Hello, I’m Veronica
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
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Late Night Racquet Sports
My newsfeed nets a lot of headlines, but I almost missed the one about the Saharan sandstorm last week, blowing its way across the southern United States. Our son lives in Austin and said you can’t miss it: eerie dusty brownish fog center-stage in an otherwise hot and humid Texas day. (The silver lining: the sunsets are spectacular.) I can’t spin a sandstorm positive. Instead, I picture every granule as a moth and every moth descending on my house like Japanese Zeroes, somehow finding entry and making my life a living hell.
They’re at it again, Mr. & Mrs. Miller and their countless compadres. The million (billion?) miller moth march made its way across the Midwest (today’s letter is “M”), destined for an oasis called Colorado and a house called mine. The little winged beasties arrived unannounced and in droves (awful word: drove). One night I noticed one or two of the millers performing their spastic dance around the outside lights and I thought, “Oh no… scouts“. The next night one of them sounded a tiny bugle at dusk and the swarming commenced. I’m convinced miller moths have air traffic controllers, letting them know “Roger that Moth 259 – you’re cleared for landing on any ceiling or wall in Dave’s house”.
Light is a moth’s drug of choice From the minimal research I’ve conducted (like, I don’t want to know moths have 8,000 eyes or whatever), the high country of the Rocky Mountains is a miller moth’s summer resort. Picture Colorado as their Motel 6 for the night (just don’t “leave the light on”), feeding on backyard flowers and storing up oxygen for the next day’s flight to altitude. They seem to be headed towards Utah in particular. Maybe the flowers are better over there. Maybe moths are Mormon and the Utah state line feels like the pearly gates of heaven. Here’s what I say: if Utah really is “The Beehive State”, train those yellow-jacketed armies to take down the miller moths as soon as they arrive. The massacre would be an event worth pay-per-view prices.
I thought I’d developed a sound battle plan for Mr. & Mrs. Miller this year. Turn out ALL the lights and live in hermit darkness for several nights (like Halloween, when you don’t want any trick-or-treaters at your door). Then maybe they’d fly over to my neighbor’s place instead. Wrong. They see your glowing phones. They see the little LED’s you can’t cover up on your electronic devices. They just park in the dark in discreet places around the house, waiting for you to wake up the next morning so they can announce, “WE’RE HERE!!!”There was no avoiding battle with this year’s crop of “Army cutworms” (an image even worse than “miller moth”). At first I was a mercenary, developing a cupping technique with my hands where I could catch-and-release (moths are the devil’s mess if you squash ’em). But I rapidly tired of saving their little one-inch lives one at a time. Try getting ready for bed at night brushing your teeth while a half-dozen bombers circle your head. Or reaching for the water glass only to find a miller has staged a glorious dramatic death at the bottom.
Armed with a fly swatter, I thought to myself time for a little badminton (actually, I just thought “kill”). But here’s the reality: moths have half a brain, wings, ears (or at least a sense of hearing), and endless energy. They know you’re coming almost before you do. They hover close to the ceiling, frustratingly out of reach just beckoning you to climb to unsafe heights.
Our bathtub’s too small to accommodate a ladder so I was forced to balance precariously on the porcelain edge while swinging the swatter skyward. The best analogy I can give you is this: picture King Kong on the top of the Empire State Building, gripping with his feet and flailing with his arms, only in men’s pajamas. Little buzzing machines dart about him. He knocks down one or two (with an instant and satisfying plummet back to earth), but most of the time he just swings at the air while trying not to die in a bathtub. It’s part-cardio, part-yoga (only you’re more stressed when you’re done).
