Bonfire Night 2011...FOR SCIENCE!

source and a symbol of a global movement

From last year; BONFIRE NIGHT 2010 and the pictures and video are nearly the same this year as they were last year. Consistency... the key to life.

Differences this year? Yes. Went with Roo and Big Fella and Michigan Jesse. Hey ladies, are you single and want to long-distance date a cutie pie physicist? No lie, true story. I think Michigan Jesse's around 28-30. Let me know, he's single, smart as a whip, and cute too! I can say that, right? He's new to the area, no kids, and lots of money!

So, activities? Same as last year's, held in the graveyard... only no potato and leek soup was in evidence!! I scored a few homemade cinder toffee knobs even though I took store-bought chocolate covered cinder toffee for Roo and Big Fella. Roo is Ruth because "Ru" sounds like "roo" and she lived in Australia for a time (kangaroo, anyone?). Plus, it's what Big Fella (Brian, her husband calls her).

After that, went to Aykley Heads Police Headquarters for a resoundingly boomer of a time. I'm talking fireworks, people.

The fireworks seemed, to me, more "percussive" and "tympanic" than any I remember... and that might be because it was on November 5th, rather than July 4th. What do you think, after seeing the video?

Yet...The speed of sound v relative to the current in which it is embedded is given by v = (gRT)^1/2 where g is the ratio of the specific heat at constant pressure to the specific heat at constant volume, R is the gas constant for dry air, and T is the temperature. The product gRT is then taken to the one-half power. We see from this equation that the speed of sound is proportional to the temperature and would expect sound to travel faster in a warmer air mass.

Quite right. Which is why the sound of the firework was delayed as long as it was.

According to the resident physicist, how loud something is isn't necessarily related to the speed of sound. Without giving a whole lot of time to think over my question "why?", he merely adds that moisture might have something to contribute to the effect.

I think he was busy when I asked. Guess that's how people are when they're at work.

I kid.

Not really.


And with that, ladies and gentlemen, I leave you to consider the following image taken at the local Makro (similar to Costco/Sam's):
:

Isn't it beautiful? I've never seen that much natural energy pussy in a public place. I wouldn't be up for it all in one go. I think I'd need several rounds. Makes me tired just looking at it. So, since I'm exhausted by all that pussy energy, I challenge you to see who can come up with the best caption.

The Perfect Gift for that Special Man

Ladies!!! Gay Male Readers!!! Christmas, Hanukkah, and other gift giving holidays are just around the corner! I made a video for you to help you out...

Courtesty of YouTube Search Stories

Northeast England's answer to Chicken Matzo Ball Soup

All right now. This is the shit. I shit you not. You need to eat this. Now. But not right now, because you can't. BUT YOU WILL!

So you know all about Chicken Noodle soup and the variations of such, right? Of course right. Well, imma learn you now about "BROTH".

Broth is the Northeast of England's beautiful challenge to the Yiddish cooking mavens' matzo soup. Now, I do love me some of that yummy muck that is angel farts rolled in a ball of crushed matzo swimming in yellowyoniony goodness. But I hadn't yet had BROTH!

So, here's your layout... and I have totally oversimplified the whole shmear. Because I did.

From top clockwise: Carrots, HAM SHANK BITCHES!, Dried Pulses/Soup Mix (mine is barley, peas and other crap that may be wholesome), Parsnips, and Leeks. 

My fellow amurricanz, you need to google leeks. Dey's booiful!

Cleanse the veggies, especially the leeks. Dirt is attracted to leeks. Asks it out and takes it for a coke date, I kid you not. 

For bestest results that were achieved, shred dem parsnips.

Finely slice those leeks. Inhale the heady light oniony scent. Spend your time here. You won't regret it.

Like de pah-snips, shred dem carrots. Shred a fuckton of them. 

Boil dat HAM SHANK! Boil til it fall off de bone! When it be done boiling, pull dat meat off de bone!

Now, the night before, soak your soup mix and follow the directions the next day when you begin to cook. Soaking is essential. DO NOT SKIP THIS STEP. You will have some hard and chewy soup if you do. 

After the HAM SHANK has been boiling for a while, or hell, after it's done boiling, saute those veggies in butter. A lot of butter. Go Paula Deen on this shit.

Add the soaked and cooked soup mix.

Add the bits of salty, juicy, cherubic HAM SHANK meat to the pot. Add some of that stock too, while you're at it. Eyeball it, no measuring in this version!

Salt it up or not. Pepper it up or not. You can not mess this up. Unless you don't soak the soup mix. Then you will mess it up.

