“I’m A 1000 Miles From No-Where’s-Ville. Nicce ‘Climit!’ Wanna Join Me? In My Misery. Yup! I am Crazy / Insane!”
“And I’ve Got Pickles in My Head“
“Time Don’t Matter to me”
And There’s No-Place I’d Rather Be
Nor Wanna Be
For I am A sailor–Fore-Ever!
I’m ‘A’-Tryin’ Really Hard To Be Happy! & Up_Beat & Remain Positive! Obviously This Will Be A WIP! ‘Work-in-I Digress-Progress!’
Wish Me Luck in My Endeavor!! — And, I’m a-Tryin’ Really Hard to Entertain Y’alls! & NEVah, Evarh, Wanna Waste Yer Finite, Valuable To Me, Spent on Me. Time. This is “Me” in All Truthful Sincerity!
Consider for a moment the lowly pinto bean. (Yes! I do tend to repeat myself–I blame old age/stage)
In The Great Republic of Texas the National Dish is Chili. Specifically: Texan Chili.
Which-Means-No-Beans.
“Do not ‘bean up’ chili. On pain of death Son, do not bean-up chili.”
Still freshly pressed from California, (Actually four years into being ‘freshly pressed,’ but some things take more time than others to be made manifest)
I did not know this.
But I learned it by and by
My junior year in Honey Grove High School I volunteered to provide the chili for the fundraising endeavor of my class. We were to sell chili-dogs and Frito pies during the breaks—the break before lunch and the break after lunch just before liberty: Two of the hungriest times in High School. We would have a captive audience.
Yep.
On the Friday afternoon before the Monday break time when the ’74 Junior Class was to unveil their fundraising enterprise, I was at-a-loss. I had never until that day cooked anything resembling food.
Once, during a camping trip years before, a man who was somehow kin to me, (by marriage—not genes), brought out some bacon and proceeded to throw it into a skillet on the camp fire.
“Hey!” I said. “Don’t you need to put some flour in there with that bacon?”
Yes. I was stupid.
Anyway… Here I was after shooting my big mouth off, now needing to produce tons of chili for the chili dogs and Frito pies.
(OK. I do realize there are some not-Texans who have no idea what the fuck is a Frito Pie. Here is the quick version: Take one ah dem very small packs of Frito’s corn chips, slice it down the side, open it up, pour chili on top, et voila! Frito Pie, or as some call it: Meskin Lasagna.)
Dear Gloria, (My Stepmother, who was actually from ‘Up North—Montana- or sum such place), Dear Step Momma, I need to cook up a big batch O’ Chili. Kin ya help me?”
“Sure, Stepson, I can help you.”
Well… what do I do first?” I honestly enquired.
“Stepson, first you soak some beans.”
“Beans? I am makin’ chili. Why do I need beans?”
“You need beans, Red-Headed-Step-Son, to fill in the profit.”
“Ah don’t recall beans in chili, Step-Mom.”
“Trust me: Step-Son; beans are what everyone needs… in chili… here.”
“So… I need to cook beans before chili?”
“Yes.”
“How do I do that?” I asked.
“First you soak them. Soak them for twelve hours.”
“Then what?”
“Cook them. Cook them for about an hour.”
“And the chili?”
“Cook that for hours…”
“And then?”
“Combine.”
“So… I ‘combine’ the chili with them beans?”
“Do not say ‘them’ in this house.”
“Sorry.”
“Yes, you ‘combine’ the beans with the chili, and then you have a profitable enterprise.”
“I see, thanks Step-Mother-from-North-Dakota.”
Following Monday, I show up with my ‘CHILI’
“Marcom! What the fuck is this? This ain’t chili! This shit has beans! Beans! Beans!”
I’m ‘A’-Tryin’ Really Hard To Be Happy! & Up_Beat & Remain Positive! Obviously This Will Be A WIP! ‘Work-in-I Digress-Progress!’ Wish Me Luck in My Endeavor!! — And, I’m a-Tryin’ Really Hard to Entertain Y’alls! & NEVah, Evarh, Wanna Waste Yer Finite, Valuable To Me, Spent on Me. Time. This is “Me” in All Truthful Sincerity!
I am just having fun, exploring (exploiting?) some of my inane, insane, In-Same, recent posts.
And of course, I love to ‘share my wares.’ Because I am just that vain (don’t ask me why or how I justify that statement.)
So there!
If I post something you have already ready read, sorry…
New shit will be forthcoming.
And soon. And I promise. And the check is in the mail and I won’t… do that in your mou… “Ah don’t go there Lance.”
But, in the meantime:
And not to put too fine a point on it (trite, yep): My writing and my posts are ‘all over some places…’ But ‘Twould behoove to follow some of the links, as I find them entertaining. (Your individual experience may vary, and even differ, or beg to)
Consider for a moment the lowly pinto bean. In The Great Republic of Texas the National Dish is Chili. Specifically: Texan Chili.
Which-Means-No-Beans.
Do not bean up chili. On pain of death Son, do not bean-up chili.
Still freshly pressed from California, (Actually four years into being ‘freshly pressed,’ but some things take more time to take than others) I did not know this.
My junior year in Honey Grove High School I volunteered to provide the chili for the fundraising endeavor of my class. We were to sell chili-dogs and Frito pies during the breaks—the break before lunch and the break after lunch just before liberty: Two of the hungriest times in High School. We would have a captive audience.
Yep.
On the Friday afternoon before the Monday break time when the ’74 Junior Class was to unveil their fundraising enterprise, I was at-a-loss. I had never until that day cooked anything resembling food. Once, during a camping trip years before, a man who was somehow kin to me, (by marriage—not genes), brought out some bacon and proceeded to throw it into a skillet on the camp fire.
“Hey!” I said. “Don’t you need to put some flour in there with that bacon?”
Yes. I was stupid.
Anyway… Here I was after shooting my big mouth off, now needing to produce tons of chili for the chili dogs and Frito pies. (OK. I do realize there are some not-Texans who have no idea what the fuck is a Frito Pie. Here is the quick version: Take one ah dem very small packs of Frito’s corn chips, slice it down the side, open it up, pour chili on top, et voila! Frito Pie, or as some call it: Meskin Lasagna.)
Dear Gloria, (My Stepmother, who was actually from ‘Up North—Montana- or sum such place), Dear Step Momma, I need to cook up a big batch O’ Chili. Kin ya help me?”
“Sure, Stepson, I can help you.”
Well… what do I do first?” I honestly enquired.
“Stepson, first you soak some beans.”
“Beans? I am makin’ chili. Why do I need beans?”
“You need beans, Red-Headed-Step-Son, to fill in the profit.”
“Ah don’t recall beans in chili, Step-Mom.”
“Trust me: Step-Son; beans are what everyone needs… in chili… here.”
“So… I need to cook beans before chili?”
“Yes.”
“How do I do that?” I asked.
“First you soak them. Soak them for twelve hours.”
“Then what?”
“Cook them. Cook them for about an hour.”
“And the chili?”
“Cook that for hours…”
“And then?”
“Combine.”
“So… I ‘combine’ the chili with them beans?”
“Do not say ‘them’ in this house.”
“Sorry.”
“Yes, you ‘combine’ the beans with the chili, and then you have a profitable enterprise.”
“I see, thanks Step-Mother-from-North-Dakota.”
Following Monday, I show up with my ‘CHILI’
“Marcom! What the fuck is this? This ain’t chili! This shit has beans! Beans! Beans!”
