Any way you slice it

I don't generally like to come on my blog and be all whiny-complainy but there's an exception to every rule.

It is after all a slice of life blog, and this is going to be about slices of pepperoni.

Because I'm not sure if you know this about me, but I'm a bona fide pepperoni fiend.

When we have pizza together? That's really all you need to know: Double Pepperoni.

But I do not restrict my consumption of pepperoni to when I enjoy pizza, which is actually very infrequently.

I snack on pepperoni all the time. You should try it. Zero carbs, just so you know.

Put a few paper towels on a small plate and line up a bunch of pepperoni discs -- be they large or small -- and microwave the little darlings for one minute.

They turn all chewy-crispy, depending on the thickness of the discs.

Delicious with eggs. Forget bacon.

Anyway I am particularly enamored of deli-style sandwich (some call it slicing) pepperoni, which is fresher than those little packages you get in the cold cut section.

Cheaper per pound too, depending on where you buy it.

Believe it or not my preferred place to buy sandwich pepperoni is the deli at Walmart.

And no, we don't have an EBT card loaded with mad stacks of imaginary cash. That's because we work.

We do not live off the government, although the government seems increasingly determined to suck the life out of us.

It's just that, I have not found this product sold any more cheaply than at Wally World. 

Six dollars a pound. I know, right? But it's worth it.

Most of the time however, we shop for groceries at Kroger. Kroger has a private brand of deli sandwich pepperoni that's very good but they're often out of it.

That leaves Boar's Head and BH, while incredibly delicious, is eight bucks a pound.

But since I'm addicted to pepperoni, I just go ahead and buy it if that's my only option.

Needs must.

Such was the case on a recent evening when TG and I had been on a day trip and we required a few supplies before going home.

So we went Krogering.

First stop: the deli, for some sandwich pepperoni.

Only, as I stood before the deli case gazing in at the fare, no fewer than five white-shower-capped "workers" stood in a gaggle not ten feet away.

Ignoring me.

Deep in conversation, they were. Five of them. All suited up like employees, but standing in the middle of the floor having some kind of a confab.

I was the only person waiting for service. I could have said something and I considered it, but I truly wondered how long they would make me wait.

It was several minutes. In due time the chatty clot broke up and a white female at least seventy years of age and wearing a mean expression wandered back behind the deli case.

She didn't look at me when she got to where I was, but she said something like:

"Just a minute."

Mmmmkay.

She went to the sink beside the meat slicers, where she began to painstakingly wash her hands. 

Still sudsed up, she walked over to where the deli boundary meets the bakery boundary, and chatted for a few moments with a white-shower-capped baker person.

I waited.

She returned to the sink, carefully rinsed her hands, dried them one digit at a time, and began to slowly and deliberately pull on a pair of latex gloves.

Fortunes were made and squandered. The national debt increased by fifty-eight billion dollars, most of that spent by EBT card holders.

I waited.

Eventually the elderly woman walked back over and stood, looking at me. 

She didn't say anything but her eyebrows were raised so I said:

"One pound of Boar's Head sandwich pepperoni, please."

She opened the case and began rummaging for said provender. She hauled it out and strolled over to a slicer.

She laboriously prepared to put the product up on the slicer and actually slice.

I grew much older but at long last she pushed the slicer handle. She turned and held up a piece of pepperoni, and again peered at me.

The slice was so thin, I could have read a faded love letter through it, were I so inclined.

"Thicker please," I said, thinking: Sometime this calendar year.

She didn't budge but said: "OK how much do you want?"

?????

I repeated, looking straight at her: "One pound."

She didn't budge but said: "I can't hear you back here."

?????

You may not know this about me but I am not a mumbler. Nor -- big surprise -- am I a shrinking violet.

And I do not shout in grocery stores (well, unless I find they're out of Diet Coke) but neither am I afraid to say right out loud exactly what I want.

I am neither inarticulate nor ambiguous. Ever. You can ask anybody.

So I guess I could have been all apologetic but that ship had sailed and this pirate was not aboard.

I leaned forward and looked the woman pointedly right between the eyes. I raised my voice.

"ONE. POUND." I said and I did not smile and this time I did not say please.

She turned back around and pushed the slicer a few times.

She turned around again, facing me. She did not speak but held up two slices of pepperoni, sideways so that I could judge their thickness.

The slices looked identical to me.

I said, and yes I was exasperated: "I can't tell the difference between them."

The fine example of a Kroger employee waggled one of the slices in my direction. "This one is thicker," she said.

Mmmmkay. What's behind door number three, I wondered.

But: "Tell you what," I said. Just give me a pound of those. Either one, both, it doesn't matter. I'd like to wrap this up sometime today."

I mean, I had been standing there for more than ten minutes. And still I was the only customer.

The elderly female turned back around and began slicing Boar's Head sandwich pepperoni in what, for her, passes as earnest.

When she had amassed a pile, she turned back toward the service counter and plopped the slices up onto the scale.

That's when I tuned in to the fact that she was muttering something. Within moments I realized she was in fact delivering a mini-diatribe for my benefit.

