Posts Tagged With: apocalyptic thriller

Paul’s K-IT-CHEN

Gentle Readers,

Today’s blog is short and sweet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chef Paul De Lancey

 

 

(Please click on my name and submit scruff questions to my Facebook page and simply make a comment to this post. I look
forward to hearing from you.)

 

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with 180 wonderful recipes is available on amazon.com. My newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, is also available on amazon.com

 

 

 

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Descruffifying a Runway Model – Day Two

Gentle readers,

Horrors. My magnificent scruff is slowing disappearing. The natives have spoken against. Millions of adoring fan are in shock. My modeling agency loved the scruffy look. They pleaded with me. They threatened to fire me. But I am a supermodel. I am invulnerable to such threats. Who else is as handsome? Who else can walk down the runway with such style?

However, I feel your pain; I am descruffifying with admirable slowness. Today, I removed only the bottom half of the hair remaining under my lip from yesterday. And so it go one for future days. I will hang on the my scruff with the tenacity of a man fighting a bear for his life.

Do not worry, my friends, facial hair or no facial hair, I will still be a supermodel.

 

Full scruff                                       Descruffification – Day One                          Descruffification – Day Two

 

Supermodel Paul De Lancey

 

(Please click on my name and submit scruff questions to my Facebook page and simply make a comment to this post. I look
forward to hearing from you.)

 

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with 180 wonderful recipes is available on amazon.com. My newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, is also available on amazon.com

Categories: supermodel | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Descruffifying a Runway Model – Day One

Gentle readers,

The razor is dead! Long live the razor! I ordered a new razor. In the meantime, I had let my face get scruffy. One of the homesteaders tolerated my scruffiness as long as I didn’t have a razor. The razor, it arrived. The homesteader pooh poohed the idea of any current razor working. Alas, I chose my razor too well. It works. The homesteader, then wanted me to shave off all my scruff.

But I had in the meantime published the photo of me in my full, glorious scruffiness. Adoring fans pleaded for me to keep the scruff. My modeling agency liked the new look. They loved the new contracts it would bring in. However, all these people are far, the homesteader is near. I had a problem. What to do?

I shall descruffify in steps. Today, I shaved the cheeks and the chin. I now sport a rather snappy fu Manchu. Tomorrow, a little bit more will disappear. It’s a bit like inoculating oneself against the plague, a horrible future surely. However, if your body is prepared for such an event, you can proceed with you life. In the same way, we will be able to go on when you have to live our lives without my scruff.

Courage, my friends, we will get through this trying time together. I will still be a supermodel.

 

 

Right: Day 1 of descruffication.
(Taken by me. This is why the agency has a photographer.)

 

 

Left: Full scruff
(Taken by agency’s photographer)

 

Supermodel Paul De Lancey

 

(Please click on my name and submit Bad Advice questions to my Facebook page and simply make a comment to this post. I look
forward to hearing from you.)

 

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with 180 wonderful recipes is available on amazon.com. My newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, is also available on amazon.com

Categories: humor, Paul De Lancey | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The Wonder Dog

This story was based on two sources. First, my dad who served his country in World War II  did his basic training in Louisiana, He said soldiers would throw snowballs at the platoon ahead of them as they marched off to the mess hall. He must have told me this story when I was quite young as snowballs during a Louisianan summer didn’t bother me. Or perhaps I misremembered  the story. Second, someone, decades ago, told me how a resourceful officer came across some abandoned hot dogs in a shed food and in a moment of admirable economy served the dodgy franks to the men on the base. The rest of the story is my imagination.

* * * * * * * * * *

We won the war. We brought the Nazis to their knees, not some namby-pamby foot soldier who probably counted dodging Spam thrown in the mess halls as combat experience. Yes sir, it was me and the airmen of Okeechobee. Young man, I’m gonna tell you our story.

Okeechobee, Florida then was only known for its millions of bugs; huge bugs the size of baseballs. But it was there, in 1944, that the Army set up the 800th Bomber Group, captained by Henry Pizarro.

Well, we were out in the middle of nowhere in a state often forgotten by the rest of the Union. Supplies never did get to us in a regular manner. Sometimes we’d go weeks without any supplies. Sometimes, we got a lot of stuff we didn’t really need. One week they sent us one million scarves, and 22,187 bird feeders stamped “U.S. Army bird feeder, Red-Headed Woodpecker Only.” Antonio Cedeno, Army Head Scratcher First Class, scratched his head and said, “That’s army for you.” Oh, we also received eight hundred tons of papayas. It seemed that although our nation’s scientists were still failing with the general concept of refrigeration, they had miraculously found a way to refrigerate papayas several months ago.

Well, around August, we had run out of all food but papayas for two months, and no one wanted to eat bugs. Hell, the bugs had been biting us so much that some of us figured we’d be cannibals if we’d eat them. So, we approached Lieutenant Kelso, who was in charge of food supplies. Kelso said that he was mighty sick of papaya soup and papaya burgers. He said he’d raise heaven and earth to find some new food.

The next day we heard a terrible ruckus all around us. Every flea-bitten mutt in the flea-bitten state of Florida was barking, yelping, yipping, and scratching his balls. Sergeant Niekro went out to investigate. Apparently, Kelso planned to use these dogs to sniff up some food for us.

Well, I decided to follow the dogs. They headed away from the mess hall as even dogs get tired of papaya biscuits. Those mutts made a bee line toward the swamp where bugs felt particularly secure and ornery. Way in the distance I could make out that huge ominous, gray, metallic building so forbidding that even the chaplain called it “the Hut of Hell.” The Hut of Hell housed our chemical supplies, used oil drums, and various pleasant poisons.

