A is for Apple

As American as apple pie! Since the sole apple native to the Americas is the crab apple, it is a mystery why an apple pie received this appellation. Stranger still may be including a maternal parent in the adage. As American as Mom and apple pie suggests that mom may just be a little ‘crabby’. Mmmm! Let her be crabby as long as she keeps churning out the pies. There appears to be no end to the variety of apples at a time when other food are tending to monocultures, so Johnny Appleseed would be proud of the way we have continued his life’s labour. Meanwhile how about a dish of applesauce?

Apples                 About 2 pounds (usually 5/6 apples) peeled, cored and sliced ¼ “thick, Pick them according to your own taste sweet or sour, but use crisper ones - Granny Smiths are my choice.
Water                   ¼ cup boiling (no instructions for this one).
Cinnamon            1/8 teaspoon ground.
Cloves                  1/8 teaspoon ground
Sugar                   1/2 cup granulated.

Over medium high heat, heat the first 4 items to boiling, cover, reduce heat and simmer 10/12 minutes until tender for chunky applesauce. For smoother sauce break up slices with wooden spoon and cook for additional 5/6 minutes until of desired consistency. Either way, add and stir in the sugar for the last 3 to 4 minutes of cooking time. As a bonus treat for the grownups pour in a ¼ cup of Grand Marnier or orange liqueur along with the sugar.

Squirrel Saga – Part Four

So for the first couple of days again nothing happened even though I’m continually checking the trap and the environs. Then, at long last, I began to notice a furry head poking around the corner of the block wall once again. Gingerly making his way along the stucco Mr. Sticky Toes slowly manoeuvred closer to the aroma cloud hovering above the trap, but held back either through judicious, intelligent, decision making or just sensing my presence peeking out from behind the drapes. However, the next morning the opportunity to almost have breakfast in bed, so as to speak, proved too much of an enticement and my attic dwelling pest went for the bait with the door clacking down behind him in a flash. And this time, there was no simple escape. The door held, the bars did not bend, the structure remained intact. Success! Quickly, I’m on the phone to notify the manager of the capture, so they can pick him up and take him on his merry way. Alas, there was no answer, so I trundled down to the manager’s suite to inform them in person and there appeared to be nobody home, as there was no response to the little knocker mechanism on the door. You wouldn’t think a critter that small could maintain such a racket for long, but three hours later the shrill squeaks and hissing were still emanating from the cage. And the incensed inmate managed to move the cage all around the deck with the boisterous and angered movements. Since I tend to sit close to the sliding doors, this racket got to be extremely annoying in short order and my pleas to be quiet fell on deaf ears. Finally tiring of the noise, I carefully pushed an unbent coat hanger through the bars to pick up the trap (the small carrying handle on the trap seemed easily reachable by the nasty claws) for immediate transport elsewhere. Deciding it was not my job to relocate the ticked off squirrel, I opted to place him in one of the stairwells where he would be out of the way for the time being. Because there is an elevator in the building the stairs are rarely used and I thought my captured villain would not pose a problem. Of course, later a couple of people related to me that they had decided to walk up the stairs, but were deterred by the shrieking they heard coming from the third floor. The following morning, the manager informed me of their discovery of the imprisoned squirrel and the subsequent release of said prisoner at the nearby golf course.
Now it was my chance to sit back and enjoy the quiet. After two weeks with nary a sound spoiling my bliss from above, I logically assumed all the problems had been transported away never to return. Not only had the pesky little beast not been able to stumble on the reverse route back to his attic dwelling, but no other homeless squirrel had managed to locate the vacant digs. So in my elation I put all the follow up procedures on hold – like finding the entrance and sealing it off for ever – and ignored the proper path, trusting nothing would again spoil the peace and quiet. Until a day about three months later when I thought I heard a scratching up in the rafters!
TBC

Cars from Mars

After years of watching sci-fi programs from the Twilight Zone to the X-files, I had assumed alien visits were basically clandestine except for the UFO sightings over mountainous and desert areas. Typically, they landed in farmer’s fields to mutilate domestic cows and wildlife or in remote forest clearings to sweep up unsuspecting earthlings for dissection and experimentation. Imagine my shock when I discovered they had started up their own used car lot in British Columbia. Are economic conditions that tough on our sister planet or is their answer to global warming on Mars to ship broken down gas guzzlers off world? Difficult to report on the employees – afraid to get to close in case it is merely a deceptive front for kidnapping unwary humans – they did appear uncomfortable in suits and soup stained ties; however, having to squeeze their bulbous skulls down to homo sapiens size could account for the misshapen appearance and odd manners. Most of the vehicles on display are carbon copies (intellectual theft?) of earth model cars – did not spot any Ladas or Yugos – although they are rather beat up from the dirt roads and potholes on Mars. Of course, it has forced me to alter my opinion of the drivers in this city. While I always considered a lot of them to be lousy behind the wheel and had suspicions of how they had managed to score a license, I imagine having to adjust to operating a ‘foreign’ automobile causes unintended problems. Pardon me as I rush out to locate an alien second hand clothing store to get me a nice red sweater with three sleeves and a double v-neck.

No Longer Lost About Lost

When Lost premiered I managed to watch for a grand total of fifteen minutes before my attention span wandered so I’ve been absolutely blank about any of the buzz or let downs associated with the show. After perusing the television listing for last evening, I decided to record the ‘Past, Present’ segment and the season premiere for later viewing. It was exceedingly brilliant to encapsulate three seasons into basically a 45 minute synopsis and discover I’m right up-to-date. Also, this way I’ve not wasted any time or energy in identifying with the cast or their problems, on or off the boob tube. This year’s premiere definitely caught my interest. Now, do I wait three years for another ¾ hour catch-up episode or record the program and wade through it sans ads?

