of the (minor) ingredients. Some of the more rustic versions, which you can purchase alongside the roads, are of irregular diameter, the meat and fat coarsely hand-chopped before mixing and stuffing.
The star of the dinner table show, in Colombia, is the "Arepa." It consists of corn meal, formed into a cake a centimeter or so thick, grilled. The authentic form of corn meal is called "choclo," yellow cornmeal with a little bit of cane sugar mixed in. The taste reminds me of the "cornets" that we used to have, 45 years ago, at the San Antonio Country Club- - masa harina amarilla (yellow corn meal) plus water and a little sugar, plus melted butter or lard, dropped in spoonfuls onto a hot griddle. It is lamentable that a few years ago, thanks to a screw-up by a certain chemical company that was busy genetically modifying corn, some of the FrankenCorn escaped, contaminated the yellow corn crop, and they had to buy it all up and destroy it. That, combined with our government's subsidies on corn-based ethanol (guess who lobbies for it) has really disrupted corn supply. ...so hold out for the good stuff, the yellow corn. Down with maiz blanca!
So, uh, where were we? Oh, yeah, arepas. You can stuff an arepa corn cake with anything edible and it tastes great! The pita bread guys got nuthin' on arepas. The menu at one of the restaurants we stopped at listed 27 kinds. The one with deep-fried pork belly is to die from. No! ...die for. There are various meats, cheeses, fruits, mushrooms of various types, various hamburger and cheeseburger styles (hamburger with a fried egg is quite good), various pizza styles (one with ham and Kabanosy sausage), seafood, ...endless varieties. If you can whack a chunk of anything edible off and stuff it in, you're good to go. Add some chimichurri sauce, or maybe some of the fairly tame pepper sauce while you are at it.
...more, later. Now, finish your rice like a good duck.
Experience - the ability to instantly recognize a mistake when you make it again.
Recipe for Arepas
Recipe for half a dozen Arepas (pronounced "ah ray pahs")
(Roughly translated from the corn meal package)
Variation: To fix "arepa de huevo," split an arepa, add a raw egg, seal the side back together with a little moistened dough, and fry in oil until the egg is cooked.
(Roughly translated from the corn meal package)
- ● One cup of corn meal
● One cup of water
● One half teaspoon salt
● One teaspoon butter, margarine, or oil
● (optional) shredded mild white cheese such as queso fresco, Monterrey Jack, or Swiss
Start heating up a griddle or pan to medium-high.
Gradually add the water to the corn meal, mixing as you go. Knead the dough briefly, then let it rest for 3 minutes. Mix in the salt and butter/margarine/oil. Mix in the cheese. Knead briefly. Let rest a few minutes.
Separate the dough into six balls. Flatten each by hand onto waxed paper or a non-stick surface. Work each into a circular shape about 1 cm thick.
Grease the griddle or pan lightly. Fry each dough circle on one side until slightly brown, then flip and fry the other side until brown. Remove to a plate to cool.
Variation: To fix "arepa de huevo," split an arepa, add a raw egg, seal the side back together with a little moistened dough, and fry in oil until the egg is cooked.
Experience - the ability to instantly recognize a mistake when you make it again.
-
Chuckwagon
- Veteran
- Posts:4494
- Joined:Tue Apr 06, 2010 04:51
- Location:Rocky Mountains
In Which Eardrums and Livers are Put To The Test
We were all in Cali for the wedding of my daughter to a guy from North Carolina who has lots of family in Cali. It was a great family reunion as well as wedding.
The evening of our arrival, we did what might be termed the ultimate family activity, ultimate in that you can die from this type of stuff. Quick, grab a Chivas-and-water, and ride along. In this case, "Chivas" means buses of a type that cruise the streets of Cali, evenings and nights, mobile dance floors playing the latest salsa at top volume, honking horns, drinking rum and coke or just rum, with more megawatts than horsepower. Traffic goes around them, "motos" swarm around them, and they are soon so oblivious to everything that... Well, the hours stretch from evening to dark and they only stop for potty breaks combined with purchase of more rum and aguardiente. This latter is 45 to 60 proof rum with some type of herb which tastes like anise or fennel or the like. It's a good aperitif/aperitivo, in the right hands. In the hands of someone aboard a chiva, it can be deadly.