Let’s visit the Army cutworm’s half-brain again. I believe moths are designed by Mom Nature to taunt their predators. One of mine made it into the refrigerator and probably enjoyed a helping of leftovers. Another survived a tumble of laundry dryer clothes and still came out intact (though it was hard to tell if he was dizzy or just flitting as normal). Yet another spent the night in the soaking water of our dirty dishes, popped up the next morning when I approached the sink, and said, “Have a nice day!” as he darted away. Trust me; these mini-monsters don’t die easy. Even a spirited swipe of the racquet (er, swatter) – picture enough force to explode a shuttlecock – doesn’t always kill a moth. Bless their pitter-patter hearts – they sometimes need three or four good whacks before raising the white flag.Enough about Mr. & Mrs. Miller, right? To swat this topic once and for all, most of you know the movie monster Godzilla but what about his nemesis Mothra? Back in the 1960’s, (sick) Japanese filmmakers created a “good-girl” winged creature; an awkward-looking mega-insect who defies the laws of physics by flying. Mothra’s just what you picture in my worst nightmares: a moth the size of a jumbo jet. She was labeled “the protector of island culture, the Earth, and Japan” and revered among the Japanese film-going public (especially women). Mothra sold a lot of movie tickets.
Mothra So, the Japanese think a moth is damn near a heroine, eh? Well then, they should come to Colorado next summer for a visit. I’ll leave the light on for ’em.
Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.
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True Colors
In the kitchen cabinet convenient to our countertop coffeemaker (I’m on a roll with the letter C today), we keep a couple of large mugs; souvenirs from the San Diego Zoo. Identical in size and shape, both mugs have images of animals on them. More importantly, one mug is light blue while the other is bright red. For this reason and no other, I place the blue mug at the front of the cabinet and the red mug further back. My preference is the blue one.If these same mugs were in your kitchen cabinet, which would you choose? What if I added a green mug and a purple mug – would your choice be just as clear? It should be, since we all have favorite colors. Unless we’re colorblind we concur when something is blue, or something is red. We even agree when something blue is “pretty” (say, the summer sky) or something red is not (say, the heart of a forest fire). But that’s just preference by association. Favorite colors are part of our DNA.
I’ll take “green” As far back as I can remember my favorite color is green. I also like blue and purple, but if I only get a single Skittles make it green. With board games, I choose the green pieces. With my wardrobe, I own several green shirts (but no red ones). My wife and I once owned – one after the other – a green van, followed by a green sedan, followed by a green mini-van; even though the more popular vehicle colors are white, silver, black, and dark grey. It may be no coincidence the colors of my alma mater are blue, gold… and green.
Hello, Marilyn! Don’t let the numbers influence your choice but 35% of Americans prefer blue while 16% prefer green, 10% purple, and 9% red. Orange, yellow, and brown sit together at the back of the bus. Also, gentlemen may prefer blondes, but gentlemen definitely prefer blondes in red. To heterosexual men at least, women in red draw more romantic attention than any other color.
Infants show a preference for color as early as twelve weeks old. That’s hardly an age where you associate colors with material things. Toddlers show a preference for pink and blue regardless of sex (and cool colors over warm), but choose yellow over both of them – perhaps owing to association with the sun, flowers, and other “happy” things.
Here’s where favorite colors get interesting. At five years of age you begin to associate colors with more than just “things”. You associate with feelings and states of mind as well. Consider the table above. My preference for green suggests a good/bad combination of traits. Immodestly I like to think I have good taste. Unquestionably I put a premium on my health. Envy? Sure, every now and then. Eco-friendly? Nope, not really.
Red and blue make for better arguments. The “lust”, “power”, and “speed” associated with red explain why it’s the color of choice for sports cars, and why red uniforms statistically improve performance in certain sports (think Tiger Woods). All five blue traits explain why the color is so prevalent in the American workplace (and primary in the logos of standard brands like Ford, Facebook, and IBM). Even the traits of violet/purple make sense: the color most associated with royalty.
The Rose of Temperaments Our desire to interpret the meaning of favorite colors has been around a long time. The Rose of Temperaments is a wheel-like image from the late eighteenth century, matching colors to character traits and occupations. See what your color says about you. If green goes to my very soul, the rose is strikingly accurate. I can make a case for every trait in the list of phlegmatic. My tendencies are also more introverted than extroverted. The rose gives me reasons for envying red, yellow, or blue (and reasons for not), but I can’t deny it: I am literally defined by my favorite color.