Those dogs just ran to the Hut and barked something fierce. Kelso, opened the door and immediately the dogs keeled over in agony. Kelso doubled over and proceeded to vomit big yellow chunks of papaya loaf. Sure, it was up to me, Robert Carbo, the man with the big sniffer. I dodged a stream of papaya spew from Kelso and went inside.

As God is my witness, I have never seen so many hot dogs in my life. These hot dogs were arranged in huge columns. Each column was twelve feet long by ten feet wide and stretched at least fifty feet up to the ceiling. There were thousands of these majestic columns.

Well, perhaps not majestic, more like tons of decaying, larva infested, grayish-green beef shapes. How long had they been sitting in that metal building in Florida’s fine, humid, 120-degree weather? However, stench worse than Private Aparicio’s pits after a twenty-mile hike, prompted to me continue this thought outside. I wrenched my boots free from some hot-dog ooze and bolted outside.

I carried Kelso all the way back to the infirmary. Unfortunately, our doctor was away in Miami picking up popsicle sticks off the sidewalks as we had run through our last shipments of tongue depressors. Corporal Johnny Conigliaro, a quack in civilian life, prescribed a dose of deadly nightshade, a rather poisonous, purplish flower. Kelso nearly died from this treatment but did not complain, saying, “It’s worth risking death to eat something that’s not yellowish orange.”

A week later Captain Pizarro, arose from his desk and put on his papaya-woven flak jacket and walked to the mess tent. The cook had outdone himself with a gourmet feast. We started off with a snappy papaya fondue and a Waldorf salad where the apples, celery, walnuts, and mayonnaise were substituted with papaya, papaya, papaya, and papaya sauce. For the main course he regaled us with a choice of: barbecued papaya sandwiches on papaya bread with a papaya sauce or chicken cordon bleu, where instead of chicken, ham, gruyere cheese, breading, and butter, he substituted papaya, papaya, curdled papaya juice, papaya crumbs, and melted papaya. For dessert we could choose either the papaya balls or the papaya flavored ice cream made with creamed papaya instead of cream. We washed down this feast with good ol’ papaya juice.

Captain Pizarro surveyed the yellow-orange expanse and announced that we were going to eat those hot dogs or die. Pale-faced Lieutenant Kelso staggered to his feet to voice his support before pitching forward into a huge bowl of papaya-bisque soup. Corporal Conigliaro timidly suggested that eating rotting hot dogs might kill us, or worse, give us diarrhea. Sergeant Gagliano put both of his powerful hands on Conigliaro and volunteered the Corporal for the honor of tasting the hot dogs.

Conigliaro said that although he was aware of the immense honor, he was reasonably sure that army regs stated that a certified medical doctor had to test all suspect foods. He was only an unregistered quack and so, respectfully declined.

It appeared that some stupid health regulation written by some desk-bound, pencil pusher in the Pentagon was going to deny us this wondrous, alternate source of food. However, our Sarge immediately volunteered Private Romero, a veterinarian, to taste the frankfurters.

Bilko accepted the assignment but said that he was such a good vet that he could determine the quality of the franks just by looking at them. He headed straight to the Hut of Hell, stopping only at the infirmary to put on a gas mask. Moments later he returned, ashen and trembling, stating that they were safe to eat. Though I did hear him mumble as he headed back to his tent hot dogs should not display internal movement. The other airmen just heard our cook announce hot dogs for tomorrow’s lunch.

Around eleven o’clock cookie started boiling the franks. Fortunately, a strong wind from the south blew the fumes away from the camp toward the town of Lake Harbor. About that time in an unrelated incident, Bert Taylor, a tea tester from that town, suddenly pulled his own head off and died.

We all lined up at the mess tent to eat our hot dogs in shifts of one hundred which was also the number of gas masks on hand. Well, the first shift manfully ate their hot dogs and immediately fell to the floor suffering from violent convulsions. Then Private Owchinko’s stomach burst open flinging his guts all over the mess hall. Soon, everyone’s guts erupted just like cooking popcorn. Owchinko turned his hideously contorted face toward me and said, “Dang, at least it wasn’t papaya.” He then died with a look of complete serenity on his face; well, at least as serene as one could get with an exploded stomach.

We carried the men outside and buried them properly. We put on all their tombstones, “He wouldn’t eat papaya.” Since bullets were scarce at our base, we gave our departed comrades ten hot-dog salutes. Most of these franks exploded in air giving off the same noise as rifle shots. However, some didn’t explode until they hit the ground. One hot dog, in particular, landed on a latrine and exploded, scattering its contents for hundreds of yards. Private Franco noted that the smells of the latrine improved the smell of the hot dog. However, Captain Pizarro displayed true genius when he stated these franks could be terrible weapons of war.

We drifted along in papaya hell until we received orders to fly over to Europe. The Germans had just broken through our lines in a massive offensive now known as the Battle of the Bulge. Disaster loomed and every airman was needed. We armed our bombers with our hot dogs, which now had been rotting for an additional four months in the hot, humid Hut of Hell.

Our 800th Bomber Group arrived just as the Germans seemed poised to overrun the heroic defenders of Bastogne. None of our infantry or armored divisions could get to them in time. None of the other bomber groups could get off the ground due to bad weather. However, we could and we did.