The bride and groom also had friends who flew in, so it was a four day party. The officiant for the wedding was Friar Duck, who unfortunately had his papers messed up, was listed as "Fryer Duck," and therefore feared for his life. (For us, though, it was fortuitous, because this helped shorten the sermon.) The bride and the groom both said "Si, I do," and we all sat down to a great dinner, followed by dancing.
Then- - AWK!! suddenly, the DJ cranked up the volume, three professional dancers took to the front of the dance floor, and a caller in a great big hat grabbed the microphone and began what has become a tradition in Colombia, "La Hora Loca," Crazy Hour. Two hours of insanely high-powered, high-energy dancing commenced. ...remember "La Macarena" from ten years or so back? Add modern-day electronica and a set of moves that would leave an aerobics instructor crying for mercy. Be sure to include a megawatt-class amplifier and silly hats. They covered everything from "Gangnam Style" back to "Rock Around the Clock" and forward again at sound levels and heart rates exceeding healthy values, and didn't stop the entire time. Yikes!
Next day, nobody was stirring until late, even the kids. I had never known until now that it is possible to have a sonic hangover. To recover in the fresh air, we went out into the mountains in ragged formation, snacked on local delicacies, hiked along a mountain stream, slipped and got our tail feathers wet, enjoyed a meal in the clouds, and went back to the hotel for a crash landing of sorts.
Have you ever eaten raw seafood in a third-world country? Well, admit it, Colombia is NOT third-world. ...second world, I would claim, and rising. The dish in question is ceviche, which is made with shrimp or one of several types of fish, or a mix, and is sanitary by any country's standards. I like mine "Peruvian style," which is to say, marinated in lime juice with a few chunks of peppers included. The acid in the lime juice "cooks" the proteins, ya see, for reasons known only to our buddy, Chuckwagon and his Latin-spouting ilk. (I add the peppers mainly to keep the pesky rascal from eating my share.) It's delicious, especially to ducks. Follow with a side of arroz con coco, rice made with coconut water, and you have yourself a fine, low-calorie meal fit for a king. ...or duck. ...or ducking. (Huh? Wait a minute!)
Continuing our stay in Colombia, the following day I slipped across the street in the upscale grocery store to check out the sausages. They had a large, mixed variety of sausage inventory, probably the mixed result of all the various European peoples (and various mixed results resulting from) invading the country. They had the usual Italian sausage items, plus Debrezner, Frankfurter, Berliner, Swiss, and several other Western European types. They had chorizos, both local and Spanish, plus Jamon Iberico. They had little chorisitos, 20mm diameter by 50mm, good when served heated as breakfast sausage or as a side. One of my grandsons had one as garnish atop a hamburger bun. Fortunately the kid wanted only the hamburger, so who was I to complain? ("Here- let me help...")
Vicky and Dicky (actually Victoria y Ricardo, but they were trying to make us feel at home) came over and sat at the dinner table beside Harold (whom they tried to call "Geraldo") and me. Harold had just demolished a roasted chicken, pollo asado, and was looking for more. "Try the soup," they suggested.
It looked kind of like dirty dishwater. Harold turned up his nose, which is difficult for a duck to do. "What IS that?" He wondered aloud.
"It's called ajiaco, Sweetie," Vicki said, pronouncing the name almost like "yack-o." "It has chicken meat, broth, corn on the cob, potatoes, cilantro, garlic, onions, cream, avocado... The recipe is similar to sancocho, which has yucca in it."
By then, Harold had mumbled "Looks like pond scum" and waddled off, muttering "Yuccca? ...yucky." I knew better. Cilantro does that to soup, sometimes, but it`s always tasty. Martyr that I am, I shrugged my shoulders and volunteered to eat his portion, then ate mine too. It was delicious.
And here, I`ll press the pause button to let my ears clear, and leave you to dream for a bit. Yum!
We were all in Cali for the wedding of my daughter to a guy from North Carolina who has lots of family in Cali. It was a great family reunion as well as wedding.
