Tofu

Figured I'd check in. It's been awhile since I've posted anything here and I can't help but point out that: nobody cared! BAH!  Am I an unappreciated genius or am I appreciated for being the not-genius that I am?  If I understand how the process works - I have to die to find out, so it looks like I'm not going to know anything real' soon. Either way: all of you out there not reading this are absolutely not invited to my birthday party this year (unless you bring a gift).

Just to feed you a little update - things are a smidge different around the DudeRanch than in years past.  I get "Cooking Light" in the mail now with my fishing magazines and I've recently learned that there is a place for the hairdryer thats not on the bathroom counter.  I put the hairdryer "up" pretty often, but I throw away "Cooking Light" whenever I can manage to intercept it.  So far its arrival has portended of nothing good in the culinary department. And by "nothing good" I mean "Tofu."

Why do you need Tofu if you've got eggwhites handy? Isn't it pretty much the same thing?

Tyler walked past 45lbs of perfectly good frozen deer meat the other day, dove into the freezer and came out with a package of pre-made tofu burgers. I thought my head was going to spin around and pop off. 

Unfortunately, it didn't. And I ate the horrible tofu puck, but it nearly sent me to my Aunt Sherry's house out of sheer desperation for a buttery, meaty treat.

In Tyler's health-conscious defense - I do like the fake veggie protein sausage patty things we eat now instead of delicious pork sausage. I don't know whats in there, but they're pretty good wrapped in bacon.

Patriotism

My Uncle Buster congenially referred to me today as a “Mooch” via text.  It hurt my feelings. I can think of no reason in the world that he'd say such a thing other than this: I have successfully mooched off him for 31 years.  However, Ahem. I prefer the term “Professional Interloper.” 

“Mooch” is just so crass, don’t you agree? It sounds slimy and I am most certainly NOT slimy.  Perhaps a touch “musty” or “goatish” on occasion, sure, but never slimy. 

Well, generally not slimy. I got home today from my second “Sleep Study” at Piedmont Hospital to investigate the source of my potentially terminal snoring - and hopped into bed. A disembodied hand reached out from beneath the covers and patted it's way up my neck face and ears, then mussed my hair (ostensibly to determine if I were friend or foe) until suddenly sticking fast, glued to my forehead. 

Ewwwwwwww WHAT IS THAT?!  Tyler shuddered – now wide-awake, pillows erupting in a shrieking crescdendo of goosedown.  YOU HAVE SNOT IN YOUR HAIR!

Apparently the Sleep Study Technician didn’t clean the electrode glue out of my hair.  My bad. I’m just the critically-ill person here. Didn’t mean to offend you with my illness.

Anyway, THAT was slimy, but in general – I reiterate: Not Slimy.

It’s not that I haven’t TRIED to pay my way here and there, but picking up lunch when somebody just planted your cornfield for free are two friendly deeds separated by a little matter of magnitude.  It’s just that the things I like to do cost WAY more than I’ve got to spend. What am I supposed to do? Quit doing them and only do things I can afford???

BAH! I’m an American!

If I can’t afford it, but I want it anyway – then OTHER PEOPLE MUST PAY FOR ME!  It’s in the Constitution.

It’s my God-Given right to kiss on the first date, drive 10 miles over the speed limit with no repercussions, spend more money than I’ve got to do things I can’t afford and maintain a lifestyle of general excess and frivolity.  If people like ME don’t keep up our frantic pace – there’d be nobody to buy Ferraris on credit, rent snowmobiles, or fly to the moon just for fun.  THEN do you know what happens? West Nile. Swine Flu. Mumps. Rubella. End Times. Everybody starves to death. 

The bottom line is: I’m not Mooching. I’m stimulating the Economy! So, don’t do it for me: Do It For America.

The Unwary

Tyler D. Ewing, the woman perpetually convinced she's on the very cusp of burglarly, attack and pillage had this to say from bed when I entered the house late Sunday night (and I quote):

"Zzzzzzzzz. Haammphhhhh. Snaaaarrkkkkkggglee. Zzzzzzzzzz."

I've included a brief graphical representation of my movements about the house upon my return from a long weekend of sporting pursuits (below):

I tromped in and out of the house multiple times - slamming both doors each time, opened the fridge, walked in our bedroom and took one shoe off. Then, I sat down and scratched a tick bite on my leg. Yawned. Walked out. Later I brought my overnight bag into the bedroom, dumped its contents on the floor, took my other shoe off, turned the fan on, walked outside, closed the fridge, and came back in with my dopp kit. I rummaged around in my kit for a toothbrush, brushed my teeth and simultaneously texted my cousin Maggie.  Finally, Tyler rolled over and said "Wello! Well, look who's back!"

