Freeze-drying Machine

I've decided that I need to purchase a freeze-drying machine.  Everything that is fruit seems to taste better when it is freeze-dried.  I realize the bonus of fruit, generally, is its juiciness and freeze-drying everything will take all the juicy properties away, but even fruit didn't know how delicious it was until one day somebody ate some freeze-dried strawberries.  It's like astronaut ice-cream, but from the loam.  Free from artificial neopolitan ice-cream flavoring.  I feel really good about this.  I'm going to start researching.

I really bring up the freeze-drying machine because I've been so lazy lately.  All of my thoughts are about the same things, so I tend to ignore all these other thoughts, like the strong desire to purchase a freeze-drying machine.  Why can't this idea be just as important as finding the love of my life?  I bet I can even choose the color of my freeze-drying machine.  I can choose where to put it on the counter.  I can polish it if it gets dirty--if I get any grapefruit juice on it for example because I imagine grapefruits will be on the early list of experimentation--and I can manage how sticky it becomes on the outside near the buttons.  I could buy some aggressive stickers and put those on the outside of my machine; maybe some flames and skulls with snakes coming out of the eyes.  I could draw eyes on it.  I would definitely name it.  I would freeze-dry everything, and I would commiserate with those who purchased fry-daddys for the first time and then proceeded to deep fry everything they could get their hands on, and the lessons and tales of failures would flow between us.  We would learn of each other, and our snacking habits.  Who was there when the first hard-boiled egg was deep-fried?  Who was present when they decided to deep fry some cherry cordials?  Was it Rick's hand who was horrifically blistered by the deep-fired Oreo?  And how much damage was it when the hot oil was spilled on your counter top after slipping on the flying fish roe from the California roll you just tried to fry?  I, too, would share tales of Boris, my freeze-drying machine, who bravely freeze-dried watermelon, freeze-dried gummy bears, freeze-dried gooseberries and Sam Adams summer ale...clearly my new fry-daddy friends and I would have much to discuss.

I would like to address the feeling of not writing because one feels what they have to say isn't important enough.  God knows there are plenty of people out there speaking and writing right this moment who have very little to say but are saying and writing things so hard...so very hard they are exclaiming thoughts and experiences...I judge them not, but I will say that what is withheld cannot be an actual contender against things shared that are, in reality, heinously stupid or annoying.  Why it was only this morning I overheard a conversation between a man and woman about broccoli that was in reference to a pasta salad the woman had over 17 years ago and how crunchy the broccoli had been and how glad she was to learn that you could add such small pieces of broccoli to pasta salad and it could still be so satisfying to eat.  It just so happened at that moment as I was overhearing this I was thinking about a book that I wanted to write that would involve a great deal of research in order to execute, and might require that I do some traveling as well.  The woman spoke of small broccoli pieces ("not the stem parts, the fat, the stringy--I don't like the stem parts you can't put that in the salad it will ruin everything") with deep feeling.  Why I felt as if I too had eaten that same pasta salad 17 years ago.  It was chilled perfectly and had a good amount of dressing, I imagined.  The fact remained that I was only thinking of something that might not happen, or something that I was planning to happen in a certain way at a time that is not now...the traveling, at least...the pasta salad was as legendary as James Dean.

In honor of Rosa and her pasta salad I decree here and now, with the thought of Boris my freeze-drying machine in my heart, his small plug-tail wagging, that I shall try to be more forthcoming with my thoughts and ponderings.  I will explain them, even when they're not perfect--especially when they're not perfect (for what truly is?).  I will take Rosa's hand and step into the deli of life and make it happen.

That is all.

~ B

Cranes

You know those Chinese cranes?  The ones often gracing landscape paintings--beautiful, large birds that are black and white with red on their heads?  

Last night I dreamt I was lying on a mountain in cool, comforting weather.  At the break of day two of these Chinese cranes flew over head, light between their feathers.  They sailed without moving.  Not really going anywhere, but happy they were together.

Today I saw a pair of Great White Herons fly over the Harlem River, together, much in the same way.  I've been in the area many times, and have never seen them there before.  

I am comforted to my bones.

~ B

I'm wrong: not 11

Here's a list, found it online.  How helpful, the internet.

• 1816 His family was forced out of their home. He had to work to support them. 

• 1818 His mother died. 

• 1831 Failed in business. 

• 1832 Ran for state legislature - lost. 