We bombed the hell out of those Nazis. A Tiger tank can take a direct hit from a Sherman tank just twenty yards away and drive away only mildly annoyed, but just one hit from our franks just ripped those tanks to bits. Down they fell, ton after ton of freedom franks. The foul, poisonous vapors from the exploding dogs suffocated the supporting German infantry. Our hot dogs created a huge hole in the German lines into which poured General Patton’s troops. Patton, that glory hog, claimed full credit for the American victory at Bastogne.

However, we knew better and so did many others. In fact, Winston Churchill, Prime Minister of Great Britain praised us saying, “This was their finest meat product.”

Doctor Paul De Lancey

(Please click on my name and submit Bad Advice questions to my Facebook page and simply make a comment to this post. I look
forward to hearing from you.)

 

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with 180 wonderful recipes is available on amazon.com. My newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, is also available on amazon.com

Categories: history | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Looking for Toilets, My Travels Through Europe: Venice

VENICE

Doge’s Palace has a public toilet.

See Venice while you can for many parts of it are sinking into the sea. It’s kinda like California slipping into the ocean at the rate of a half inch a year. But there are differences as well.

California has earthquakes, fires, has water shortages, is a hot bed of information technology, has a huge agricultural sector, gives free water at restaurants (if you ask for it) and lets you use restrooms at all sorts of places such as restaurants, supermarkets, and just about any sort of business where the public comes in.

Venice has no shortage of water. It’s everywhere sometimes it floods the main square that tourists infest, which is exciting if you’re wearing designer shoes.

Venice was founded in the fifth century when Attila the Hun was rampaging through Italy, sacking cities, slaughtering the populace, destroying the Roman Empire, and otherwise being rather unpleasant. Anyway, the citizens of Aquileia, a thriving city, saw no future in being massacred and high tailed to the nearby swamp. They reckoned the Huns, a tribe that grew up in east-central Europe, wouldn’t want to slog through the swamp just to extinguish a bunch a people whom they had no real quarrel with. The Aquileians were right and before you knew it, they were sinking pillars in the marsh to provide support for the buildings they were going to put up.

These swamp people called their new city, Venice after Venn diagrams, they were astoundingly into the theory of logic, and ice, a rare commodity in a Mediterranean* seaport in the Dark Ages. Anyway, the Venetians minded their own business for centuries. In disgraceful contrast, the other nations and city states, generally went around for centuries impaling each other with lances and other weapons.

All of a sudden a Venetian woke up and decide to make galleys. These were ships powered by men using oars. Think of fishing in a tiny lake. You used a rowboat. Only the Venetians galley were huge multi-decked rowboats requiring hundreds of oarsmen. Just as you want to protect your fishing spot and perhaps wanted the lake to yourself, the Venetians wanted the Mediterranean to themselves and used their galleys to sink the other nations ships.

However, instead of catching fish, the Venetians transported spices from the Middle East to the rest of Europe. The Europe of the Middle Ages and Renaissance had really no refrigerators to speak of. Thus, their food other rotted and stank, more than lutefisk even. So, the Middle Age diners really appreciated a good spice to cover up the bad food. And so the Venetians thrived.

Until suddenly, the Ottoman Empire conquered the Near East and shut off access to the spices. Moreover, Western Europe developed large sailing vessels that could whoop the pants off the Venetian galleys in combat and could travel long distances across the open sea. Venice went into a centuries long decline. You would have thought they could have used that declining time to come up with anything, like reclining chairs and public restrooms, but no.

Venice lost its independence to Austria in 1806. However, the conquered city still had lots and lots of pasta and fish. This made going to restaurants lots of fun. About this time, Signor Scampi added chairs to his pizzeria. What a great idea. People loved being able to seat down for supper. More and more chefs provided chairs for their customers. The trend toward chairs in Venetian restaurants continues to this very day.

Venice was a republic of sorts, although if you didn’t like the current governor–doges they called them–you were denounced, tried, convicted, and imprisoned or executed in one day. Movers and shakers you bet. People were so afraid of appearing unhappy, that they sported smiles all day long. Hence, the expression, “As smiley as a Venetian.”

My family and I as we got off the water taxi that took us from the port to St. Mark’s square. We headed to our first event, a gondola ride. We took our time, enjoying the architecture. Inevitably with a family of four, some of us had to pee. Where were the public toilets? Where was Waldo? Where was Ameila Earhardt? Actually, we found Ms. Amelia, but the need for the toilets remained unabated. Indeed the pressure mounted. We did find a fancy hotel near the gondola ride. After making our donations, we went outside to find the place where we would show our vouchers. According to the maps, the gondola extravaganza was supposed to be only ten yards away.

As the crow flies. As the drunken crow flies. We crossed a bridge and went to the gondola kiosk. The sphinxes periodically manning the booth ignored us. We recrossed the bridge in search of a caring employee. Nothing. We crossed back to the booth. Nothing. We ended up going over that bridge six times before we found an employee who put a round orange sticker on our shirts. We were good to go.

We got in line. We had a good position even though the gondola guys had sold hundreds of tickets for our time slot. Actually this wasn’t true due to a cultural misunderstanding. In America, people generally stand behind the last person in line. In Venice and in the airport coming back, standing in line meant standing to the side of people in line, generally near the front. Soon a vast semi-circle sea of people stood around the gondolas pressing ever forward as if  trying to get into a Who concert.

Eventually we got on a gondola and began our bumper-to-bumper (prow-to-bow on a gondola?) tour of the back canals of Venice. Many power boats made deliveries on alcohol to the back entrances of various bars. Cool, actually.

