My Quest for the Perfect Taco

It was shortly after my 11th birthday and my best friend’s mom had just picked us up from guitar class. I didn't take guitar lessons, but my friend, Ellen did. Occasionally I tagged along and watched her progress through the glass door of the classroom. I'd wanted to take the class, but my mother said, "No deal. You quit piano lessons two weeks into it. If you want to learn the guitar, save your money, buy a guitar from the second-hand store and teach yourself. If you have any musical talent you'll be able to teach yourself."

"Don't worry I'll teach you. Just as soon as I learn. And you can practice on my guitar." Good old Ellen. Ellen was a full year older than me. Within the year Ellen discovered boys and they discovered her. That marked the end of her interest in the guitar.

Ellen's mom was slender and petite, just about the same height as me at the time. She was a pretty Irish woman who served as a bailiff in the juvenile court system. I always found that to be funny since the kids she was ushering around must have been twice her size. Ellen inherited both her mother's pretty face and her father's tall statuesque physique. Ellen towered over both her mother and me.

Ellen's mom wasn't much like the other kids' mothers I knew. They were mostly stay-at-home moms, she worked. They were soft and round, she was lean and active. They were trite and insincere, she was forthright and honest. They were old-fashioned, she was hip. They cleaned and cooked, she did neither. If she answered the door when I arrived, she'd kick the toys belonging to Ellen's younger brothers and sisters out of the way as she ushered me inside, chatting amiably all the while. There was a perpetual pile or two of clothing in need of laundering sitting on the floor near the staircase, waiting to be taken downstairs to the laundry room, the beds were unmade and the kitchen sink  full of dirty dishes and she'd be giving Ellen instructions on how to prepare some simple casserole or one-pot dish. However, inactive she was not. The only time I saw her sit was when she was driving the car, chauffeuring Ellen and me somewhere.

The park building where Ellen took her guitar lessons was in Chicago's Uptown neighborhood, and that day, when her mother picked us up she proclaimed, "I'm starving! Say Ranell, have you ever had a taco? Ellen, I know you haven't. It's a Mexican sandwich, of sorts. I know a great place right near here. How about it, girls, are you up for trying one? I think you'll enjoy it."

It's hard to fathom it now, but back in 1963 the Mexican restaurant business in the U.S. was still in it's infancy. Salsa was an almost unheard of product, then available mostly in the southwest part of the States, or in urban-area groceries where hispanics shopped.

Ellen's mother told us she'd tried tacos on a business trip she'd made a couple of years earlier to California. "Imagine my delight to find this little spot here," she told us as she parked the car near the northeast corner of Lawrence Avenue and Sheridan Road. It was late in the afternoon and the place was empty except for the young man and woman, I took to be a husband and wife, who were behind the counter. Ellen's mother directed us to seats at the counter of the small storefront restaurant. She ordered for us. In a short time, the man placed plates containing one beef taco each in front of us. It didn't look like any sandwich I'd ever seen.

Before me sat a round stiff shell of some type, folded in half and holding cooked meat that somewhat resembled my mom's leftover pot roast. Across the top of the meat I saw a few sliced onions. Next to my taco was a small small bowl of a green sauce I would come to know later as salsa verde. On the counter the man had also placed a small cup of sliced lime wedges. I looked over and watched as Ellen's mom spooned some of the green sauce over the meat and onions, then picked up a lime and gave a quick squeeze over the "taco." Then she picked the whole thing up and took a bite. I did exactly what she did. My mouth was immediately filled with a combination of savory deliciousness that was salty, acidic, and crunchy, all at once. It was after I'd chewed and swallowed that I felt the heat of the peppers, that tingle to my pain receptors that made my brain quickly reassure me, "Don't be concerned, this is good pain." I turned to look at Ellen's mom. She laughed at my expression, "Good, huh? I knew you'd like it!"

My life became a quest to reproduce the experience of that seemingly deliciously simple and innovative mini-meal.

