Babble

Melange or Glamauge?

September 30, 2015

[ If you literally knew how many times a day I think, “I should write about that,” you’d be even more critical of the fact that I never actually do “write about that.” ] [ (This post is going to be the most random, disconnected string of unrelated content and thoughts that you just might wish that I opted not to “write about that.”) ]

Never mind. I am undeterred. It’s on my list of things to do today and I will check this box, dammit. Because checking the boxes on my to-do list is my absolute favorite thing to do. (Oh yeah, and the title? It’s all I could think of and I’m writing this after I wrote items 1-6, so I’m calling this one # Zero:)

#0

Glamauge is the name that the Morgan family (my family) has always used for a mixture of things. A medley. An assortment. Specifically we used the word to describe scrambled eggs with a bunch of other stuff added in. I have always loved the word. And yet, no spell check ever seemed to recognize it. I figured it was just an oddly spelled word so, one day, I set out to figure it out.

Turns out “glamauge” is actually supposed to be “melange” and my brother simply got it wrong that fateful day. So, turns out that all these years we’ve been using a made-up word. Which I actually far prefer to the correct word and therefore, continue to use it.

(Remind me to tell you the story about Marlo Andretti someday.)

#1

There was a frost this morning. As it happens, I just might be a prophet of frosts. Because yesterday I said to my mom (I have a witness, though not an impartial one), “It feels like there might be a frost tonight.” Now, you may point me to any number of resources that SAID there would be a frost last night, but I was unaware of those. I even checked Weatherbug on my phone (literally the worst weather app out there, but still my favorite because, like –am I wrong about this? — EVERY weather app is “literally the worst”) and there were no alerts. The low was forecasted to be 42. However, at 10 pm the temperature at *my* house was already only 40 degrees. Mind you, I predicted the frost at about 2pm. Just saying.

Let’s be clear: I am not sad about the frost. I am ecstatic. I am free. I can now rip out, without remorse, everything in my garden that will not ripen. Hope is gone, but with it is replaced vengeance. And resignation. And anticipation for those early sunsets that I get to sit on my ass in a chair in the living room with my blanket starting whenever it gets dark with no guilt. No running around outside at 8:30pm, no weeding or picking up, no taking the dog for a run. No anything. Because it’s dark outside. Permission granted. It’s the season we all get to sit in our favorite chairs with blankets… for the next six months. You are welcome.

#2

I made banana bread this morning. I hate making banana bread. I don’t know why, I just do. I love to eat banana bread though and so I make it when the freezer gets too full of frozen bananas. (I have the most awesome recipe.) But here is the question I pose to you today. Who? Who are the cookbooks fooling when they say, at the end — as every one of them does — “cool in the pan 5 minutes. Remove loaf and cool 30 minutes before slicing. Serve warm or at room temperature”?

Do you see what I’m talking about? “…cool 30 minutes before slicing?” Has anyone ever waited this long? “That is complete ridiculousness,” said the woman who just ate two nuclear-hot slices of banana bread and isn’t sorry.

#3

My garden sucked this year. I was going to write a September “Round-up Post” on the garden and I even took pictures in preparation for doing just that (see below for a glamauge of pics). But I never did it. Why? Because I’m ticked off, that’s why. Actually, it isn’t really all that reasonable for me to be ticked. I knew, that by writing a Round-up Post, I would be forced to admit that my garden didn’t actually suck that bad. And I don’t want to hear about it. Not from me or anyone else. I want to wallow in my self pity and be left alone. I want to believe my garden sucked and be done with it because….

#4

Midwest gardens are are judged entirely, 100%, upon the success (or failure) of their tomato crops. And my tomatoes sucked.

dead tomato plants early blight — This year I tried staking. Next year I will try drugs (for me.)