After the ride, I had the clever idea of finding where our evening Vivaldi concert would be. Although the venue had St. Mark’s as part of its address, our consensus was to use GPS. GPS resolutely marched us to and around tiny alleys away from St. Marks. We came to an epiphany; GPS sucks in narrow alleys.

We did find a small pizzeria where authentic Chinese waitresses provided efficient and cheerful service. This restaurant might have had a restroom. We’ll never know. None of us felt brave enough to pass a shrieking toddler to look. Oh how, weak and naive we were.

But we were smart and experienced enough now to head back to St. Mark’s Square to find Saint Mark’s Cathedral. (By the way, twenty-four years earlier I had the good fortune to visit this square during the Carnival season. I saw many wonderful acts, many in Italian and some in English. I also did the Hokey Pokey with a bunch of Americans. My contribution was, “You put your left ear in. You put your left ear out…)

Anyway the biggest tourist attraction in Venice is St. Mark’s Cathedral, named after St. Mark. My family went there for a full mass on Saturday evening. Mass was in Italian, but the choir was from Britain and sang in English, which was cool. But no restroom. During mass, touring around the cathedral is forbidden. So is flash photography, at least in theory. Sitting is forbidden during the tourist hours. So, you can’t sit in a pew and look at spectacular mosaic in the ceiling. And there’s no public restroom inside.

After mass, we went outside to find our concert. My gosh, it was literally twenty yards away. There was a big sign saying, “Vivaldi Concert tonight.” Fuck you, GPS.

The concert was fantastic. We were in the second row, only fifteen feet away from the musicians. The concert hall had seats for only about forty people. The energy and the skill of the musicians, well oh my gosh they were great. And they played Vivaldi’s the Four Seasons, one of my favorites. (I had listened to Vivaldi’s Two Seasons a couple decades earlier from a slow-arriving herd of Parisian violinists. No comparison, these Venetian folks were the real McCoys.)

And the concert venue had a public toilet. Sure I had to clamber up a two-foot high step, but I had been toughened, and so it proved no obstacle at all.)

A great concert, two public toilet, and mass at one of the most famous cathedrals in the world, the day had been good.

Next day we stampeded the doge’s palace in St. Mark’s square. The doges had  lived there. It’s also where the nobility conducted the affairs of state. Venice was by the standards of its times, a rabid democracy. At first, nearly all the men could vote. Then sometime during the Middle Ages, the nobility in an admirable display of voter suppression struck all but a few thousand men from the voting rolls. The criminal justice system occurred in this building as well. With a strong Protestant work ethic, this Catholic government (the Reformation wouldn’t occur for centuries) heard, convicted, and sentenced people with assembly line efficiency.

Which they needed to do as they apparently had and still have, thank goodness, one public restroom. Would you want to spend hours uncovering quilt when you needed to pee. How did I know of this restroom? Twenty-four years earlier, I had toured the doge’s palace with a reasonably empty bladder. Only after leaving the palace did I look at my tour guide. It said, “Don’t forget to visit the public restroom at the palace. People restrooms are scarcer than hens’ teeth in St. Mark’s Square.” The tour book was right. A few hours later, I found myself wandering the Square saying, “A toilet! My American ExpressTM travellers checks for a toilet.” So this time I was able to comfortably whiz away while surrounded by centuries of history.

We then took our self-guided tour of St. Mark’s Cathedral. For love of God, Montressor, book your tickets in advance. Plate tectonics moves faster than lines at the Cathedral’s kiosks. The cathedral was as beautiful as it had been the previous day.

Our ticket to the doge palace gave our free entry to the city’s art museum. Let me tell you the energy spent railroading enemies of the state to their death did not diminish in the slightest the output of the land’s magnificent artists. Lots of busts of Napoleon, which was exciting for me as I am a direct descendant of his and it was nice to speculate how all this art and city could have been mine if only he had won the Battle of Waterloo.

Then tragedy struck. The men’s bathroom in the museum was, was . . . oh the humanity, was blocked of for cleaning. Well fuck. So we went outside to look for a public bathroom. We saw a sign for one. We did! We did!

We didn’t find it. We looked for hours. In desperation, we went into a restaurant. Number Two Son approached the proprietor*. The conversation remains burned in my brain.

“Do you have a restroom?” asked Number Two Son.

“Yes,” said the evil proprietor.

“May we use it?”

“No.”

“How about if we eat dinner here?”

“No.”

So we head back to the water-taxis with my bladder full as Boulder Dam after a rainy season. And there it was, Harry’s Bar! My gosh, the famous Harry’s Bar. Ernest Hemingway, Winston Churchill, Orson Welles, Aristotle Onassis, and other luminaries used to get drunk here and it was quite all right. And carpaccio was invented here. Contessa Amalia Nania Mocenigo was told that for her health she had to give up cooked meat. The clever bar owner sliced sirloin steak as thin as possible drizzled a sauce made of mayonnaise, dry mustard, Worcestershire sauce, lemon juice, olive oil, and a soupçon of milk. A place fit for an exclamation point!

I went in to whizz. I asked to use the restroom. They answered politely and pointed the way. I expressed my gratitude after I came out. I said how excited I was to be at Harry’s Bar. They smiled and thanked me. We went back to our ship. A palace, an art museum, culinary history, and two public restrooms. Life was good.

* = Mediterranean is hard to spell. So is proprietor.