The meat was melt-in-your-mouth, with sweet bits of crusty caramelization on the ends. The tortilla, which is what Ellen's mom called the round "bread" with which our sandwich was made. It was made with corn masa and had been flash fried to make a crisp shell that almost shattered upon bite. The onions were sweeter than the kind my mom used at home and added an interesting contrast of flavor to the meat. The lime juice added tang, and that "salsa" with it's hot, jalapeño-based brine… well, all I can say is that it all came together in wonderful harmony in my mouth. Crunchy, salty, sweet, juicy, savory tang with an addictive after effect of heat that rushed from my mouth straight to my brain.

I tried tacos in various parts of Mexico, at street-side taquerias here in the U.S. in a valiant attempt to replicate the taste. I made tacos in my own home. Yet no taco compared with the taco that Ellen's mother bought for me that day. I came to accept that, just like a first kiss, it was a lovely and distinctive part of my memory, that was not meant to be replicated.

***

Sometimes I grill a steak that's been marinaded in "Mexican" spices. Not as often I cook chicken or fish. Tonight I've opted for  pork, which I braised four hours in apple cider that was awash in chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, white onion, garlic, salt and pepper and a splash of tequila, rendering a meat that is so juicily tender as to melt in your mouth - and in honor of my first taco, tonight there will be no cheese, sour cream or tomatoes adorning these tacos. I made some tortilla chips and guacamole, to enhance but not replicate that first experience. And we'll wash these tacos down with fresh-squeezed lime margaritas on the rocks (also missing that first time.)

juicy cider-braised pork

fresh limes for margaritas - the only way to go

braised meat with onion - simple

Glass from Lalo's in Oak Park - I purchased it :)

steak taco meat - it still has those caramelized bits

Flank steak getting ready to marinade

Happy October 4, National Taco Day! (Only in America. I love this country!)

Can't Cook, Never Could

She's not much of a cook, never has been. A couple of years ago she complained to me that she'd bought a package of refrigerated cookie dough. "All I had to do was slice and bake. But, I couldn't even do that! I ruined the whole batch."

It's not a matter of intelligence, she's smart as a whip and master's-prepared in her field of expertise, where she excels. Cooking is just not her thing, never has been.

Shortly after the birth of her first child this year she lamented, "How I would love to be able to cook for him. You know organic fruits and vegetables and such. I know I won't have any control over his eating habits once he's school-age, but I'd sure like to give him a good start when he's a baby. I've been looking into buying one of those baby-food cooking appliances. The machine steam-cooks and purees the food for you. Do you think I'd be able to do it?"

"Certainly," I encouraged her, "give it a try!"

But by the time he'd turned six months old, and it was time to introduce solid food, she'd resigned herself to buying organic processed and pre-cooked baby food. It gave me a pang, because I knew how much she'd wanted to do this herself, but with her busy work schedule  and the strains of adjusting to a newborn...

So once a week, usually on Saturday morning, I cook for a now almost eight-month-old. Cooking is just such a simple thing for me to do. I barely have to think about it. I deliver the food on Sunday evening and have a opportunity to feed him the food, I leave the rest of it in freezer containers for her to use throughout the week.

He's a pretty good eater, but makes the most unbelievable faces whenever he tastes something new. I'd insert a photo here, certain to bring a smile to your face, but she doesn't want his pictures posted on the internet. Too bad, because he's a cute kid, web-viral material, but I guess that's probably exactly why she doesn't want him exposed in such manner.

He still requires his food to be pretty well mashed to pulp, although I don't strain it. I seem to have the most trouble pureeing the brown rice sufficiently, so I usually mix it with something else to help get it to a smooth enough texture.

I buy organic when possible. In the case of chicken I buy from "American Humane Certified" poultry producers, who use antibiotic-free feed and, of course by federal law, use no hormones in the raising of their birds. I had a friend whose parents, when they retired from the workforce, started an apple orchard. They claim that it's "darn near impossible" to be completely organic when it comes to apples. I found a nearby orchard that does not "spray" their fruit. And there is an organic farm that sells produce at the local Stephenson county farmer's market. They grow a lot of "heirloom" vegetables. I buy from them when I can. HyVee (in Iowa) has a nice selection of fresh and frozen organic fruits and vegetables, so they're my 'go-to' store for most items.