Do you get it now? Nothing else matters but the tomatoes. Who really CARES that I harvested about 200 pounds of cucumbers? NO ONE CARES. Or that I actually have brussels sprouts on my brussels sprouts plants (trust me, the opposite can — and does — happen)? NO ONE CARES. Or that the aphids on my edamame plants were not *quite* as apocalyptic as usual? NO ONE CARES.

What they care about is the tomatoes. And I cannot wait to pull their diseased and desiccated stems out of the ground with their vile-smelling, rotting, dripping-with-disease tomatoes with them. Who was I kidding when I left those plants in, thinking, “Maybe that green tomato higher up on that mostly dead plant will ripen and be the pinnacle of summer essence.” It wasn’t. With the first frost comes permission to end the charade. Thank you mother nature. Next year I promise to grow some hybrids as well as use that bombastic tool plastic “mulch” to hold off the early blight. I shudder as I write that, but I’m so tired of crappy tomatoes.

#5

Minnesota — or at least my piece of Minnesota — is under some freakish wasp/hornet plague.

Yellow Jackets on apple — Ever seen 16 yellow jackets on an apple? Come on over, I’ll take you on a tour of the orchard.

My friends want to duct tape my mouth shut they are so sick of hearing me go on and on and ON about the bees. But what the HECK? I mostly write this so that anyone else out there who is googling the crap out of “Why are there so many hornets this year” and “Wasps in Minnesota” and “Do wet years produce more hornets?” and “How to find hidden bald faced hornet nests” and… OK I’LL STOP. I just want us all to be on the same page (literally on this page) so we can commiserate. I cannot pick apples or raspberries without taking my life into my hands.

bald faced hornets on apple — Ever seen a bald-faced hornet? Such friendly little faces.

#6

Speaking of raspberries…

Have you heard of the Spotted Wing Drosophila? No? Well google it if you are interested. But basically what it is, is an invasive fruit fly that cuts a slash into ripe raspberries and lays its eggs which hatch into larvae that are undetectable to the human eye if you are over the age of 40. So, unless you want to be eating worms, you better be wearing your reading glasses when you pick raspberries. Or, if you are Dave, you simply say, “Raspberries are dead to me.” And ignore their very existence. Or if you are Morgan’s hippy boyfriend, you find a raspberry crawling with worms and pop it into your mouth to prove that “worms can’t hurt you.” Or, if you are me, you simply obsess all day and night about all those raspberries going to waste.

The Spotted Wing Drosophila is here to stay from what I gather. Picking the raspberries daily before they are too ripe is the solution. Daily. Every day. Without fail. Before they are totally ripe. Every. Damn. Day.

Kill. Me. Now.

Photo Gallery of mostly OK produce

rogue compost tomato plant — Volunteer tomato plants in the compost show no signs of blight. WTH?

big ass lemon grass — Big Ass Lemon Grass!

My Heightened Sense of Smell

July 3, 2015

Welcome to my writing office in Hayward, WI. Very tranquil.

We have arrived in Hayward for the 4th of July. It’s so nice to be up north, away from it all, in the North Woods, where they have… blazing fast internet and cable TV.

Ahhh.

I’m kidding.

Only partly.

Anyway.

Today, while ruminating on life, two things stood out as being worthy of dissection on these hallowed pages.

Life with a Heightened Sense of Smell, and
The Terrible State of Online Reviews.

I had to pick just one of these topics to write about, though, because I know what usually happens, and… I don’t have time to write a novella.

Life with a Heightened Sense of Smell

You could argue that, due to a few things about me, I am biologically superior to most other humans. While I still have my pinkie toes, I do not have any wisdom teeth. You can thank my dentist, the original Dr. Veker (not to be confused with his son, the current Dr. Veker), who, when I was about 16 years old, planted that oft-repeated phrase into my repertoire. Upon discovery that I do not harbor any lurking and evil wisdom teeth, he explained that, due to evolution, we no longer need wisdom teeth to grind our food, and since I did not have any, I was “biologically superior.”

I have taken that and run with it pretty much my whole life.