The evening of our arrival, we did what might be termed the ultimate family activity, ultimate in that you can die from this type of stuff. Quick, grab a Chivas-and-water, and ride along. In this case, "Chivas" means buses of a type that cruise the streets of Cali, evenings and nights, mobile dance floors playing the latest salsa at top volume, honking horns, drinking rum and coke or just rum, with more megawatts than horsepower. Traffic goes around them, "motos" swarm around them, and they are soon so oblivious to everything that... Well, the hours stretch from evening to dark and they only stop for potty breaks combined with purchase of more rum and aguardiente. This latter is 45 to 60 proof rum with some type of herb which tastes like anise or fennel or the like. It's a good aperitif/aperitivo, in the right hands. In the hands of someone aboard a chiva, it can be deadly.
The bride and groom also had friends who flew in, so it was a four day party. The officiant for the wedding was Friar Duck, who unfortunately had his papers messed up, was listed as "Fryer Duck," and therefore feared for his life. (For us, though, it was fortuitous, because this helped shorten the sermon.) The bride and the groom both said "Si, I do," and we all sat down to a great dinner, followed by dancing.
Then- - AWK!! suddenly, the DJ cranked up the volume, three professional dancers took to the front of the dance floor, and a caller in a great big hat grabbed the microphone and began what has become a tradition in Colombia, "La Hora Loca," Crazy Hour. Two hours of insanely high-powered, high-energy dancing commenced. ...remember "La Macarena" from ten years or so back? Add modern-day electronica and a set of moves that would leave an aerobics instructor crying for mercy. Be sure to include a megawatt-class amplifier and silly hats. They covered everything from "Gangnam Style" back to "Rock Around the Clock" and forward again at sound levels and heart rates exceeding healthy values, and didn't stop the entire time. Yikes!
Next day, nobody was stirring until late, even the kids. I had never known until now that it is possible to have a sonic hangover. To recover in the fresh air, we went out into the mountains in ragged formation, snacked on local delicacies, hiked along a mountain stream, slipped and got our tail feathers wet, enjoyed a meal in the clouds, and went back to the hotel for a crash landing of sorts.
Have you ever eaten raw seafood in a third-world country? Well, admit it, Colombia is NOT third-world. ...second world, I would claim, and rising. The dish in question is ceviche, which is made with shrimp or one of several types of fish, or a mix, and is sanitary by any country's standards. I like mine "Peruvian style," which is to say, marinated in lime juice with a few chunks of peppers included. The acid in the lime juice "cooks" the proteins, ya see, for reasons known only to our buddy, Chuckwagon and his Latin-spouting ilk. (I add the peppers mainly to keep the pesky rascal from eating my share.) It's delicious, especially to ducks. Follow with a side of arroz con coco, rice made with coconut water, and you have yourself a fine, low-calorie meal fit for a king. ...or duck. ...or ducking. (Huh? Wait a minute!)
Continuing our stay in Colombia, the following day I slipped across the street in the upscale grocery store to check out the sausages. They had a large, mixed variety of sausage inventory, probably the mixed result of all the various European peoples (and various mixed results resulting from) invading the country. They had the usual Italian sausage items, plus Debrezner, Frankfurter, Berliner, Swiss, and several other Western European types. They had chorizos, both local and Spanish, plus Jamon Iberico. They had little chorisitos, 20mm diameter by 50mm, good when served heated as breakfast sausage or as a side. One of my grandsons had one as garnish atop a hamburger bun. Fortunately the kid wanted only the hamburger, so who was I to complain? ("Here- let me help...")
Vicky and Dicky (actually Victoria y Ricardo, but they were trying to make us feel at home) came over and sat at the dinner table beside Harold (whom they tried to call "Geraldo") and me. Harold had just demolished a roasted chicken, pollo asado, and was looking for more. "Try the soup," they suggested.
It looked kind of like dirty dishwater. Harold turned up his nose, which is difficult for a duck to do. "What IS that?" He wondered aloud.
"It's called ajiaco, Sweetie," Vicki said, pronouncing the name almost like "yack-o." "It has chicken meat, broth, corn on the cob, potatoes, cilantro, garlic, onions, cream, avocado... The recipe is similar to sancocho, which has yucca in it."
By then, Harold had mumbled "Looks like pond scum" and waddled off, muttering "Yuccca? ...yucky." I knew better. Cilantro does that to soup, sometimes, but it`s always tasty. Martyr that I am, I shrugged my shoulders and volunteered to eat his portion, then ate mine too. It was delicious.
And here, I`ll press the pause button to let my ears clear, and leave you to dream for a bit. Yum!
Experience - the ability to instantly recognize a mistake when you make it again.