Paul De Lancey, Intrepid Explorer

 

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with 180 wonderful recipes is available on amazon.com. My newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, is also available on amazon.com

Categories: history, international | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Bad Advice Friday, 5-12-17

Oh my gosh. It’s Friday already. Did you know there’s one every week? So, I shall once more be dispensing bad advice As usual, the advice will stupendously bad.
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JW asks: Should I really call my mom, or get her a gift or card, or visit her, or any of those other mother’s day things?

Dear JW: I think you should give the Mothers’ Day of Benedict Cummerbund. He’s handsome as anything, he’s rich, he has a career, what more could mother want? Ask Benadryl Cuminpatch if he’d like to spend the rest of his life with Mom. You’ll have to ask Benpicked Cucumber nicely as he is, as indeed all celebrities, used to people gushing up to him. If a lifetime commitment is too much, would he be willing to do whatever Mom wanted for one day. Should he complain of lost income from his movies, you’ll just have to rob banks until you’ve accumulated $100 million. Oh, and a grilled cheese sandwich. Make sure the cheese is gruyère. Celebrities have expenses tastes. This will be a Mothers’ Day Mom will never forget.

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SL Red, purple, or green?

Dear SL: The White House has been that uninspired white ever since its construction. I applaud your desire to spiff up the world’s most recognized building, to give it some character, to have some fun. Since, the color of the Republican party is often thought to be red, it would good to paint the White House red. I strongly suggest using spray paint for the job as the Secret Service is not going to give you much time to do a professional job with a roller and a paint brush. Indeed, they apt to be rather cross with you while hauling you away to ask such questions such as, “How did you get over the fence and so close to the White House without being spotted?” You’ll be able to answer with, “Why I went to the nearest circus and bought a cannon from the Human Cannonball. I then shot myself and my paint.” Maybe that will impress them. It’s worth a shot. (See what I did there?)

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JCA asks: Mayo, or Miracle Whip? Not for food, but for bedroom fun. (Asking for a friend).

Dear JCA: My natural inclination as a chef is to suggest mayonnaise as it is a purer food and less likely to be a chemical sh*tstorm. Indeed, try to get mayonnaise with all natural ingredients. Let’s keep our planet green. However in this case, spreadability and lubrication will be prized more than it would be in making a tuna sandwich, I suggest the scientific method. Have two bedroom romps with each volunter. Ask them if they preferred the mayonnaise experience or the one with Miracle WhipTM. You might need hundreds of volunteer partners before you become quite confident in your results. Should you have a spouse who balks at your scientific zeal, you might need to present your sweetheart with a nice box of chocolates and some lovely flowers when asking their permission. Oh, and make sure you always use fresh mayonnaise and Cool Whip. You don’t want to get false responses from your volunteers because you used something rancid. Check those expiration dates.

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KGV states: Thanks for the reminder. Being retired, I easily forget which day of the week we are celebrating.

Dear KGV: It is easy to forget the day of the week, isn’t it? Buy yourself a $600 cell phone, one that shows the day of the week. You don’t have to use the phone for anything. If opening the cell phone just to find the day of the week seems a bit weird, hire a butler. The butler will follow you around and will be pleased to tell what day it is no how many times you ask.

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LF asks: Why do ticks tick?

Dear LF: Not all ticks tick, only the explosive ones. Explosiveness was a defensive trait evolved by ticks during the Cretaceous period. Ticks of that time were forever getting trampled underfoot by tyrannosaurus rexes hot on the pursuit of a brontosaurus burger. A tick scout would raise the alarm whenever a T-rex approached. The explosive ticks would rush the killer dinosaur and explode themselves. The explosion would kill the tyrannosaurus, but the rest of the tick colony would be saved. Sure it would take a lot of ticks to fell a mighty Rex, but holy moly, there are a boatload of ticks. There’s a practical use to this as well. North Korea has not acting at all neighborly lately. To help the world, get on the plane to North Korea with a carry-on bag full of explosive ticks. Don’t worry about TSA, the ticks aren’t metallic and aren’t even on any list of prohibited items. The North Koreans, being a wary sort, might ask you what’s in your bag. They might even open your bag and ask, “What are those ticks doing?” You should say, “I don’t know. Do ticks talk?” (See what I did there?) Then head to the nearest military installation, the one where you can do the most damage. Tell the ticks that those North Korean missiles or fighter planes are T-Rexes. The ticks will blow up the entire installation or base. Oh I forgot, the North Korea security is a distrustful lot. Try to blend in as you make your way through the countryside.

Doctor Paul De Lancey

(Please click on my name and submit Bad Advice questions to my Facebook page and simply make a comment to this post. I look
forward to hearing from you.)

 

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with 180 wonderful recipes is available on amazon.com. My newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, is also available on amazon.com

Categories: bad advice Friday | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Bad Advice Friday, 4-14-17

Today is once more Bad-Advice Friday. I shall be dispensing bad advice to all comers. The advice will stupendously bad.

PD asks: How do I get the cat to emulate a dog? He never meows anyway.

Dear PD: Male dogs like to lick their balls. Paint your cat’s nuts with liquid catnip. (The cat might resist for a bit.) Then feline instincts will take over and your cat will lick that catnip right off. Once the first step to dogdom is broken, adoption of other doggie traits will surely follow.

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LHH asks: When will my ship come in?