Because there was nobody else around.

And since I am not hearing challenged, she came through loud and clear.

It went something like this:

"I guess there are just some very unhappy people in this world. I'm glad I'm not a cranky person."

I ignored her but thought: No but I bet you ride a scraggly broom around town and ingest battery acid just for kicks.

Mutter mutter, slap some more pepperoni up onto the scale. Finally a grudging sloppy wrapping-up process, and eventually a few centuries later, a markedly desultory pushing of a plastic bag in my direction.

"Have a splendid evening," the elderly female deli employee instructed me.

?????

How can unhappy, cranky people even do that? I wondered. But I knew the answer: Just walk away from the deli counter at Kroger.

Bingo! Emotional ecstasy ensues.

In case you're wondering: YES. I tattled on her to the manager. I took the time.

It's how I roll.

I told him that when I am splashing out eight bucks a pound for sandwich pepperoni and I happen to be the only customer, you might ought to make it snappy.

Oh and all I need to hear is "Thank You, Ma'am. May I get you anything else?"

A deep curtsy may be in order too.

Or, hold the curtsy but I sure don't need a lecture on disposition by a crotchety old woman who clearly does not comprehend even the basics of doing her job.

But guess what homies? When I opened that package of pepperoni at home I realized said female hadn't even bothered to weigh out a whole pound.

I don't know if I got my pound of flesh either; the manager seemed distinctly bored with my Boar's Head tale.

But at least I tried.

Stand up for yourself when it's warranted, folks. If you don't, nobody else will.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday

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Javier: Wounded in the walkie wars

Our fourteen-year-old Chihuahua, Javier, cuts an intrepid figure for a dog standing barely one hand high and weighing no more than six pounds with a brick in his back pocket.

As previously established, he is most enamored of walkies. 

Erica generally goes barefoot around the house so when she puts shoes on?

Shall we say Javier's demeanor takes on particularly avid characteristics.

A great deal of hopping and wagging and snorting and turning around in circles may be involved.

Since the weather has turned so fine, we take him out nearly every evening just before the gloaming.

For one thing, Javier is nearly blind by day but completely blind at night, in the dark.

Then there is the owl, which none of us have the desire to meet again.

So it was that last evening before settling in and starting supper, Erica and I took Javier on a jaunt.

It started out so well. He sauntered down our street attached to his little red harness, stopping to check messages all along the way.

Usually when we turn the corner, Erica picks him up and carries him for less than a block.

At the next corner, she puts him down. For some reason unknown to us as his humans, Javier seems to adore moseying down this street.

Name of Stamford Bridge.

It is the street on which the owl attacked me.

Shall I simply say that now, even in broad daylight, on that particular avenue we keep a sharp eye.

We were well past the place where the owl attack occurred when it happened.

I was up ahead of Erica and Javier when I heard her exclaim.

"What's wrong, Javier?" she might have said. I don't remember exactly.

It was enough to make me turn back and ask Erica what was wrong, since Javier did not answer.

For all his expressiveness, Javier can be maddeningly inscrutable.

Erica said she wasn't sure what the deal was, but that Javier had applied the brakes and was suddenly disinclined to budge.

In fact, he was sitting on the side of Stamford Bridge with his right paw raised in the air, parallel to his face, as though he were politely seeking permission to ask a question.

We were like, what?

Then Erica saw it: A bee crawling near where Javier had just walked.

He'd been stung. Javier, that is. By the bee.

The toe of my gel ASICS was on that varmint in a heartbeat, applying the sort of pressure from which an insect does not return healthy. Hasta la vista, baby.

Erica scooped up poor Javier and began cooing and fawning like she does whenever he acts all cute and vulnerable.

He had that wounded, startled look in his eyes. His paw was still up, right beside his face, pointing to the sky.

Every few seconds he bent his head to lick it.

Oh don't worry; he's okay. In fact, within ten minutes (in which he was toted by Erica), his pads were once more on the asphalt and he was scrapping with a neighborhood Corgi.

Today we took him out before lunch, the shade all dappled under the trees, bright sunshine firing up certain autumn leaves.

When we turned onto Stamford Bridge, Javier hesitated and showed signs of post-traumatic stress syndrome.

Particularly keen in diminutive bee-stung toy breeds, I am told.

Or maybe I just made that up.

In any event we completed walkies and returned home without incident.

Be careful out there.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Friday ~ Happy Weekend

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A tree grows in Columbia

I've told you before about the massive White Oak that dominates our yard.

The base of its trunk is but a few yards from our front porch and its canopy completely shades our abode.

Well. In the past few years it seems to me that the tree has enjoyed a growth spurt.

As in, branches that one once had to look up to see, are now hanging directly in the line of sight and drooping lower by the week.

On one side, the oak is reaching out to a crape myrtle and practically doing a secret handshake.

I mentioned this to TG.

"Why don't we ask Jim Dicker to come have a look at it," I suggested.

Jim Dicker, an old friend of TG's and mine, and a good man, is a certified professional arborist.

As in, all he does is take care of trees.

And he has more work than he can do.