"I've been home for a half hour. I've slammed the back door 5 times and turned on every light in the house.  You have not so much as stirred."

"Oh? Yeah. Hmm. Yawn. I thought I heard something."

Say Uncle

Hilarious. Make the guy uncomfortable with newborns hold the new kid. Ok! Fine! I'll do it. I won't like it, but I'll do it if I HAVE to, but that's it. Once. After that: no more holding.

I don't deal with children under 6, furthermore I don't INTEND to deal with children under 6. That's right: I'm an ogre. No, I'm a man. No, I'm an ogre. Either way - they're purely ornamental, right?  Bring them to me when they're strong enough to hold a BB gun and wear a life vest. Until then - they make me too nervous. That's right - I'll take my chances with an armed 6yr-old over a newborn that could cry any minute and make me feel all guilty and weird.

We've got a hospital room full of women over here flipping the tiny thing around like its a football and driving it crazy and it makes me anxious. As if blasting out into the world with a bunch of people hollering at you, blood and guts everywhere, crying, and wailing isn't bad enough - somebody immediately hits you hard enough to make you cry, then 400 people you dont know show up and insist on handing you around in midair for the next 72hrs straight. 

Take me back to the womb, please, Mister. 

To make matters worse - there's a 50/50 chance somebody stuck a vacuum cleaner on your head, then sucked so hard it squished your skull all out of shape. You think THAT didn't hurt? Sweet Lord. "Welcome to being a human! Hurry up out of there, or we'll smoosh your skull." It's your first taste of the world telling you you're too fat and slow. Learn to love it.

Plus, you can't think much, grip anything, walk, talk or see straight and what do you have to live on? Milk that somebody gives you anytime they feel like you may be hungry? If I had to wait on Tyler to feed me when she thought I might be hungry, I'd be dead. Or skinny. I don't know which is worse.

It's amazing any kid makes it out of the hospital alive - what with all that hard floor rushing up to meet you.  That's what's underfoot in the hospital - basically concrete. 4,000 sick and infirm people, newborns, the elderly, bodily fluids skeeting around right and left, half the chairs have wheels on them and you pave the entire place in a slick hard substance?  The emperor has no clothes. Soylent Green is PEOPLE, and when I'm 80 please don't store me in any place sheeted in hip-crushing rubberized concrete. 

Know what happens when you get old? YOU DIE. Fine by me I guess, but I know a caretaker who loves me wouldn't let me slowly break apart over time in a series of high-impact falls.  Make me a tent out on the front lawn. I'll take a tree fort in your backyard. Anything, at all - please just don't put concrete floors in my bedroom for crying out loud. 

Back at the hospital I held the kid, anxiously, until Tyler saw my lips moving and the beads of sweat glistening feverishly on my forehead and she finally said "well, I guess I better get Jimmy on home now", made her apologies and led me out to the car.

It's a good thing, too. My imagination was about to spin completely out of control.

Nine (or Ten) Toes

Tyler has LITERALLY been talking about our 1yr anniversary for 11 months.  As we near the big day (Sunday) she's reached a fever pitch.  A few minutes ago I received this brief communique (no preamble):

As part of our ANNIVERSARY weekend celebrationssss (that's THIS WEEEKEND), I propose we go to Blue Ridge Grill on Saturday night for drinks and a light dinner. I mean, that restaurant IS a foundational element in our relationship journey. Thoughts?



Also: what did you get me for a present? You can tell me, I won't tell anyone.

It's almost like we're reaching some kind of milestone. Normally, I would insert a photo montage of some kind to illustrate our 12 short months of marriage, but I'm not. Instead, let me take this opportunity to remind you: Tyler has a webbed toe:

so she can't wear toe-shoes.

Thanks everyone for your last 12 months of patronage.  Here's to Year Two.

Jimmy

Silage, The Silent Killer

If you’ve spent any time at all in a rural farming community you’ve probably heard the term “silage” ("sigh-ledge"). If not – you won’t know what it is; but now you’re wondering, aren’t you?

Do read on.

The first time I heard the word it was in reference to the large crop of irrigated sorghum standing just behind me on a dove shoot. A man said "just saw a big 'ol rattlesnake back there in that silage."

That bit of information piqued my interest and I felt it worthwhile to follow-up.

Whatt silage? Where?

Yonderways. (vague gesture towards 200 acre sorghum field, 10' high)

Didja kill it ?

Naw. Didn't have a sack to put 'im in.