Dear LHH: Sad to say, you can’t count on a ship to dock at your town and have the captain come down the gangway and present you with the keys to the vessel. This is particularly so, if you live miles inland. Anyway, head to the port and buy the first cruise ship that takes your fancy. This will be your ship! Now mind you, cruise ships cost hundreds of millions, so saving is a must. You might find that you don’t have enough saved up. In this case, you’ll have to forgo such things as: lodging, clothes, and food. Indeed, you might to do without everything for decades, but don’t give up.. Stay true to your dream.

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ABG asks: What if I don’t want to get out of the pool?

Dear ABG: Who does? It takes a while to get used to the water and then it’s so cold when you get out. You need help. Simply hire a rodeo cowboy and a pilot with a helicopter. The cowboy lassoes you and the pilot ascends, lifting you out of the pool. You might even worry how the wind is blowing you repeatedly close to your house. But let’s not forget you’re out of the pool. Now it’s time for an after-pool cocktail.

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MA asks: Is there a way to find the Father of All Bombs?

Dear MA: Why yes, there is. First, go to your nearest air force base and ask to be let in. Ask politely or they won’t wave you through. Manners are always important. Should they ask why, tell the truth. You can’t imagine how many times spies, agent provocateurs (quite possibly spelled correctly), and terrorists lie to these guards. Your honesty will be just the fresh air needed to melt their suspicious hearts. Second, head to the shed where they keep the really big bombs. You are looking for the Father of All Big Bombs after all. Take that sledgehammer out of your vehicle and starting banging the heck of the bombs. (Note, while bombs are notoriously temperamental and apt to go off when hit by even the humble hammer, you can’t count on it. Do your research and find the bomb’s “E” spot, or “Explosive spot.) Anyway, hit those bombs as hard as you can with your sledgehammer. The bomb that flings your body the farthest will be the Father of All Bombs.

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PH asks: Mother a weed, father a weed … do you expect the daughter to be a saffron root?

Dear PH: No, no, you can’t, not even if you hire the finest genetic splicers. The best thing to do is glue saffron all over her. (Note, she might complain about that, particularly if she is a teenager.) Anyway, saffron is expensive, about $200 an ounce. Covering her all over with saffron might cost a half-million dollars. If you have that kind of money, your problem is solved. However, even if the most diligent searching for coins under the sofa cushions leaves you short, head to saffron-rich Tibet. Simply fly to India, hike across the Himalayan mountains, avoid the border guards, pick hundreds of pounds of saffron threads from the saffron flowers, carry your prize back across the Himalayas, and fly home.

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PH asks: If a man said to you, ‘A dog carried away your ear’ would you go after the dog or search first for your ear?

Dear PH: Oh my gosh, you’re told a dog carried away your ear and you want to waste precious time searching for it on your head? Do you wish to give the dog time to eat it, develop a taste for human flesh, and start a canine/culinary murder spree? Also, if you can retrieve that ear quickly you can get it sewn back own. Hurry, man, hurry. Chase after the nearest dog you see and pry open its mouth. Don’t let the fact that it’s a doberman or a pit bull scare you off. It’s your ear. If the dog happens not to have your ear in its mouth, apologize to its owner as manners are always important. Then take off after the next dog and so on. Good luck! I look forward to hearing from you.

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JW asks: Why?

Dear JW: I assume you are asking “Why can’t I find my car keys?” as this is by far the most asked why question. The short answer is that your car are not where you’re looking and vice versa. Clearly, you need more copies. I suggest one hundred car keys. Leave them all over your house, your place of work, and any stores you frequent. Be sure to leave details of your car such as make, year, color, and license plate on it. It would be embarrassing to come back to your local burger joint and pick a set of keys from the counter only to get to your cars and find you grabbed a set of keys belonging to someone else. Then your have to go back inside the joint and put those keys down, right in front of everyone. You look around, getting redder and redder. Finally, you find your 83rd set of car keys right where you were eating. By this time, everyone is laughing and you find yourself wishing you could merge your molecules into the wall. Don’t let this happen put your car’s info on every set of car keys. Now you know.

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WK asks: Did it ever say how many seashells Sally sold down by the sea shore?

Dear WK: As I learned the nursery rhyme while in school in Australia, the next line is, “But she shall sell her shells no more.” She’s not selling anymore. All of a sudden, we don’t know her name. She hasn’t shown up at beach since, despite the high demand for her designer sea shells from wealthy tourists. We can only conclude that she is in the witness protection program for testifying about seashore murder she saw. Which is unfortunate, as she is quite rich and is quite the looker. I recommend a door-to-door search across the country for her.

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DZ asks: I can’t stop the damned sports news updates from showing up on my Facebook trending topics, no matter how many times I dismiss them. It’s the only news I actually WANT Facebook to curate for me, and they won’t do it. Help me.

Dear DZ: You language is probably listed as American English with Facebook. America is sports mad. We have sports all year round. You’re not going to be able to avoid sports in your trending topics as long as your FB page is in American English. You will have to switch your page to an obscure language, one that is spoken by very few people. I recommend Chamicuro. Although it is spoken throughout the world, the total numbers of speakers is estimated at eight. How many professional sports teams could those speakers have? Yep, switch your Facebook page to Chamicuro and you’ll never see sports trending again.

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SF asks: If I ask a question = will you answer ?

Dear SF: ˙ǝɔıʌpɐ pɐq ǝʌıƃ oʇ ǝʌol ı ‘ǝsɹnoɔ ɟo ‘sǝʎ

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Doctor Paul De Lancey

(Please click on my name and submit Bad Advice questions to my Facebook page and simply make a comment to this post. I look
forward to hearing from you.)