You may recall several years ago when Andrew was involved in a serious car accident in which a lady died.

In fact, it was determined that she died before her vehicle hit the heavy flatbed in which Andrew was riding shotgun.

The driver, John, was Jim Dicker's main tree-climbing crew member at the time. Andrew was seasonal help.

John and Andrew were hauling a load of tree-cutting debris to where it was to be offloaded so that they could go to another jobsite and trim some more.

The poor doomed lady's car crossed the center line upon her demise, and as it was a back road with a high shoulder, John had nowhere to go.

We were so grateful that neither John nor Andrew suffered more than a few scratches and bruises.

Jim Dicker's work truck was totaled, though.

And it was Jim Dicker who, a decade ago, at our request drove out to the house we lived in before this one, to inspect a wall-like hedge of Redbuds for blight.

Others had pronounced the Redbuds a lost cause, but Jim Dicker took one look and said: "They'll be okay."

And they were.

Too bad Jim could not have told us our house would be okay too, as that was the one which, in a future dry December, neighborhood kids careless with fireworks nearly burned to the ground.

But Jim's not an arsonist; he's an arborist.

At any rate Jim called me yesterday as I was approaching home, having gone graving on a lovely gray, chilly, windy day.

He said he was minutes from our house and that Greg had asked him to look at our tree, and would it be okay if he swung by.

Sure, I said. Because I'd be there within minutes myself.

Jim spent some time inspecting our tree and frankly admiring it for being a specimen of a magnificent healthy White Oak.

He said it didn't technically need pruning, but that if it were his tree, he would tweak it here and there.

As he wrote the estimate for the work, Jim elaborated on when the work should be done.

"Not now," he counseled. "In the dormant time, after all the leaves have fallen off."

We're talking January or February. And since Jim's estimate was so reasonable, I imagine we'll be having that done.

Meanwhile the scrappy squirrels that swarm this tree are safe for many months to come. Their squeaky autumnal squawks are so cute.

As Jim was concluding his visit, he noticed TG's truck that the neighbor's tree fell on fifteen months ago.

TG has never gotten the smushed truckbed fixed, and in fact he no longer drives the truck.

It needs a clutch and at least one new tire.

Jim's eyes lit up. "Does he want to sell it?" he wanted to know. When it came to vehicles, Jim was clearly ready to branch out.

I called TG, who said he'd sure think about it and get back to Jim with a price.

I imagine some dickering with Dicker is in our future.

But not too much, I hope. Friends like him don't grow on trees.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday

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Skywatch Friday: Hurried away

Sunup at Elmwood, Yesterday

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Since Death brushed past me once more to-day,

Let me say quickly what I must say:

Take without shame the love I give you,

Take it before I am hurried away.

You are intrepid, noble, kind,

My heart goes to you with my mind,

The plummet of your thought is long

Sunk in deep water, cold with song.

You are all I asked, my dear --

My words are said, my way is clear.

~Sara Teasdale~

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Happy Friday ~ Happy Weekend

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Every time a bell rings

I might have named this post Early Wings, because that's really what it's about.

As in, Andrew got his wings three days early.

I guess in the United States Air Force, when they finish the course, rather than stay on schedule, they wing it.

Meghan missed the big moment. She has yet to pack her suitcase for the trip to San Antonio.

I imagine she and Andrew will have a good time together anyway, seeing the sights.

He plans to show her the bleachers under which I cowered in 2007 when it was one hundred twenty degrees and we were obliged to sit there throughout Andrew's ring ceremony.

At one point I had to go underneath where there was some shade, lest I burst into flames.

And the airline had lost our luggage so although I'd had a good night's rest the night before and a refreshing shower that morning, I hadn't changed clothes in two days.

Yes, that is the last time I participated in air travel. And if all goes well, it's the last time I ever will.

Unless Johnny sends a Gulfstream G650 and requests that I join him on location, that is, first texting me: Wheels up in thirty, Jennifer.

Unlikely. But I will pack a bag and leave it by the door just in case.

Last evening -- well before dark, when owls attack, thank you very much -- Erica and I were giving Javier walkies.

That dog loves his walkies. He is a walking fool.

And it is October now and you may remember that as my favorite month of the year. I am an Octoberphile.

And it has nothing to do with the holiday which takes place on the last day of October, which I ignore.

Anyway, Erica spotted a bat flying through the air. How Octoberish, I thought.

We watched as said varmint flew into a tree and immediately hung himself upside down from a twig.

He folded his wings and did an impersonation of a dead leaf.

He's very good at impersonations. If I hadn't seen the precise spot where he attached himself, I would never have spotted him in the tree.

For one thing, bats are not big. In lore they are huge, inky black, needle-fanged, eerily hirsute creatures, but in truth they are about the size of a mouse. 

And the same color. They are however, exceedingly homely. I would venture to say mice are cuter.

So I got me a long stick and I had to reach but I was able to whack gently at a branch near the bat.

He responded by spreading his webbed wings briefly. It was so SPOOKEH!

Then I whacked again and he flew away.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday ~ Happy Week

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