Recently, I have decided I have another tick-in-the-box compared to the normal human: my Heightened Sense of Smell. I capitalize it because it is a Real Thing. Something to be Taken Seriously. Plus, I prefer that name over the one I found online: hyperemia, which actually sounds like more of a curse.

But as I sit here and think about my Heightened Sense of Smell, I wonder if maybe it is a curse. Surely it will save my life — and those of whom I love — someday and I will thank my lucky stars — as should my loved ones — for such an evolutionary blessing. But for now, I find it often makes enemies out of friends when I say things like “What do I smell?” when I walk into their house. I certainly know my college roommates did not appreciate my Heightened Sense of Smell, but that’s just because I was the only one who could smell the cat poop in the plants and they did not like to be made aware of the fact that their adorable cat was pooping in the plants. The fact that, one day, my dog then ate the cat poop and subsequently barfed it up all over my very hungover roommate as she lay prone in bed, perhaps did not help matters.

Anyway.

The good news for these people is that they can do something about it. Like: get a new roommate or, avoid having me come inside of their houses.

My family does not have the luxury of disinviting me over. I think, if you asked her — and actually listened to her long-winded response — my mom might, amidst several unrelated tangents, admit to very much disliking this one-and-only-objectionable trait in me. Several years ago, after watching me turn my head this way and that, slightly angling my nose into the air and, well, let’s be honest, looking an awful lot like Lola when catching the scent of a dead animal to roll in, which was then followed by me dropping from my chair onto all fours — Shit. Again, like a dog… I never really thought about this that deeply — crawling around on my hands and knees, sniffing the ground — I swear to God this is true — finally and triumphantly announcing, “I found the smell! This rug reeks!”

I did some version of this dance over and over and over, year after year, finally graduating to simply sitting in my favorite chair, making terrible faces and stating the obvious: “Oh my GAWD. I don’t know HOW you can stand the smell in here. That rug just stinks. Don’t you smell it? It makes me sick. Can’t you smell it?”

[ Don’t let anyone tell you that writing isn’t therapeutic. I think I have learned some valuable insight into Life with Jennie today. — And I will attempt to make amends some time this weekend. I promise. ]

Suffice it to say, the rug no longer graces the living room in the cabin.

–Thank GOD.

And yes, I do feel a little bad about that.

But only a little.

Because seriously. Most likely, it was releasing terrible toxins into the air and by it’s removal, I have added precious years onto my aging parents lives.

You are welcome, mom.

Now lets talk about this weird broccoli smell I just noticed hovering around the entryway…

Just another Tuesday

June 4, 2015

While writing an email to the members of a committee I serve on, I got a little carried away. I needed to move the meeting location from one member’s house to my own, since I needed to be home during those hours. I could have written something like this:

Hey everyone,

Would it be OK if we met at my house instead of Joel’s? Dave’s not here and Charlie is having some people over and I’d feel better being home. Let me know if that’s a problem.

Thanks, Jennie

It would have taken exactly one minute to write and I’m sure it would have been just as successful as the one that I sent out instead. The one that took about 45 minutes to write. The one that had all the important details. This one:

Hey everyone,

I am so VERY sorry for pulling rank, but there are some extenuating circumstances** that require me to be home tonight. So, instead of Joel’s house for the meeting, I hope it’s okay if we meet at MY house. Of course the road construction will be a challenge, but once you get to watertown it’s (mostly) smooth sailing — the roundabout on mainstreet in watertown is under construction, but it’s a way-easy detour. Just go straight on hwy 25 where it spits you out at the 4-way stop between the primary and high school at Co Rd 10 and Hwy 25. My road is 4 miles from there.

Thanks, Jennie

** Extenuating Circumstances:

Scene one: May 31st 9:30pm. Characters are tired and sleepy.