• l832 Also lost his job - wanted to go to law school but couldn't get in. 

• 1833 Borrowed some money from a friend to begin a business and by the end of the year he was bankrupt. He spent the next 17 years of his life paying off this debt. 

• 1834 Ran for state legislature again - won. 

• 1835 Was engaged to be married, sweetheart died and his heart was broken. 

• 1836 Had a total nervous breakdown and was in bed for six months. 

• 1838 Sought to become speaker of the state legislature - defeated. 

• 1840 Sought to become elector - defeated. 

• 1843 Ran for Congress - lost. 

• 1846 Ran for Congress again - this time he won - went to Washington and did a good job. 

• 1848 Ran for re-election to Congress - lost. 

• 1849 Sought the job of land officer in his home state - rejected. 

• 1854 Ran for Senate of the United States - lost. 

• 1856 Sought the Vice-Presidential nomination at his party's national convention - get less than 100 votes. 

• 1858 Ran for U.S. Senate again - again he lost. 

• 1860 Elected president of the United States.

Again...with Lincoln...

I was having a conversation last night with some friends about the last Lincoln descendent.  We couldn't remember when this person died.  Turns out it was in the 1980s.  The next rational question we posed, of course, was if there was a possibility that somewhere some of Lincoln's DNA has been frozen for posterity.  Maybe a hair from his sideburns hidden inside his top hat now lives in a hermetically sealed chest made out of diamonds.  Maybe at some point it would be very important to know we could get our hands on some Lincoln whiskers.  Not us personally--my friends and I are not very smart with such matters--but someone.  Maybe someone who was in the middle of figuring out something important.

Then of course the thought of being the great-great-whatever of Abraham Lincoln was overwhelming to us.  Could you ever focus on anything else?  Would it be possible for you to play the piano, go to the bathroom, or be a good speller, without whipping out this fact?  Even if it was only in the descendent's head, just pure knowledge floating around in there, while making pancakes.  I bet the knowledge would have the tendency to just creep up, kind of scare the hell out of him.  Like a floater in the eye...little Abraham Lincoln mouth smiling while he waves, temporarily obstructing the pancake he's flipping.  I don't know that I could concentrate on anything else.  Generic oppressive potential for human improvement is enough, but genetic?  Holy smokes.

I've certainly heard about the "skipped generation" with "great people".  Maybe the son of someone spectacular is impressive, but the next one--exhausted by the lineage--kind of decides to be a complete loser.  At least unremarkable.

Can we decide to be unremarkable?  Can we decide to be remarkable?

Since I have no idea what I'm talking about, not having a presidential great-grand parent, I don't know the answer to that.  I do know that in my family: my mother's grandmother was some kind of gypsy.  She helped orphaned children.  My mother apparently used to give blood religiously, and I have an Uncle who had a fairly successful polka band.  I love all these people, and would hope in my actions to make them proud.  Choosing to be unremarkable for me I suppose would be choosing not to try.  Try to...to be a good person, do the right thing.  Honestly, who is not trying to do the right thing?  Even if one's idea of right is horribly confused, because what is more confusing than "right", I think the basic principles of humanity (want of connection, love, acceptance) apply.  People don't set out to be complete assholes.  Not that I know of.  It happens along the way sometimes.  I haven't chosen to hate polka because I know I'll never play the tuba very well, as well as my Uncle.  I'm fine with polka, even if I don't celebrate it.  I have many cassettes.  No player, but I do own cassettes.  This is something.

I'm finishing writing this without looking anything up because I want to go off of what I remember.  I recall that Lincoln's life in politics was stuttered and difficult before he got what he wanted.  I believe I read somewhere there were 11 failed attempted before he was elected.  I like the number 11, so I will choose to remember 11.  What he did in his life seemed super-human, impossible, remarkable, magic.  Boiled down he was just damned stubborn.  I'm trying to think of doing anything I really want to do 11 times and then trying again for # 12.  Remarkable.  I would think that's choosing to be remarkable.

The skill of my lineage is stubbornness.  Not Lincoln's variety--but I know we're flooded with the stuff.  We just don't do anything anyone tells us to do.  Not without struggle, anyway.  I don't know that it's healthy or even normal, but today it makes me feel closer to Lincoln then I've ever felt.  I'll know I'll never grow a beard that distinct, but I can remember the number 11, and try again.

Because what if he didn't?

~ B