Speaking of the basic colors, we also favor color names. Mother Nature’s rainbow just doesn’t do it anymore. In a recent remodel project my wife and I chose the paint color “Cocoa Whip” over “Havana Coffee” and “Wild Truffle”; when in fact we were simply choosing a shade of brown. In product tests, participants shown swatches of the same color consistently preferred the one with the most elegant name.
Closing comment on my favorite color green. You do know what they say about green M&M’s, don’t you? The aphrodisiacal effects (urban legend) are explained by the color’s association with fertility. However, the better story comes from 1976, when the FDA banned the chemical “red dye #2” and red M&M’s temporarily departed the production line. Rumor had it the reds were the real aphrodisiacs, employees were pocketing them straight from the line, and the whole red dye #2 story was a cover-up. Red, green, whatever the color; they all taste good to me. Even the brown ones, which testers swear taste more like chocolate than any other color.Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”, and Snopes.com.
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Hex Marks the Spot
In the opening scenes of the 1981 classic, “Raiders of the Lost Ark”, intrepid explorer Indiana Jones navigates a deep jungle, a river, the betrayal of his fellow adventurers, and the lethal booby-traps inside a mountainside cave to capture a priceless statue of gold. Indy’s return to civilization includes more death-defying maneuvers, yet he still completes the entire escapade in the first ten minutes of the film. That’s far less time than it took another thrill-seeker to find the real-life hidden treasure of Forrest Fenn.
Perhaps you’re not familiar with Forrest Fenn. Hardly anybody would be, were it not for Fenn’s decision back in 1988 to set aside $2 million of his amassed fortune as a reward for an ambitious treasure hunt through the vast Rocky Mountains. Gold nuggets, rare coins, jewelry, and gemstones; all piled up together inside a twelfth-century bronze box and cached in a region of over 500,000 square miles. Treasure hunt indeed… but no treasure map! Instead, Fenn documented clues in the stories and poems contained in his self-published book, The Thrill of the Chase: A Memoir.Remarkably, Fenn’s treasure appears to have been claimed. The whole story found its way back into national headlines just ten days ago, when Fenn himself declared, “I do not know the person who found it but… the search is over. Look for more information and photos in the coming days.” Conveniently, the one snap of the treasure chest in its hidden location does not indicate when it was taken. Just as convenient, the finder has yet to be identified; only labeled “anonymous searcher from the East Coast”.
Forrest Fenn Forgive my skepticism, but I’d say Forrest just raised the first red flag on this whole adventure. It sounds good on paper but the more I read the more I sense fairy tale instead of actual tale. To repeat, Mr. or Mrs. East Coast has yet to come forward. The single photo of the treasure could’ve been taken by Fenn himself. Do the homework and you’ll soon start to wonder, does the treasure really exist? For that matter, does Forrest Fenn himself exist? Even his name sounds make-believe.
Body-double aside, Fenn appears to be very much alive, but the case can be made for calling the man eccentric. Consider, Fenn’s initial intent for the treasure was kind of an “X marks the spot” for his final resting place. In 1988, diagnosed with cancer (likely terminal) Fenn was motivated to set up the treasure hunt before his demise. But somewhere in the next 22 years, Fenn recovered from his illness and then penned the memoir, complete with treasure-hunt clues. This sequence of events alone is suspect. What was Fenn’s original intent: secret burial in the Rockies and whoever stumbled upon his grave (and thought to dig it up) wins the prize?
courtesy of oldsantafetradingcompany.com Undeterred, thousands pursued Fenn’s treasure after the memoir was published. Five died in the search. Of those five, only one cause of death was confirmed – a fall down a steep slope in Yellowstone National Park. The bodies of the other four, at first identified as “missing persons”, were found later (at different times and places) along the supposed route to Fenn’s treasure. No cause of death determined with any of them. Add to that a dozen or more arrests, detainments, citations, and lawsuits with other hunters and you start to get a real mess on your hands. Sounds more like a “hex marks the spot” doesn’t it? Fenn considered the request of authorities to suspend the hunt, but public opinion swayed him to keep things going.