Uncertain of how to respond, I simply nodded and filed the term away with a mental snapshot of a sorghum field and went on about my business. I know farming. Now, I know "silage" too. I am brilliant.

The next time I heard the term “silage” it was in reference to a corn field. If sorghum is silage and corn isn’t sorghum then corn can’t be silage, can it? I took the SAT. I know words.

Clearly, I am a sharper farmer than the farmer pointing to his corn and calling it silage when, obviously, that’s wrong. I chuckled to myself, pleased with my smart farming sense, and thought “I pity this farmer who does not know his silage from his corn. His cows must be very sickly.” But, I left it at that. Silage = sorghum field. End of story.

This weekend my friend JB stood with me in the bright sunlight surveying a dove field.  It was hot. I mean 101 degrees hot.  So hot, nobody was really talking - just standing; limply draped across the sides of my truck bed praying for rain and waiting on 3 o'clock.  Finally, JB reached into the cooler for a water and broke the silence: "Whoooeeee. It is some kinna’ hot and that pond sure looks nice. You know your Great-Granddaddy Burke Sr. used to fish right over there in that pond."

Uncle John leaned both elbows on the toolbox, fanned himself with his hat and mumbled “he was nearbout blind as long as I knew him. Couldn’t barely see to cast.”

"Yeah, that’s right John. His friend Mr. Blunt used to go down to Macon in his Cutlass to pick him up when he got to where he couldn’t see good, and he’d bring him down here to go fishing. Funny thing was – couldn’t neither of ‘em see good! It was the blind driving the blind!

Well, Mr. Blunt got to where he couldn’t see so bad that he couldn’t figure out where to turn off at to get to the pond. They drove around for awhile until Mr. Burke heard the silage truck go driving by. Now Mr. Burke may not coulda’ seen the driveway, but he sure knew the sound of that o' silage truck headed for the silage pit right by the lake, so he hollered at Mr. Blunt “follow that truck!” figuring it would get ‘em close to where they needed to be.

Now, at this point in the story all I can hear is the term “silage” rattling around in my brain like a pebble in a tin can. It has shaken my entire foundation in farming terminology. What in the blue daisy-scented hell is silage anyway? Where is the sorghum field? What kind of pit does it go in? What about corn? Does that fit in here? Could I climb around in that pit of silage and make little tunnels? Because I’ve always wanted to dig a series of interconnected tunnels and caves in something.  It would satisfy the same urge as making a blanket fort under the dining room table, but infinitely better.

Also: is it dangerous, this silage pit of glorious tunnels? Where can I learn to understand more of mysterious silage? I entirely lost the thread of the story, time slowed, I imagined myself creating an entire kingdom of underground silage tunnels and all I could hear was the thunderous word “SIIIILLAAGGEEEEE” echoing through my brain. I did not understand this silage word and, because I am far too curious, there can be nothing that I do not understand or I will likely die. I felt adrift. Lost. Shaken. Miserable.

I came back to myself in time to hear JB finish “So, they followed that silage truck right on down to the pit…and drove right off the hill into it!” Couldn’t neither of em’ see good enough to figure out what they had done! There they were, nose-first in a silage pit 20 feet deep in the hillside with fishing rods hanging out the both back windows and rear wheels spinning in the air. We had to send a crane down there to lift ‘em out. That about ended their solo fishing trips. After that your Granddaddy would just send somebody down from the shop to take ‘em both.

"Heh heh. JB, I reckon they’re lucky that pit didn’t explode."

WHAT? SILAGE IS EXPLOSIVE??!!? God help us. Is there nothing safe to tunnel in anymore? 
I blazed a quick trail that night to Wikipedia which said:

"Silage is fermented, high-moisture fodder that can be fed to ruminants (cud-chewing animals like cattle and sheep)[1] or used as a biofuel feedstock for anaerobic digesters. It is fermented and stored in a process called ensiling or silaging, and is usually made from grass crops, including corn (maize), sorghum or other cereals, using the entire green plant (not just the grain). Silage can be made from many field crops, and special terms may be used depending on type (oatlage for oats, haylage for alfalfa – but see below for the different British use of the term haylage).[2]Silage is made either by placing cut green vegetation in a silo, by piling it in a large heap covered with plastic sheet, or by wrapping large bales in plastic film."

DANGER FELLOW TUNNELERS!!