Food items baby loves: bananas, blueberries, applesauce, peaches, pears, basically any baby-appropriate fruit. Also, sweet potatoes.

Food items baby likes: green beans, peas, carrots, squash, chicken, turkey, oatmeal and brown rice, (when it's properly pureed.)

I'm hoping to try cooking with potatoes, spinach and maybe even kale soon.

So far Mom and Dad report that he shows no signs of allergies (knock, knock.)

Here are some photos (all but one taken with my new IPhone 6+). Other photos are lost on my old IPhone which sits on the bottom of the lake (it happens when one fails to save to the "Cloud" in on a timely schedule):

Stuff I bought at Hy Vee

Triple  washing of unsprayed apples

"unsprayed" apples aren't as pretty as sprayed apples- they sometimes have little bug holes ;)

I pare around the worm holes ;)

cut apples cooked in water

cooked apples fork mashed

Applesauce!! Thanks to mini processor.

This...

…becomes this.

More stuff from Hy Vee (Fresh organic veggie photos lost to phone in lake :(

My mini processor has a neat spout for adding liquids :)

I use either a smoothy maker or a mini processor when pureeing - brown rice, for example requires the use of both to insure a smooth consistency.

I can trace the farm from which my poultry comes - this package is from Appleton, Wisconsin.

I stew the chicken in organic broth and vegetables….

…then strain off the veggies and puree the chicken with the remaining  broth.

Because such matters are important to the mother,  I use only glass or new BPA-free containers for storage.

The ReWiring of My Hardwired Mind

We decided to take the boat out for a run yesterday. It won't be long before she'll have to be pulled out of the water and stored for the winter. As we walked toward our slip I could hear the voice of a young child. Clear, well-articulated words, "Dad, I think I need another worm." Hmm, most kids are back in school...

As we neared I could see the child's thick, waist-length, cascading soft curls of blond hair. The kid looked to be about four years old and sat upon a child-sized folding chair directly in front of our boat. "Better move your chair," said the child's grandfather. "No, it's alright. There's plenty of room. We can get by just fine," said my husband.

We had a bit of work to do before we took the boat out, cleaning the boat in general, lubing the snaps and zippers, so we set to task as the grandfather, father and child continued fishing from the dock.

"Catch anything yet?" my husband asks.

"Yeah, quite a bit actually, some bluegill, crappies and bass."

"Good for you. I don't think I've caught a single fish this summer. Basically my fishing license is my annual donation to the DNR."

"Who knows, today could be your lucky day."

As we worked I listened to the child. A child’s voice is like music to me.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I have some water? I'm thirsty."

"Okay, but you better watch your line. Looks like you have a nibble."

"Oh darn, the fish ate my worm again."

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I need another worm."

"Okay, give me a second."

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"How many have you caught?"

"How many fish? Well, I have six in the bucket and I had to release at least six because they were too small to keep. So let’s see, six plus six equals--"

"I guess I won then."

"You won?"

"Yes, Dad, I won."

"You won what? What did you win?"

"I won the fishing, um, the fishing…"

"You won the fishing contest?"

"Yes, Dad. I guess I won the fishing contest today."

"Well, I'm not sure about that, Buddy"

"Cute kid," I whisper to my husband as we work through our tasks. My husband mutters quietly near my ear, "Why the heck don't they have a life preserver on that kid, running around the pier?" That's my husband, "Mr. Safety."

The child is wearing spotlessly clean, but dark and drab colored clothing. A charcoal gray teeshirt over black knit shorts, dark gray socks with a blue batman emblem, the tops of which peek out of ankle-high black Converse-style sneakers. The kid does have a bright yellow and red kid-sized tackle box, which exactly matches, in color, the pint-sized folding chair.

"Hey, Buddy, we might be fished out here. What do you say we take our boat out to find some more fish?"

"Oh no, Dad, please no."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm tired, Dad."

"Good, then you can sleep on the boat."

"Daad, puh-leeze. I just don't want to. I'm sooo tired, Dad."

"Just for a little while, Buddy? Come on."

"Nooo, oh Dad, please can we just not go on the boat?"