Charlie: Mom, can I have some track people over on Tuesday night?
Jennie: I think so. Did you check the calendar?
Charlie: Why? What do you mean?
Jennie: Don’t you have trapshooting that night?
Charlie: Uh. What? Trapshooting? What are you even talking about?
Jennie: The fun shoot. I signed up to bring food. If you miss that, you’d have to get the food to the party somehow.
Charlie: The fun shoot is Tuesday? Geez. I guess. Yeah, I can probably miss that.
Jennie: I don’t want to have to cook food for your friends. Have them bring some food.
Charlie: Yeah. OK. I’ll ask.

Scene Two:
June 1st, 2:30pm. Jennie is busy in the kitchen. Charlie has emerged from bedroom after 3 hours of gaming. His eyes are red. He is sitting on couch and — amazingly — watching videos on laptop. Various chimes and bell sounds are heard as each character checks their phones and computers.

Charlie: You said it was OK if I had a track party tomorrow, right?
Jennie: Yep.

Scene Three:
3:00 pm Charlie has left the house for a job interview (yay!). Jennie is now working on her laptop at the kitchen island. [Email chime]. Jennie navigates to email and reads the following:

So you see, dear friends, the gathering that I agreed to host is the “end-of-the-season track party” for the entire boys and girls track teams. It’s all in the details.

Here’s one other relevant detail:

Scene Four:
June 2, 8pm. Jennie is in raspberry patch weeding. She is stiff and cranky because her iTunes play list is on shuffle and keeps playing Christmas music, somehow downloaded from ‘the cloud’ despite all settings to the contrary. Husband, feared missing at sea during fishing trip to Lake of the Woods, has turned up unexpectedly — since Jennie has not heard from him since 7:30 am on Friday, 4 days earlier.

Jennie: Oh. Hi. I feared you were lost at sea.
Dave. Oh. Yeah. Right. Sorry I didn’t call. Cell coverage was pretty bad
Jennie: That’s OK. I love you unconditionally [sarcastic tone] Dave: Did you miss me?
Jennie: [Stands up and walks over to iPhone sitting on fence post. Skips “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” which has started to play on iPhone]. Ignores question
Dave: You missed some grass over here [pointing to previously weeded raspberry row] Jennie: You will be home tomorrow night, right?
Dave: No. I’ll be in Columbus.
Jennie: Tomorrow? You are in Columbus tomorrow? That’s not on the calendar!
Dave: Really? Yeah. Sorry. It just came together [Jennie furrows brow…. thinking….about that “bad cell coverage”…] Jennie: We are apparently hosting the end of the season track party tomorrow and I have a meeting that I can’t miss.
Dave: That’s a problem.
Jennie: Yeah that’s a problem.

Dave: How did that happen?
Jennie: It’s a long story. I’ll tell you during dinner.
Dave: What’s for dinner?
Jennie: You are taking me out to dinner.

End scene

A Menke-Child Chore, Resurrected

May 27, 2015

Today is the day after my 50th birthday. For most, that means the celebration is over, but not for me. I milk birthdays for all they are worth. My fiftieth? Are you kidding me?

So, today, my bestie Michelle is coming over to celebrate my birthday and have our first pool day. Michelle is who I have gotten into the most trouble with as an adult. Pool days can go one of two ways: leisurely and lovely, or boozy. Ask my kids their most vivid memories of childhood and one or two of our pool days will probably come up. And probably not in a good way. Although if you ask me, I was a barrel of laughs. I don’t know what they had to be “scared” of…

No, I’m not proud of this.

And in my defense, there were only probably two that I have anything to be ashamed of.

And really only one that the kids witnessed. But still.

So I always have to sort of brace myself and clear the calendar on pool days. Just. In. Case.

But no worries. We behaved today. Morgan was home and had a friend over. It was leisurely and lovely. Which is a good thing, because I have a board meeting in about an hour. Showing up boozy probably wouldn’t be a great idea.