 

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with 180 wonderful recipes is available on amazon.com. My newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, is also available on amazon.com

 
Categories: bad advice | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Rizogalo (Rice Pudding)

Greek Dessert

RIZOGALO
(Rice Pudding)

INGREDIENTS

¼ cup butter
4½ cups whole milk
½ cup short-grain white rice
½ cup sugar
1 egg yolk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 teaspoon corn flour
¼ teaspoon cinnamon.

Makes 4 cups. Takes 3 hours.

PREPARATION

Add butter, milk, rice, and sugar to large pot. Bring to boil, stirring frequently. Reduce heat to low. Simmer for 45 minutes or until rice is soft. Remove from heat. Whisk egg yolk in small bowl. Add egg yolk, vanilla extract. and corn flour. Mix with whisk until well blended. Ladle rice pudding into cups. Let cool at room temperature for 15 minutes, then in refrigerator for another 45 minutes. Sprinkle with cinnamon.

TIDBITS

1) There is quite a bit of stirring in this recipe. Doesn’t that all that stirring get tiring? Yes, it does. Which is why the Greek Aeronautics and Space Agency (GASA) has developed an autonomous robot designed for voyages to the asteroid belt.

2) Greek astronauts can’t afford to take their eyes off their rocket’s window for even one minute as asteroids and space rocks could crack their window. Whoosh! The astronauts would be sucked out by the vacuum of space. That would be horrible. So, you can see why GASA puts a rizogalo-making robot (RMR) on all missions.

3) RMRs are expensive. It needs enough artificial intelligence (AI) to make rizogalo without human aid. I also needs to cook in zero-gravity. Have you ever tried preparing rizogalo in outer space? It isn’t easy. The last time a human tried this the International Space Station was closed while Greek cleaning women were shuttled in. Getting all those globules with mops proved frustrating. The women had be trained for six months. The clean up took seven months. The Greek government ran up such a debt paying for this that it had enormous difficulties meeting its international obligations. Massive infusions of cash from Germany and other governments saved off default. Even so, the Euro almost collapsed. This would have destroyed the world economy. No one would have had money to buy clothes and most food. We would have been running around naked and eating lutefisk! So again, you can see why RMRs are essential on lengthy space flights.

Chef Paulcookbookhunks

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with 180 wonderful recipes is available on amazon.com. My newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, is also available on amazon.com

Categories: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Bad Advice Friday, 3-10-17

Today is once more Bad-Advice Friday. I shall be dispensing bad advice to all comers. The advice will stupendously bad.

MA asks: This has been bothering me…Is it true that cannibals won’t eat clowns because they taste funny?

Dear MA: It’s partially true. All cannibals, and especially gourmet cannibals, are food connoisseurs. Any dish that is not prepared correctly will taste funny to them. For example ribs, and every human body has them, just cry out to be barbecued and with the highest quality barbecue sauce. And oh my gosh, pair your meal with the correct wine. White meat goes with white wine and dark meat goes with red wine. However, it is not true that cannibals don’t like clowns. Indeed, cannibals also like actors and are avid fans of dinner theater. Go to a show with them, they really know how to have a good time.

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MH asks: How do you deal with that school parent who is “that mom” as she brags about her son’s grades and how well he punches kids in the stomach during gym class that always wants you and your kid to hang out with them, even giving your kid a kiss on the forehead and ordering her to sit next to him on the bus ride home?

Dear MH: Clearly words are working anymore. You need to take drastic actions. You need to get head lice for your daughter. Have your daughter put her head on the oafish boy’s shoulder. Many of her head lice will seek out the green pasture of the boy’s head and stampede there. Now getting head lice is getting harder and harder in America due to those pesky hygiene campaigns. In this case, go on a cruise, they’re fun, and head to a beach on your last port of call. Don’t give your daughter a towel. Have her put her head directly on the lice-infested beach. That ought to do it. And if the doltish boy is bald, feed your daughter lutefisk, the most evil food in the world, for breakfast. She’ll puke on the lout for sure. The kid and the mom will never want to bother you and your daughter ever again. Oh, I almost forgot. Head lice are distracting. His grades will suffer.

******

JP asks: what do you do when your next door neighbors who just moved has a boyfriend who lets his kids ride round in a kids motorized vehicle that its hood is painted as a confederate flag. A flat bottom boat a giant boxed in trailer and a speed boat, 2 hammocsk and s..t lying over year oh and a home made brick firepit. Help redneck invasion call out the troops.
Dear JP: You can’t let yourself be intimidated. Go to the army surplus store and buy yourself a small tank. (Like the guy in San Diego did some years ago.) Be sure to get one with tires. Tanks with treads aren’t road compliant. Highway Patrol will give a ticket. Take your tank to your neighbors house and yell, “This is for Fort Sumter.” The clods will either back down or rush for their guns. You now have two choices. One, fire an armor piercing round into their pickup truck and machine gun their home. However, if you are anti-guns, may I suggest driving your tank over their pickup truck and smashing into their home. What stops a thirty-ton tank nothing? Their truck will be flatter than a pancake and their home will be spectacularly ventilated. When the police come by to investigate, simply say, “But office, they never invited me over for barbecue.” The law will understand.

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RAP asks: How do I get rid of my addiction for creating cookbooks?