"Alright, Buddy. Quit whining, we'll go home."

"Yay! You are the best dad, Dad!"

They pack up quickly as we begin to cast off. "Good-bye! Hey Buddy, say good-bye to the nice people. Good luck with the fish!" calls out Buddy's dad.

When we are out in the bay and the family is driving off in their car, my husband says, "So, do you think Buddy was a girl or a boy?"

I pause, because until this moment I thought that Buddy was just about the cutest little tomboy I'd ever seen. It never occurred to me that she was anything but a girl. But now as I sit here thinking about a newer generation of forward-thinking parents where defining gender in kids isn't quite as stringent; like those parents I read about from Toronto who refused to disclose the gender of their new baby until the kid was school age, to allow the child the freedom to determine which characteristics to adopt without prejudice to gender, or something like that.

"I don't know-- that hair. You rarely see a girl with hair that long, let alone a little boy. It was at least to Buddy's waist."

"But, the clothing the kid was wearing was all boyish."

"Yeah but, when Buddy started whining about the boat, didn't Buddy whine like a girl?"

"Yeah, maybe so. I'm leaning towards Buddy being a girl. Sure was a cute kid, almost too pretty a face to be a boy."

What the heck kind of hard-wiring has been done to my brain to make it so difficult to see beyond a kid’s hairstyle, or clothing choices, or softly symmetrical facial features, or a personal style of interacting with a parent, that I feel a need to identify it in some way as either male or female? I vow to work on rewiring my thought processes about genders.

***

"Hey, let's anchor here in the East bay near the new manmade reef. Maybe you'll catch enough fish to beat Buddy in the contest."

"Ha-ha."

We drop anchor and I read a book, while my husband tries to catch a fish. First he catches a bluegill. “I think I’ll try a bigger hook and some of that bait that Red recommended."  My husband fiddles around tying on a new hook and attaching the bait. Not even a minute after dropping his line he catches a 14 inch bass, "Take a picture," he says.

I pull my IPhone out of my pocket. I keep it in an Otterbox Defender case, but the rubbery silicone outer part recently developed a tear that caused it to flap about, so I removed it, leaving it incased in only the hard, slick polycarbonate inner shell. You know, that rubbery outer shell has some grip to it. It keeps it from sliding off of countertops and auto dashboards and such. I plan to buy a new case for it, just as soon as I can find one for a good price. The old cases should be coming down in price with the new IPhone 6's coming out soon. My hand is slick from the snap/zipper lubricant I used on the boat covers and I drop my phone. I watch helplessly as it bounces and cascades effortlessly across two different surfaces of my newly cleaned boat and plops into the lake, sinking out of sight and to the bottom.

"What was that?" asks my husband, still admiring up his catch, "Another big fish jumping near the side of the boat?"

"No, something else. Hey, hon, how deep is the water here?”

“Only about 16 feet or so with the reef. Why?”

“Um, when did you say the new IPhone 6's were going to be available?"

***

For the next month or more I will rewire my brain to live without a phone as I am determined to wait out the 6. There is nothing I dislike more than buying an electronic product only to have it outdated in the next month.

Right now I can still receive and send text messages on my IPad. And I can still check my phone for voicemail, that is if I could only remember what my "passcode" is for voicemail. I only retrieve voicemail directly from my phone where a passcode is not necessary. 

*** 

Newer! Bigger! Faster! Coming Soon!!

Yes, but is it waterproof and can it float?

Scenes from My Backyard, Part Three

My mind has been whirling like an Amish butter churner, non-stop that is. At least I think that's how the Amish work...

Anyway I've a dozen or more half-written, un-posted blogs on my Evernote-- here are some titles:

German Words and Phrases

Turn of the Screw

Boys of summer

A Day of Firsts

Don't Quote Me...

Bowling Blues

Now You're Cooking with Gas

Embracing the Future

But, tonight I will forget working on finishing any of those and go with my gut. I'll write the words just as they hit my brain, because I just happened to look out of my kitchen window… And what do you think I saw? I mean I can't even believe it, but here it is: I look out my window to see a young girl, high school age, lay her golf bag down on the ground and curl up in a fetal position next to it. I swear to the heavenly Lord! So, I exclaim to my husband who is, pretty much rightfully, sipping a cocktail at 6:15 p.m., "Look! There is a kid lying prone on the ground!"