I have become distracted by the after-glow of the day. It was a ten. Really and truly. But back to the point of my post: before anyone showed up. I had to get a few things ready: pump TONS of rainwater off the pool cover, put out cushions, drag out the umbrellas, make rhubarb sorbet (RIDICULOUS EASY AND GOOD*), and…

Clear the pool area of slugs.

slugs on the pool deck — all those dark specks are slugs

I walked out there to a veritable slug convention this morning. All this rain… humidity… and cloud cover has made them feel right homey, indeed. And it occurred to me: this was an actual chore for my kids back in the day. Oh would that I COULD find my old chore lists!!! How awesome would that be? If memory serves, me, it would say something like this:

Morgan:

Water plants
Clean pool skimmers out
Pick up slugs and feed to chickens
Take out compost

I’m not kidding. And today, guess what? MORGAN IS HOME! I actually told her to go pick up the slugs outside.

_MG_7719 — Mmmmm good. I wonder if it tastes like escargot

Then I made Charlie feed them to the chicken (singular).

My old chickens would literally peck out another’s eye to get them a taste of a squishy slug. Lil Red wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. It was kind of a bust.

But a fun stroll down memory lane.

Michelle had the nerve to point out the cat puke that I somehow missed while on slug patrol, so I’m not sure she really appreciated our efforts.

Still, it was a great day. And I had the perfect opportunity to try out my new selfie stick — a gag 50th gift that I promise — PROMISE — they will regret giving to me.

*Rhubarb Sorbet (in case you are interested)

3.5 cups Rhubarb, cut up
1.5 cups sugar
2.5 cups water
1/2 tsp salt
zest of one lemon
1-2 tsp chopped ginger
2 tbsp corn syrup

Put everything except the corn syrup into a sauce pan, bring to a boil and simmer until rhubarb is mushy, 5-10 minutes. Add corn syrup. Cool and blend till totally smooth (in a Blendtec I used “ice cream” setting). Cool overnight in fridge or in freezer stirring every so often until totally cold) Churn in ice cream maker and serve soft or freeze until hard in freezer.

Mother’s Day Haul

May 12, 2015

I was stunned speechless by the card taped to my computer this morning:

And not because it’s a scary picture. Yes, I know that it is, but that’s not my point. It’s because it was a card from Charlie that I must have guilted him into creating last night by reminding him that he did nothing for me on Mother’s Day — I didn’t even get the back rub that he didn’t promise to give me but suggested that he *might*.

But here’s where it get’s interesting:

THIS IS FRICKEN’ GENUIS!

Front: Facebook profile since 2009 (actually it was since 2007). The face of JENMENKE.COM

Inside: Self-described Mac Geek Farm Girl, or should we say, Pioneer Woman No. 2, Jennifer Menke runs the ever popular tech/family/travel blog jenmenke.com Sporadically posting updates on events in her life, an example being the rare “Road Warrior” series chronicling their camping adventures, starting with the first post on August 13th 2012 and ending abruptly with the claim of losing the “Road Warrior Journal.” Likely story Jennifer Menke. But even with these drawbacks, Jen Menke seems to be an incredible character, dealing with her family: from the daughter refusing to come home, to her son writing day-late mother’s day cards. With this in mind, we can present Jen Menke with the award of…

This is writing that grabs me by my heartstrings! SARCASM! THIRD PERSON BRILLIANCE! (yes, plenty of spelling errors too, but give him a break, man. There are actually way less than normal.)

It made me want to write a blog post.

So here I am, five hours later, after deciding that I also had to update my theme to a responsive one, updating and changing all my widgets and ads, learned all the new rules about google search, feedburner and RSS feeds (should I go on?), all conducted with full knowledge that I have a marketing meeting in less than four hours and I’ve not written the copy I told the committee I would bring to the meeting.

So, no, nothing has changed in my life since I last regularly posted.

I have been tickling around the idea of a blog post for over a week now, when, while taking prom pictures, this girl:

Shouted out to me: “I love your blog!”

I laughed self deprecatingly. But really. Is it fair of me to let my fans down like I have? Honestly. Those marketing people can just WAIT.