"Silos are hazardous, and deaths occur in the process of filling and maintaining them. There is a risk of injury by machinery or from falls. When a silo is filled, fine dust particles in the air can become explosive because of their large aggregate surface area. Also, fermentation presents respiratory hazards. The ensiling process produces "silo gas" during the early stages of the fermentation process. Silage gas contains nitric oxide (NO), which will react with oxygen (O2) in the air to form nitrogen dioxide (NO2), which is toxic.[5] Lack of oxygen inside the silo can cause asphyxiation. Molds that grow when air reaches cured silage can cause toxic organic dust syndrome. Silage bales are heavy, and can fall, roll or overbalance."

The Gator Hunters

Ever been "Gator Huntin'"?  Me neither.

Austin and I dumped an airboat, the most dangerous form of aquatic conveyance in the world, captained by a man I'd never, met into Mobile Bay - a location I've never visited, in the dark; with absolutely no synapse firing in our brains other than a vague sense that we fully intended to capture and kill a live alligator.  I had a knife a camera a life jacket and a flashlight. Austin had a hat on. That, in essence, comprised our entire survival kit.

We left the dock at roughly 930PM with a roar, practiced on floating debris for a bit with the gator harpoon, and we were off. 

Mobile bay is not exactly a backwater location.  It was, in fact, quite populous with fishermen, docks, and bridges. It was also quite populous with alligators. I quit counting inside of 20 minutes at "75".  Between the hours of 10PM and 4AM we saw over 300 individual alligators - probably 100 of which were over 8ft long.  The next day we passed over the bay on our way to dinner and saw...waterskiers.

If there is one thrill I'm not willing to tempt a 12ft gator into attacking me over - its having a big outboard motor drag me all over the pond with boards strapped to my feet. Sounds like a blast, but I don't want to be selfish: I'll let you soak up all that fun for both of us.  To me it sounds about like hang-gliding over the lion cage, but don't let me slow you down.

The airboat guide would basically come flying down the bay with a spotlight then cut the rudder hard towards a set of glowing-orange eyes and kick it. We'd run straight at the gator until he started to get furious, then the guide would swing hard right to put the diving gator on the port side - which is perfect for a right-handed throw.

Our final contestant was successfully harpooned by Austin with what amounts to a modified shovel handle with a detachable harpoon head on it. This particular gator (all 10' 6" 300lbs of him) took two harpoons and about 30' of line w/styrofoam floats, then proceeded to snap the harpoon in half and bite the heads off two steel shark gaffs. After that he bit holes all in the side of the boat and tried to kill me, the guide, and Austin in four-part-harmony.
At one point the guide suffered an attack of some sort and began horsely screaming "GRAB HIS OTHER LEG. GET IN THERE JIMMY DAMMIT GET IN THERE. DAMN YOU" while viciously applying his right Sebago to my posterior.

I was, in short, "reluctant."

In order to comply with the Captain's orders I had to go chest-deep headfirst over the side, grab the gator's left leg, and pull. That put his left eye and my left eye literally 1" apart. At that point two wraps of electrical tape and a college education start to look pretty silly. 

Staring fully into the depths of his unblinking, yellow, reptilian eyes was life-changing. I haven't felt that intensely loathed by any creature since Mandy '03 and I could tell - he really did want to eat me. I've never experienced "wanting to be eaten" by a carnivore before. It was truly refreshing - so much so that I felt it incumbent upon me to mull the moment over from my favorite thinking spot high atop the propeller cage.



Eventually, Austin and the guide got the front of the boat over him and wrapped his jaws shut with electrical tape while I hopped up and down on top of the motor offering sage bits of wisdom. Then, all three of us had to drag the live, furious gator on board and I had to HOLD HIM DOWN while Austin basically killed him with a bowie knife. 

It was exciting.


We returned to the public boat ramp around 4AM, at which point the guide slid the dead 10' 6" gator off his boat with a meaty thud, shook Austin's hand and wished us a hearty good luck with the skinning process.  7AM found us still publicly skinning a gator to the intense delight of 45 various fishermen who showed up that morning to put their boats in at the ramp. It was a four-alarm goat rodeo of epic proportions, complete with commentary.
Hey. wheredja kill that thang
where you guys from
is that hard
did you kill it
is it dead
it dont look dead
wharabouts where you
what time is it
you guys tired
you look tired
boy im glad i aint got to skin that thang
boy that thang stanks
wherebouts you from. not mobile prolly. hey earl wherebouts you think they from
you want all that meat ill tradja some crappie
hey look here ralph
(ralph) dammit lijah - get in the boat
hey fellers can i get a pitchur.
can you guys move over a bit
hey guys wait right there let me go get my kids.
here little tommy sit on the gators head

It was exhausting....

....but I guess that's just part of being gator hunters!