Now, my husband is pretty responsible and will not imbibe unless he's certain his immediate attention is not going to be needed in the next few hours. So, he looks kind of tentatively at me and says, "I'm sorry, what?"

"Honey, look there is a kid laying down on the golf course! There are usually teachers or coaches. Oh my God, where are the coaches!?!"

He glances up. "You mean that golf bag?"

"Look next to the bag, behind it!"

"I'm sorry I just see a bag."

"Yeah, well look again, because that bag is getting up now and staggering to a standing position."

"Oh yeah. Looks like a girl. Must be the high school team."

We have a golf course outside and can see pretty much the entire fifth hole from the tee down the valley to the green on the back end of our home. This time of year the local schools use the course, during the week and in the late afternoon and early evening, for practice and for competition. It's an enjoyable and refreshing break from the plethora of senior citizens we're accustomed to watching.

Anyway, I have this quirk whereby I uncannily notice people and animals in need of help. It's often a point of discourse for my husband and I as I will point out mammalians that I notice happen to be in need and my husband will try to dissuade me from getting involved.

Like just a month ago when driving down a country road I saw a calf wandering the side of the road, well outside of her fenced in area.

"Stop! Wait! Didn't you see that calf?! Back up the car! Back up the car!"

It is only my shrieking that has even caused him to slow the car to about 30 miles an hour.

"Yes, now that I mention it, I see the calf. But, what do you expect me to do? Corral it?!"

"Well, I would like you to, at least, back up the car and help me find and inform someone from the farmhouse that they've a calf loose."

"Seriously?"

"Do you know the value of a farm animal?! Do you realize how much of a financial loss it would be to a family farm to lose this animal?"

In this case I guilt him into helping me. Usually I'm alone and will take it upon myself to offer assistance.

I don't know why I'm usually the only one around who notices when help is needed, but well here are a few examples from just the past month...

A kid wavering on his attempt to get going up a steep hill on his bike. His parents are 50 yards ahead and don't seem to notice that he's stuck,-- "Hey, do you need a push to get going?" "Sure, that would help me. Thank you, ma'am."

An ninety-plus year old man in one of those grocery store handicap motorized carts trying to lift a way-too-heavy case of water into the too-small basket. I look around to see a half-dozen shoppers. Why don't they see what I see? I offer him my assistance.

A couple times this month I've spotted someone leaving the local gas station with hands full of hot coffee, donuts, soft drinks, sandwiches-- "Can I get the door for you?" "Thanks, yes."

I offer my arm and walk an old lady, older than me (and there are not too many of those left, you know), to carry her purchases to her car over a wet-from-rain, newly blacktopped parking lot...

Why just last week I saw a couple, from my backyard, who were walking the golf course with pushcarts as a sudden storm dumped sheets of water and at just about the same time the lightning began to crash down-- "Hon, we have to get the minivan and load their carts and clubs and take them back to the clubhouse!! Quick! Get the keys. I'll go tell them! Meet us on the cart path!"  He always rolls his eyes, but he knows that I'm right.

So, I tell him tonight that we must at least ask the young lady if she is okay. I run to get two cold containers of bottled water. I take them out on the deck as she walks onto the green. She looks up at me and I call out, "Are you okay? Would you like some cold water? I saw you lying on the ground!"

"YES! Oh, please!" she exclaims, "Thank you so much!"

"How many of you are there?"

"There are three of us."

"Here are two bottles, I'll go get another." I get another bottle for the young folks.

She looks at me as I hand the last bottle of water to her. "Thank you. You just saved my life."

And that's why I react when I see someone who needs a hand, even if it's just an overly dramatic teenage girl.