Dear RAP: You are making the classic mistake of making good food, of making food with a nice aroma. You want to share your wonderful creations with the world. Stop it. Stop it, I say. Start making lutefisk, hasenpfeffer, and Limburger cheese. You’ll never want to write another cookbook. Indeed, you’ll probably never feel the need to cook again. So, it’s a good thing that Taco BellTM has a $5 box meal special going on.

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SP asks: Dear Abby De Lancey: I have a gorjus neighbor who has begun to sunbathe in the nude. The fence between our yards isn’t high enough to block the view, if I go to the top floor and stand on my toes. My question is, do you know of any telescope repair shops in my neighborhood that will accept a rush order? Thanks in advance for your bad advice.

Dear SP: Aww, thanking me in advance, what good manners! Anyway, why the high-tech solution? Why the shyness? Simply place your ladder on the fence and clamber over with a jar of pickles. She’ll appreciate your directness. Women hate wall flowers. Say to her, “These pickles suck. Speaking of sucking pickles, how about getting to know me better?” I guarantee an immediate response.

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SMC asks: What about my “naughty” problems?

Dear SMC: Make money off you “naughty” problems! Get your own reality show. Now you’ll have to have a gimmick to make your show stand out from all those other naughty-problem reality shows. May I suggest constant ad-lib haikus to accompany whatever you’re doing? T.V. listeners will eat it up.

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BRW sends us this delightful photo.

Dear BRW: What a clever cat you have, able to think cogently and bilingual at least. Everyone likes clever cats. Take your cat to your boss’s house. He’ll impressed as all get out when your cat imparts the above advice to his dog. Career mobility will be assured.

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DZ asks: Sometimes people send me a text saying only to give them a call. How do I make them send the information to me in a text like a normal person?

Dear DZ: Give them beans and tell them to under no circumstance to stuff the beans in their ears. Naturally their contrary nature will win out and they will stuff the beans in their ears. (I know this will work. Decades ago, a bright mind came to my father’s elementary school and told all the kids not to stick beans in their ears. The children, who up to then had never considered the idea, went home and pushed beans in their ears.) Anyway, the ear will swell up around the bean–pinto beans are the best–so tightly that they won’t be able to hear. They will be forced to text. Now the beans can be removed by a doctor, so the bean isn’t permanent, but the memories will be. They’ll never ask you to call again. And don’t stick beans in your ears, DZ.

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RSD asks: If i want to beat the best chess player in time and history (Michail Tal or Bobby Fischer) Do I need to go to heaven or hell or what/where/how? 🙂 I need advice, you being the world chef I thought I came to the right place as everyone needs to eat.

Dear RSD: The best chess players are not dead. Their deaths were faked by the CIA. Indeed they work for the CIA. You can find them at Area 51. Just drive up to the main gate and tell the guard that you want to play chess with Tal and Fisher. You’ll be amazed how quickly the guard will wave you in. May you bring your best game with you.

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TLR asks: I’ve been feeling the urge to get another tattoo, Paul. What should I get?

Dear TLR: Either a tattoo of all the recurring items you need to get from the supermarket, but always forget. I mean how many times have you made out a grocery list but forgot to bring it. Or a list of your family’s and friends’ phone numbers. Of course, once you tattoo their names and numbers on your arms, you will need to speak rather forcefully about the dire consequences of changing their phone number.

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Doctor Paul De Lanceycookbookhunks

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with 180 wonderful recipes is available on amazon.com. My newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, is also available on amazon.com

Categories: bad advice | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Simple Jordanian Hummus

Jordanian Appetizer

SIMPLE HUMMUS

INGREDIENTSHummus-

2 cans chick peas (keep liquid)
2 garlic cloves
3 tablespoons lemon juice
¼ cup olive oil
¾ cup tahini
¼ teaspoon cumin
¼ teaspoon pepper
1 teaspoon salt

SPECIAL UTENSIL

blender

Makes 5 cups. Takes 10 minutes.

PREPARATION

Add all ingredients to blender. Blend on medium setting until smooth. If your hummus is watery, add tahini. If it is too thick, add water and olive oil. This is a forgiving recipe. You can add more of each ingredient until the hummus is the way you like it. Hummus goes well with pita bread.

TIDBITS

1) It’s more authentic to smash up the chick peas with a mortar and pestle. If guests complain about you using a blender, point to the title of this dish, “Simple Hummus.” Suppose your guests also say, “You shouldn’t use canned chick peas. You need to boil dried chick peas.” Warn them. Right away. “I am the cook. You are in my kitchen.” This proclamation invokes culinary law which is superior to civil law. (See Courgette v Rhode Island.) This decision empowers you to mete out any punishment necessary to restore order in all rooms in the house dealing with food.)

2) Your death defying quests might continue with, “Why didn’t you make your own tahini?” You know have three choices.

3) One. Back down. Please don’t this. The prestige of the entire culinary community world will suffer irreparable damage. Customers will charge into a restaurant’s kitchen armed with the steak knives found on their table every time their rib eyes aren’t done to their liking.

4) Two. Force them out of your house with an electric cattle prod. This is a safe, respectable, middle-ground response.

5) Three. Zap the clods into oblivion with your sonic obliterator, an essential item in any serious kitchen. A strong response to be sure, but these unruly guests will never again bother any chef. Yay.

Chef Paul

LutheranCookbook

My cookbook, Eat Me: 169 Fun Recipes From All Over the World,  and my newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, are available in paperback or Kindle on amazon.com

The cookbook is also available as an e-book on Nook

or on my website-where you can get a signed copy at: www.lordsoffun.com

Categories: cuisine, international | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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