Now, when I make this, I need a 5.5 quart pan/pot. You do what you gotta do to handle this Broth.

Get you some good and crusty rolls for soaking it up.

And no, there's no picture of the final product. Because mostly I eat my food when it's in front of me; too busy moving my hand to my mouth to bother with a camera. You got lucky for the process pics.

I've made this twice now and will make it again. Ohmystars yes!

And now for your viewing pleasure... A butterfly walking on the sidewalk

I am from...

I am from blankets and macaroni, from Pendleton and Velveeta.

I am from the only house in the 'hood with a brick laid courtyard and no backyard fence, a carpenter's house of dreams built to give a vacation-like feel when you walk in. Leaves and branches thrusting out of solid trunks. A dense copse on the city's edge. A lake which was a pond which was a holding tank for runoff. No fishing.  The broken spillway that ripped my toenail clean off one summer afternoon. Climbing on the garage roof to watch the sunsets, hanging out on the driveway late at night...the concrete rough and warm from the summer day into night.

But I am also from a one story, 1960s brick home built for the price of a washer and dryer today. I am from a wood paneled great room with avocado fridge and stove. I am from the front room that was only for "special" and that "special" was me painting pictures on a card table. Comfortable, placid...my second home a haven from having to share.

I am from the red dirt road,  the horizon ahead jammed with Dad's classic rock station turned loud at the good parts. From a beat-up truck to plush sedans, I am from my dad's economic status.

I am from beans and cornbread and wide throated laughter, from Grandmother Susan and Momma and Modean.

I am from the self-narration of daily life and knowing everything is the key to life.

From good lips and you can be anything you want to be.

I am from Methodists, Episcopals, Judaism and AA. I am from the axiom of choice and I can be anything I want to be.

I’m from Oklahoma, 16th generation American, eating that pumpkin pie and holiday gravy. I'm from the capital city but also on every other weekend from the county seat of Pontotoc, where an Innocent Man was brought into the national spotlight.

From the conjugations of Latin verbs at the kitchen's dinner table, the evenings under the metal folding chairs along the wall of a smoky room (keep coming back, it works!), and the booth at Braum's eating an ice cream scoop, waiting to be picked up.

I am from picture frames in the 1960s hallway, picture frames on the 1960s couch's side table. I am from the compilation of a merging and diverging of lives, documented and put into suitcases.

*******************

So y'all know what this is probably, but if you don't it's a meme/outline poem about childhood: "I am from..."  that a lot of you were doing about a month ago. I decided to finally finish mine. 

How I get my mince pork fix

Happy Blog Birthday to me. One year ago today I transferred all my old blog dot com to here and even backdated all of it so that I could keep records from when we moved over starting in May. Huh. Thanks ACapp for the reminder. And thanks to all 150 odd of you that I've never met IRL. It's really weird that you're here with me.

Keep coming back. It works! And now, onwards and upwards...

*************

So I work for this company, Supercookshop, which has created a kit that allows you to make your own "McMuffin".

I got SciMan a kit for his birthday and he has loved it. We've already used up all the seasonings that came with the kit, so I got to get more.

Anyway... the gentleman in the video is my boss, Mugsy.



If you're interested in a kit, hit up their website. If you're an expat or like me, are living overseas indefinitely, and you miss the easy comfort of a Saturday morning drive-thru trip, then you may be needing to get one of these kits. If you prefer, you can also order via Amazon.

Also, if you're willing to do a write up about it on your blog, I might be able to get Mugsy to give one to you for free.

Bus Stop Man

Having wasted  wisely spent the morning reading my blogroll and eating figs, dates and manuka honey on toast, I'm finally ready to put Kiddo's laundry out on the line. Because it's sunny. What a gas.

It wasn't an interesting week. SciMan returned from Munich and while he was gone, I again was reminded how much of a badass my mom is/was for being single mom for so long. But I'm more of a badass because I did it while wrangling public transportation schedules and without a dryer. Kiddo started school. Yeah, yeah...so did your kids. But guess what? My kid's four.

They start 'em young here.

Last year I met an elderly gentleman at the bus stop down the road from Kiddo's school. It was during the cold snap when we had weeks of snow and ice covering the sidewalks aka "pavement". We had a lovely conversation about him. I had a great view of his nose hairs. And then the bus arrived.

A few months later, we encountered each other again and it was like brand new acquaintanceship, for him at least. Took me way to long to figure out he didn't remember me. No big whoop, just minor ego bruising that is so trifling, I'm embarrassed to admit to it. Maybe I'm not really all that embarrassed. Americans are a dime a dozen here. And then the bus arrived.