A couple of summers ago my husband and I were on the deck, sitting outside reading. I happen to glance up just as a man collapsed mid swing, I mean one moment he was swinging his golf club, and the next moment he was flat on his back on the ground. I was certain he'd had a heart attack. I grabbed my husband's arm, "Look! Did you see that? That guy just keeled over! Maybe we should call 911 or at least run down and see if he needs help," but as I was saying this, that logical part of my brain was noticing that his golf partners didn't seem to be exactly rushing to his aid. I sat back and watched. A few seconds later he hops to his feet, hits the ball and the foursome continued advancing their way up to the green. When they reached our house the guy who fell began to wave and call out to us, "Hey buddieesh, come join ussh on the golf courshe," as he waved a half-empty bottle of tequila in the air. We laughed and waved them on.

I can't help everyone.

Best If Used By--

Elgin Mental Health Center

CASE NUMBER: 1-226-GD

PATIENT: Rae S*****

DATE: 08-16-2014

[Cough] Ahem…, What is your name?

Rae S*****.

And Ms. S*****, what is your date of birth?

July 17, 1952… er, 1965.

Who is the current president of the United States?

Barack Obama

Who was the president before him?

George W. Bush

Subtract 3 from 20 and keep subtracting 3 from each new number, all the way down.

Sure, but wouldn't it be better if I begin by subtracting 3 from 21. Because if I begin with 20, I'll end up with a negative number at the end, unless you want me to stop at two--

Ms. S*****, do you know why you are here?

Yes. This is a home for crazy old people and you're giving me a mental acuity assessment. You want to determine if I'm mentally fit to continue living independently. And I am, you know… mentally competent, I mean, not old.

That determination will be made by a team of certified professionals, Ms. S*****. Now, one of your children told us that you have some food products in the home that are well past the "use by" date--

Which one?!  Was it the middle child? You know I told her I was sorry that I'd forgotten her birthday the past two years, but--

Ms. S*****, it is not important who gave us this information, only that this information is accurate-- 

Or was it my older son? I seem to remember him going through my spice cabinet recently. I told him that those 'best used by' dates are mere suggestions--

Ms. S*****, do you understand how your inability to maintain a safe home environment could be symptomatic of a more serious mental impairment?

No, I didn't. I mean, it's not like I aspire to be the President, or a psychiatrist, like you, or something--

Ms. S*****. I'd like to continue our conversation regarding --

By the way, how's the food here?

Ms. S*****, your grandson says that you called him no less than four different names before you were able to correctly recall his name.

Tattletale.

Your husband tells us that you recently drove your car into your neighbors driveway, seemingly unable to differentiate it from your own driveway.

Oh, so he's the one behind this is he? Listen, between you and me and the lamppost, I may have had a couple of glasses of chardonnay. And in case he blabbed about it, they never proved that I was the cause of that power outage. Besides, my brother-in-law said that as long as I dug only six to eight inches deep next to the underground electric power box I'd be fine.

Ms. S*****, I understand you were recently seen walking the streets with garish makeup and colored streaks in your hair--

I was playing beauty shop with my granddaughter. How was I to know  she was using semi-permanent--

What is this called?

A pencil, looks like a number two. Say, you're rather tense, Doc. And I notice that you bite your fingernails and grind your teeth. So do I. You know,--

My personal habits are not of relevance--

Bet you've got tinnitus, too.

What is this called?

You asked me that one already, remember Doc? It's a pencil. Oops, you broke it. Holding it a bit tightly I suspect--

Please spell the word 'world' backwards.

D-L-R-O-W. Say, are you getting sufficient sleep? You look a little tired. It could be one of the central causes of your nervousness. Now, I know in my case--

Ms. S*****, thank you. This examination is over. You may go.

Thanks, Doc. Have a nice day!

News from Beyonder

I stop in occasionally at the local Shell station, where a tall, lean fellow with carrot-colored hair waits on me. He's an engaging young man, probably around 18 or 19 years old. One day I find him reading aloud from a local rural newspaper. It's a brand new publication, which is actually a consolidation of four rural area newspapers, kind of like a Reader's Digest of small-town papers. 

"...he was held on $150,000 bond… ," I hear the young man say before he happens to take notice of me. "Oh, sorry," he says, "but this is the most fascinating thing I've read all week." He pushes the paper aside and waits on me. I glimpse the name of the paper, "The ?? Review." It costs 75 cents, and I add a copy to my tab. I take it home and my husband and I are immediately hooked and are considering a subscription, lest we miss something when we are away.