Ten days ago, Fenn acknowledged the (apparent) hunt winner and he/she possesses the (supposed) treasure. No doubt this isn’t the last of the eccentric tale of Forrest Fenn. I hope we tune into the news one of these nights and see our latest Indiana Jones, posing in front of the heaping bronze chest like a lottery winner with a giant check (please also, with fedora and bullwhip). I hope Forrest Fenn is posing right there alongside him/her, and prepared to detail this crazy adventure from start to finish. Then we’ll know whether the inevitable production from Hollywood will be fact or fiction.Some content sourced from the Fenn’s Treasure website, Westword, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.
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Banana Ranting (again)
Take a good look at this photo. My wife and I have this weird assortment of foods on our kitchen counter right now. Store-brand hamburger buns. A half-loaf of “artisan-style” marble rye against the backsplash. Below both, a package of ready-to-use French-style crepes. To the right, a spaghetti squash and a handful of wrapped Lindor truffles. To the further right, an oft-visited plastic container of peanut butter pretzels, fronted by a watermelon just itching to join a fruit salad.These foods are not “still life” waiting to become paint on canvas. They’re not even past-due items from the back-of-store sale rack. They’re just random samplings from trips to the grocery store; items kicked to the kitchen curb instead of the pantry or frig. Two questions, then. If you were given this lot on “Top Chef” could you whip up something appetizing? Would you even care to try?
artwork courtesy of Alexi Talimonov More importantly, I made it to the third paragraph before mentioning the pair of bananas taking up prime real estate front and center in the photo. I HATE bananas, be it look, feel, texture, or taste. Bananas need to go back to the primeval jungle from which they escaped. In my world, bananas should be called “no-passion fruit”. If I were starving on a desert island, shadowed under the gently waving fronds of a banana palm, I’d nosh on the fronds, then the tree bark, then the tree itself before tossing its worthless bananas into the ocean. Hell, I’d choke down sand before eating bananas. Put a gun to my head (or a banana); I still wouldn’t eat one.
For Pete’s sake though; no matter the magnitude of my banana hate, the yellow curvies still find a way to remain relevant. Take this pandemic for instance. Stuck at home means more time in the kitchen. More time in the kitchen means comfort food, and comfort food includes baking bread. Sourdough. Pizza dough. Baguettes. Challah. Naan. Sadly, we rookie bakers discover the ingredients in our pantry are as past due as our bills. Way past due. Flour tastes sour. Honey ≠ sugar. Past-its-prime yeast does not make the loaf say, “All rise!” Even with fresh ingredients we butcher the recipe by feeding, kneading, and reading too much into every step. Instead of baking bread we’re breaking bread. We need a no-brainer no-spoiler kinda baked good. Banana bread to the rescue!
Banana bread is easy; it really is. Call yourself a breadmaker with as few as five items – none of them “yeast” or “starter”. Sift together flour and baking soda. Whisk together eggs, butter, and mashed bananas (mashed bananas? Isn’t that what I threw up regularly as a kid?) Combine in a loaf pan, bake, and voila – banana bread. You’ll find the first four ingredients in your pantry already and if you also have bananas, they’re probably overripe (i.e. perfect for banana bread). Just like the bananas on my kitchen counter. I made the mistake of picking them up when I took the above photo. They’re so ripe they feel like half-filled water balloons. Or half-filled hot dogs. Or Twinkies submerged in water for a few hours. You get the idea. Ewwwwwww.Now for the irony/paradox/contradiction/twist/flourish of today’s post (take your pick). I like banana bread. I’m on the fence of almost loving banana bread. Slice a thick piece, warm it in the oven, slather with butter, and it’s pretty damned good. As I admitted almost four years ago in my post Banana Rant, bananas work inside of bread like figs work inside a package of Newtons. As a standalone they’re a horror-filled rubbery package disguised as one of Mother Nature’s edibles. Downgraded to an ingredient they stand on the fringes of the vast arena known as “food”.