One afternoon after work last week, I'm waiting for a bus to take me to Kiddo's school. This same lovely gentleman and I had the exact same conversation we had in December 2010. And then the bus arrived and I know no more about him now as I did then. But I sure do like him.

Edit 9:05 pm: I guess at some point I'm going to have to publish the post I wrote on December 23, 2010. But I don't fucking want to. Based on the comments from more than one of you by this point in the day, it appears that you don't know the story of me and my grandmother. Understandable, since this blog is not about my past, only about the daily conniptions I experience here in County Durham of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. So, for once, I suppose I'll address this. I'll get personal...but don't expect more of the same later. My grandmother was my best friend. I think I was hers, as only a little girl can be.

But then she began to forget me.

It was subtle at first. She began to address me as "Sheila", her daughter's name, who was alive and hale and hearty...just not in the state. The questions began to be repetitive... then tiresome. I got other best friends and other interests on which to spend my time, rather than taking the time to travel the 65 minutes to Ada, Oklahoma.

I grew up. She grew older.

Alzheimer's is a terrible disease. It scared me. I learned I was a coward. I stayed away, rarely initiated phone calls, never replied to letters.

So when I say "minor ego bruising", what I'm really saying is "my fucking heart bleeds still for the beautiful, talented woman who helped raise me and tried to teach me about what was good in life but died before she could finish".

So yeah, I know about dementia. And I'm fucking scared for my dad, for me, for Kiddo.

Fun Video Friday

Oh you crazy Scandinavian kids! Summer's too long for your parents.

Campaign for Real Ale

Know your rights, especially as a drinker, when you go next to your local. You could be drinking crap for all you know.

I had the amazing, once-in-a-year opportunity to go to the Durham Beer Festival held at the Durham University Student Union.


Yeah. I'm in Alice's world where you can drink pretty much what you want on a university campus. Ring, ringring, ring. Um, hello OU? Yeah, I'd like to open you up for this cool thing called adult discretionary activities where you could allow the adult students and adult faculty and staff to partake of the wonderfulness that is Delirium Tremens....

source

It's such a wonderful Belgian beer, I didn't even mind the pink elephants I saw...

I mean really, OU... If a #3 university in a CIVILIZED COUNTRY can have a family room for the underaged at a beer festival, surely too, you could as well. What better way to keep tabs on our youth than right under our noses as we imbibe?

You could even have security! They have such smooth butts to polish the handrails with! There's bathrooms for the washing of the hands afterwards! WE CAN DO IT! We can be the change we want to see!

And the clientele that would attend are the good ol' boys with money types. With a festival like this, people are there to spend money to drink beer. To drink beer. And to drink the beer. It's classy. See? The bartenders have official festival uniform polo shirts. There's a manly smell that you just can't get from the 50 yard line at Owen Field. Toby Keith knows this.

*****

I went this last weekend to the Durham Beer Festival, obviously. I really enjoyed myself...sensibly. I thought I caught a glimpse of a "minor" celebrity and was thrilled that I might get a chance at a reddit post, "Guess Who I Ran Into?" Alas, the fat man was just a fat man.

The fat man sitting under the PROMOTES DRINKERS RIGHTS sign, to me, looked like Nick the Greek from Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. 

CAMRA, or Campaign for Real Ale, is an organization that was started in the 70s here in England as a way to keep drinking from being commercialized, a la Budweiser and to promote small pubs. I had several Englishmen (okay, two) tell me about their perception of Americans and the American beer (they think it's shit). 

According to these two Geordies, and if I'm honest others from the area here as well, think that all Americans drink is Budweiser varieties and the odd Coors and Miller Lites. I didn't totally disabuse them of that notion because well, those beers have their place. But I told them about how when I did go out to Louie's after a hard day of teaching 6th graders, I'd usually get a Sam Adams or a Corona. With lime. No salt. Or a Negro Modelo. With shredded lime on the goblet rim. The bigger the better. No salt. See? I can be a beer snob too.

First beer of the night.

So, the Durham Beer Festival. Really cool in many ways. First, it was on a university campus. Paradigm shift for me. Second, £10 for four half pints and I get to keep the glass? Bargain. Third, I got to go to a part of the University that I hadn't been motivated to explore prior. Really. Fourth, I got to go with my buddy, Ruth.

And I learned a lot about myself that night too. I learned that I LOVE Belgian beer. Best beer of the night? Delirium Tremens, hands down. It won "Best Beer in the World" in 1998 at the World Beer Championships. 

Also, I like the Dumbo reference.