Anyway, it’s anyone’s guess as to whether I really will write more after today. I just really could not believe that card Charlie gave me. It’s like he’s been lying to me all these years. How could he be both funny AND able to write a good card and I did not know this?

Anyway. Morgan gave me a great card too. What I’m most proud of in hers is that she has perfected that enviable style of penmanship that is both readable and not readable at the same time.

See what I mean? It’s like the fake handwriting I did when I was 5, only I can read it perfectly. She’s perfectly brilliant. (Even if she is a “dirty hippy” “flaming liberal”) –Her words, not mine.

So, now I really must go. I just got this lovely text string in a fit of dirty-hippy-flaming-liberal-hysteria:

Proofing papers takes precedence over blog writing and marketing meetings. I just wish someone would proof my blog posts for redundancy and fluff.

Gotta go, signed:

The Blizzard of ’77

April 3, 2014

k. So it’s not the Blizzard of ’77. It’s not even the blizzard of ’91. But it’s a blizzard all the same. (one of favorite songs of all time: Blizzard of ’77)

And I for one can’t take it anymore. I know that snow in April isn’t all that abnormal. But 12″? 14″? I don’t even know anymore what we are on track to get. It doesn’t matter. It’s a lot of flippin’ snow.

I’m not shoveling.

I’m not plowing.

Dang it, I’m not even going to snowshoe with Lola.

I’m done, is all I’m saying. Done.

I opened some wine. Dave is out of town. I’m eating potato chips. I didn’t take the damn dog for a walk. The chicken is still out, probably drifted over…

It’s chaos, people. It is utter chaos here.

But we still need to eat, don’t we? It’s been a long time since I posted a recipe. So at least I can do that. Here is what Charlie and I are having tonight. Gourmet as usual.

Easy Weeknight Dinner for When it Snows more than 6″ in April

1 – 2 cups Cape Cod Reduced Fat Kettle Cooked Potato Chips
1 wedge Cambozola Triple Cream Cheese
2 handfuls of crackers (Triscut or similar)
750 ml Red Wine
1 cup Krusteaz Pancake Mix
5 Eggs
1 cup Diced Ham
1/8c Shredded cheese

About 45 minutes before you are ready to eat, open wine. Pour 1/4 of 750 ml bottle into small glass. Set the rest aside (for now). Open Cambozola cheese and set on plate with crackers. Set aside.

Put griddle on stove. Set 5 eggs on counter. defrost diced ham from Christmas. Haul can of pancake mix out of pantry. Set on counter. Does everything look good? Good. Presentation is everything. If anyone were to show up right now, you’d be looking totally cool. Keep up the good work.

Now take plate of cheese and crackers. Gently place glass of wine on plate. Caress the glass. Does it look good? Is it whispering to you? Don’t be worried. That is a good sign. You are doing it right.

Get laptop and blanket. Hunker down. Eat cheese and crackers*. Drink wine.

If 16 year old son stays upstairs and doesn’t ask what’s for dinner, you are fine.**

If not. Well then we will just have to cross that bridge when we come to it..

Shit. He just came downstairs. That was a lot sooner than expected. Damn. I gotta go make dinner. Otherwise I coulda kept writing nonsense all night.

OK: this can be salvaged. Pour another 1/4 of the 750ml into beautiful amber-colored glass. See you soon, all.

*my Trader Joe’s Rosemary Raisin crackers were stale. Expiration date: 12/2012. Normally I’d say no biggie, but. These were quite awful.

** Yes. He has three screens going. But even that wasn’t enough to save me. Kim & Jen: notice Orangey up in the corner? I wasn’t kidding. He loves that circa 1970’s lion.

________________

UPDATED. 60 minutes later

________________

Notes:

After 400 ml of the 750 ml red wine, nothing good will happen. You will not have more fun. So put it away.
I don’t even like pancakes. I do, however, like the smiley face on the syrup jug.