It has the usual classified ads, updates on local student/athletes who're doing well in school. You know those, "Those on the Chancellor's List"-type articles, but also more enticing ones like, "LRA Approves Land for Marijuana Use," "Who is the Mystery Girl in this 1950 Photograph?" or an article about the local county jail with a pregnant inmate and no means to care for her. Oh, and my personal favorite, "Courthouse News," where I can see which of my neighbors has been fined or arrested lately, and more importantly, why?.

A recent article I enjoyed: "Village of ??-ville Gets Sticker Shock from Sidewalk Replacement Bids." The article gave the minutes of the town's village board meeting, which included their debacle over the sidewalk replacement which had to be "shelved." But, I especially enjoyed the part about 'the business from the floor.' The accounting went something like this:

"The board recognizes Ms. Connie Sternation." 

"Yes, thank you. I was wondering why the village does not currently recycle?"

Village vice-president: "Ah well, yuh see, honey, we looked into that, yuh know. We talked about it once and we figured it would cost the residents 2 bucks more per water bill. We decided it waddn't worth it. All's we could afford at the time was a dumpster and we figured ever'body and their uncle would be stoppin' by to dump off their junk and just leave..."

Ms. Sternation: "Yes, but with all due respect, all of the surrounding towns currently recycle. I feel it would be a beneficent endeavor for our town. We should be looking to the future effects for our children and for our children's children." 

Town V.P.: "Well, sugar, yuh see, we already got the seniors collectin' pop cans and cardboard and such… "

Ms. Sternation: "Sir, there is more to recycling than aluminum and paper. The company I work for recycles everything, including plastic, glass, metals and electronics. Why did you know that plastic and styrofoam can last anywhere from 50 to upwards of 350 years in a landfill? It certainly seems to me that two dollars per water bill is a pittance when we consider the impact on our environment..."

Town V.P.: "Sweetie, we got people on fixed incomes here in town…" 

Ms. Sternation: "Would it help if I were to initiate a petition?"

Town V.P.: "Okay Toots, I'll tell you what, we'll put it on the agenda for next month. We'll see how you do."

***

I've learned to keep my mouth shut suggestions to myself here in Privatopia. If you make a suggestion to our board you will either a) be shot down faster than a beer chaser after a shot of whiskey, or b) find it approved quicker than you thought possible and guess who's now in charge of overseeing and implementing it? You, who suggested it, of course.

"She," a member of our Privatopia board of directors, and I were driving to the women's weekly bowling league.

She had been droning on about outlining the varied topics being proposed by our sagacious board members. This is the perfect time to ask, I thought.

She, do you think the board would consider allowing homeowners from Privatopia to have small chicken coops on their property?"

Now, I already happen to know from bowling that She has what poker players call a tell. A "tell" is a subtle change in her demeanor indicating she is troubled or overly-happy.  Like, when She isn't happy with the current situation at bowling, like oh, I don't know, like her teammate just missed picking up an important spare, She has this subtle tell: her voice goes up a full octave and a few decibels, She frowns and begins to gesture in a jerky manner. Or conversely, when She is doing well, her voice goes up a full octave and several decibels, She beams and begins to gesture in a jerky manner, "Turkey! Turkey here! Gotta turkey goin' here!"

So I notice her tell when She tightens her grip on the steering wheel (while driving on an unmarked, chip and seal, curving, undulating country road), her voice rises and becomes louder, "Whadaya nuts?!," her eyes now are off the road and narrowly focussed on me, "The community is already having problems with the waste produced by the hundreds of thousands of animals from the surrounding farms out here!"

At that moment an old, gray-muzzled, broken-eared German Shepherd from a local farm wanders onto the center of road in front of us and stops. I shout mention, "Um, you do see the dog in the middle of the road, right?"

She hits the brakes and swerves, then regains control of the car. Back again with her poker face and staring straight ahead, She replies, "Yes, I saw the dog." Followed by, "And you can forget about those chickens."