Where is My….?

Poking at the brain to reveal old memories dates back at least to the Penfield era, I suppose what is novel is stimulating an area which was not thought to contain this type of data and can be implanted with permanent electrodes. While the procedure may well turn out to have major success in halting some malfunctions or even reversing losses of ones personal history, I’ve wondered about the other side of the coin. Joyous recollections of your 6th birthday, Aunt Maude hilariously garbed in her Halloween costume 5 years ago and reminisces of the last tropical vacation would certainly be worth remembering and maintaining. Might there be a few darker tidbits lodged deep within the cranial crevasses? Once the wires are implanted, I imagine there would be periodic pulses to keep the system firing much like a pacemaker, but how does one control the data stream? Privately divulging inner thoughts to a medical team is one thing, revealing your history of sexual proclivities at the next church meeting is another. Before installation the medical community may have to devise a quick kill switch to abort sudden outputs of those embarrassing or repressed memories.
And then, from a news story on the same web page about Tasers, I realized this could be a boon to police departments. After the current string of incidents involving the use of these pacifiers in North America lately, I can foresee the next statement from a police spokesperson. “I can assure the public that the members involved, in tasering the subject in question three times, were merely trying to aid the memory deficient gentleman in locating his vehicle in the parking lot.”

Zip-Line Mania

Probably the best extra sideline trip of the Puerto Vallarta vacation was the ‘Outdoor Adventure’ tour which is conducted by the Vallarta Adventures Company. We were already interested in doing the canopy zip-line trip, but after I read about the upgrade, we decided it might be too interesting to pass up and booked it for ourselves through our flight travel guide. Basically, the adventure begins with a 20 minute (longer from hotels not in the south zone) open boat ride south along the Pacific coast to a small village – Boca de Tomatlan – where you transfer to a large 4x4 vehicle (intriguingly named a Unimog) which jolts you up a bumpy road for 15 minutes to their property in the Sierra Madre mountains where the actual adventure starts out. Once they have you donned out with the climbing harness, helmet, heavy leather gloves and have issued a number of cautions, safety procedures and general instructions, it is time to mosey over to the mule corral. Except for the longish ears, a mule is pretty much the same as a horse: swing up into the saddle from the left, pull reins left to go left, right to head in that direction, heels sharply into the stomach area to get moving or speed up, back lightly on the reins to stop and a hard tug to back up. Once aboard, I presumed it would be much the same as a guided horse ride with the steed following the well marked trail without wavering. Surprisingly, the mules respond well to the commands and reins, moving according to the rider’s instructions all the way up to the dismounting area. Then, it is about a 200 foot climb to the first zip-line – one of about eight – which are not overly steep and each with a flat out run at the bottom towards the platforms. Double rigging and an online braking system provide excellent safety features. If you are so inclined, there is plenty of opportunity to look around on the descents to gaze at the jungle, mostly trees, the river and a waterfall. There is one 50 foot vertical rappelling section down a waterfall where I discovered the safety line cinches quickly if your downward travel exceeds their speed allowance even if you are in complete control. Still, it was fun to do this particular item as you ended up thigh deep in cold water at the base of the falls. One of the shorter zip-lines was designed simply to allow you a fast run down for a major splash ending into a deep pool of very cold water. Unfortunately, most of the others on this trip, despite much cajoling and encouragement from the guides to keep their legs up to cause a big splashdown, tried desperately to land standing up rather than taking the plunge and ended up just as wet. Included on the way down were a crossing on a two line commando bridge about twenty feet long and a v-cable bridge of similar length over the stream. The balance of the walk back involved sloshing through the stream three or for times until we reached the jump off centre once again. While we did not mind tipping the Mexican guides, who were quite the jokers during the trip (not the photographer), the asking prices for the pictures was both astronomical and almost scandalous. A single photo cost $17 and for the whole set, of maybe twenty, $150 – an extreme price considering the cost of the outing was only $75 per person (down from the online and brochure price of $95.) which we felt was an exceptional deal. We did purchase a slightly overpriced mug with a rappelling theme on the front as a memento; since there was no way we would buy the pictures, plus which we agreed they had turned out poorly anyway and had only a couple with recognizable faces. And then, it was back into the Unimog for the trip straight back to our hotel. Definitely an adventure tour I would recommend to anybody and an enjoyable – really thrilling for many – way to spend six hours.

Immortal Concrete

Probably not a square block of any town or city is spared the ignominious attack of the sidewalk graffiti impressionists. Lurking in the shadows, they await silently the opportune moment to glide in and deface the newly brushed face of the virgin concrete before it has time to cure and harden to its impervious state. Unable to defend itself against the onslaught of poking fingers, wet palms and smelly shoes, the freshly poured cement walkways immediately bear the inset scars which will last their lifetime. For some people, it appears to be a way of leaving their mark on the world; maybe the only way they know how or are able. But even if noticed, how many passer-bys would bother to consider who R.L. or Mary or the ‘Prince of Main Street’ were or still are or even care? Does anyone actually return and gaze lovingly at their ‘masterpiece’ or is forgotten before the indent is even cured? Hardly inspiring to bring the kids or grandchildren for a family viewing decades later to point out how to waste time and reveal your total absence of talent. More inane are the losers who force their dog to imprint its paws. Easy to tell as the prints are located side by side in a quite unnatural position for a canine. Of course, it may explain the sight of someone having a long, intimate conversation with their pet stopped on the sidewalk pointing down (unless they are attempting to have the dog pick up its own doo-doo in the waste bag) explaining whose little wee paws adorn the walkway. However, the though occurred to purchase a concrete saw, sneak about after midnight cutting out the designs and putting them up foe auction on E-Bay!