Enough with the spotlight on bananas already. Trust me, I had better topics to blog about this week. My pandemic-born obsession with Netflix. A lamentation to Major League Baseball for a season that’s never gonna start. A keyboard pounding to the heavens for dumping several inches of snow on our neighborhood this week (for God’s sake, it’s June!) But no, I chose to discuss the best use of “water-logged Twinkies” instead, keeping bananas a front and center topic. Kind of like walking into the grocery store and the very… first… thing… in your field of view is an acre of bananas grinning their pathetic yellowy smiles. They should go back to the jungle where they belong. I’ll make do with soury-dough bread instead.Some content inspired by the 4/20/20 Wall Street Journal article, “Forget the Sourdough. Everybody’s Baking Banana Bread”.
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Whistle Work
Last weekend my wife and I drove north a couple hours to visit our granddaughters. The last time we saw them was in the pre-pandemic days of yesteryear. We spent most of Saturday afternoon in the backyard playing little-kid games in the makeshift pool and breaking out a plastic Tee-Ball set. Later on after a barbeque, it was time to clean up the toys. My son and his wife promptly requested the “The Clean Up Song” from Alexa, and my granddaughter hopped to it. Watching her I caught myself thinking, can’t I help with the clean up too?
Google The Clean Up Song and you’ll find several dozen versions to choose from. Cleaning-to-music for kids has been around a little while now. I wish we’d used this approach more often when our own children were little. It’s a song! It’s a game! It’s almost whistling while you work.For me, household chores morphed to something more therapeutic as the kids grew up and out of the house. Taking out the trash became extra steps towards my ten thousand (we have a long driveway). Washing dishes became a mini-spa of warm water and soap bubbles. Making the bed and arranging its pillows channeled my inner Marie Kondo. Folding clothes was how to avoid lazing on the couch while watching TV. (On that note, an ironing board should be called a “clothes-folding board”, if you go by my folding minutes (100%) vs. ironing minutes (0%).
Lest you think me compulsive, a recent Wall Street Journal study comes to my rescue. During these stay-at-home times – locked-down residents find similar stress relief in housework. Washing windows allows the slow, deliberate wax-on-wax-off zen of “The Karate Kid”. Cleaning countertops tempts flowing dance, like Julia Stiles in the diner in “The Prince and Me”. Ironing doubles as light weightlifting. And vacuuming? Nah, I got nothing there. Vacuuming’s still just a chore.The lovely Ms. Stiles and her diner dance
Headspace Headspace, a software company focused on meditation and better sleep, includes housecleaning exercises on its app. They recommend “quiet housework in dim lighting” just before bed (but then how do you see what you’re cleaning?) They want you to sweep the floor and wipe the counter in smooth, restorative motions. Laugh all you want but the use of their “cleaning-related content” is up 20% since mid-March.
Household products are trending the same way. Swiffer wants you to mop with “a clean home and a clear mind” and suggests a facial treatment while you’re at it. They switch “clean the counter” to “give your surfaces a little TLC” (as if your surfaces are close friends). Proctor & Gamble fortifies its “Gain” laundry detergent with essential oils like lavender and eucalyptus, touted for their calming effects. “Clear Your Mind with a Cooling Clean! A Soothing Scent with a Mindful Twist!”
Call me one-in-five (not compulsive) because P&G research claims 20% of us clean to relax or reduce stress. Sure, but we also clean to clean.I never thought about laundry this way but the Journal article likens clothes-cleaning to problem-solving (which we guys are all about). Sort the clothes, dose the detergent/softener, fold according to best-fit in drawers, and then put everything away. It’s a process, and it’s a new puzzle every time.
To take it one step more spiritual, household chores are considered seva – a form of selfless-service. Says one yogi about dirty dishes, “You’re reminding yourself you’re washing for the divine grace that flows through your husband, your wife, your children, or your parents.” Whoa now. Me, I’m just washing dishes.
I’ve neglected to mention another household chore: cleaning bathrooms. It can be “healing” sponging the porcelain to a sparkling-white shine, conducting the bowl brush in large, lazy circles, or returning to nature in the gentle flow of the sink (waterfall) or toilet (whirlpool). No, no, NO. I don’t do bathrooms. Not even if you ask Alexa to play “The Clean Up Song”.
Some content sourced from the 5/27/2020 Wall Street Journal article, “Sick of Cleaning? Turn It Into Meditation”.
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The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
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