Weather, or not

March 10, 2022 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments

Looks like weather. Whether we get weather remains to be seen.

The best thing about riding trails on a cool, gloomy Thursday is that you will not have much company.

Herself’s elder sis and one of their longtime pals flew into town yesterday for a weeklong visit. I whipped up too much grub — turkey enchiladas in red chile, turkey tacos with homemade salsa fresca, and Mexican rice — and this morning I felt the need to balance my caloric budget. So I kitted up, grabbed the Voodoo Nakisi, and rolled out.

The forecast called for wind and snow, which is why I decided to log a little dirt time on the Elena Gallegos trails, just in case they turn into ice rinks, mudslides, and/or drainage channels. The NWS did not sound particularly confident in its prediction, but hey, even a blind dog finds a Milk-Bone now and then.

I exchanged compliments with a couple cheerful hikers early on as we took different routes around the same rockpile. A third reluctantly stepped aside for me as I cranked cautiously up a sketchy bit of Trail 341 that most double-boinger types ride as a descent.

Putting a foot down and waving her through, I explained that I hadn’t ridden this section in a while and was likely to intercourse the penguin right about where she was standing. She complied and trudged on down the trail, mumbling something about having been denied “a little entertainment.”

She didn’t miss much. I cleaned that sumbitch right up to the rock garden just below where 341 intersects with the Pino Trail. That obstacle has me completely buffaloed. I nearly rolled the dice but figured that I’d been lucky so far and didn’t need to break any bones with the womenfolk off raiding The Duck! City’s thrift stores for their eBay empires.

Made it home without incident, tossed a light lunch down the gullet, and started a pot of posole for the evening meal, when Herself the Elder joined the throng.

I am seriously outnumbered here. Why, I can hardly hear the voices in my head.

What’s cookin’?

February 15, 2022 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 6 Comments

When I woke up without a big ol’ knife quivering in my rib cage I knew it was going to be a good day.

The morning clouds were back, which ordinarily makes for a great sunrise, but the iPhone’s camera was not cooperating, so you’ll have to settle for a less colorful snap from later in the morning.

At least I could step outside to take it. How’d you like to be jailin’ with Tobias “Julio Child” Gutierrez, who Duck! City police say spent Sunday slicing and dicing his way along Central? No thank you, please. And don’t give my homie anything sharper than a rubber spatula come chow time at the lockup. God only knows what he’s cooking up in that head of his.

Dude was riding a BMX bike, too, so, more positive press for cyclists. Yay. I bet he wasn’t wearing a helmet, either.

Speaking of cooking, we finally ate our way through a fridge full of Southwestern goodies that I started cooking back on the 10th — chicken enchiladas in green chile, turkey tacos, beans with chipotle chile, Mexican rice, etc., et al., and so on and so forth — and so today I will have to cook again instead of simply reheating leftovers. My suffering knows no bounds.

Let’s see here, what else is going on? Super Bowel? Didn’t watch, don’t care. Winter Olympics? Not watching, don’t care. There are very few actual sports in the Winter Games. If the winner is determined by a finish line, timer, or goals/points scored, it’s a sport. Anything that depends upon judges is a performance.

Especially if it happens in a courtroom. You have any idea how many times our man Tobias went to jail before Sunday?

Beans and rice, rice and beans, beans and rice

February 10, 2022 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments

Inflation rises, earnings fall.

Happily, literature has the answer.

There’s “On the Road,” by Jack Kerouac:

“You know what President Truman said,” Remi [Boncœur] would say. “We must cut down on the cost of living.”

And also, “Tortilla Flat,” by John Steinbeck:

Beans are a roof over your stomach. Beans are a warm cloak against economic cold.

Thus, yesterday I labored mightily and brought forth the plato combinado. Green chile chicken enchiladas, frijoles, and rice. Not pictured: The appetizer created by Herself; sliced avocado with halved cherry tomatoes, olive oil, salt, and pepper. We will be gnawing on this carcass for days.

The mantra around here when money gets tight is “Beans and rice, rice and beans, beans and rice.” So there you have it. Go forth and do likewise.

Chili today, hot tamale

January 27, 2022 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 2 Comments

I don’t remember when or where I first heard that old gag. “Chili today, hot tamale.” It sounds like something the old man would’ve said.

He picked up some Spanish down in Panama and he’d toss fragments of it at me and my sis as a call-and-response joke come bedtime. We had to repeat each phrase after he uttered it. (“Repitan ustedes.”)

“Hasta la vista.”

“¿Como se llama?”

“Buenos noches.”

This last became “Buenos snowshoes” at some point. Lord, what white people will do to someone else’s language.

Anyway, it’s chilly today, so I plan to make chili today, from a Pierre Franey recipe. No tamales, though. Eso es demasiado como el trabajo.

Howling at the Wolf Moon

January 16, 2022January 16, 2022 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 3 Comments

A nearly full moon and a bowl of jambalaya will spice up your dreams.

Eating spicy dinners as a full moon looms is a recipe for weird dreams.

The Wolf Moon won’t arrive until tomorrow, but it’s been howling at me for a few nights now, ever since I made a pot of jambalaya, a favorite dish adapted from a recipe by Judy Walker and Marcelle Bienvenu by way of The Washington Post.

Last night I dreamed I had been confined to an assisted-living facility, and was sitting at some sort of crafts table with a couple old biddies, one on either side of me.

I was trying to write captions for some photos — longhand, on paper, since I had no laptop — and the biddy on my left kept crowding me, piling napkins and letters and whatnot onto my workspace. The one to my right asked me what a young pup like me was doing in the old mutts’ home, and I explained that I had apparently gotten my bell rung in some sort of bike mishap and was being held for observation.

This led to a good deal of cackling, especially after they asked how I was paying for my stay and I said I had no idea. Certainly not by writing those goddamn captions, ’cause I wasn’t making much headway there. If Herself had thrown me over and the Repugs had finally croaked Social Security and Medicare I was in a world of shit. “Golden Girls” meets “Cuckoo’s Nest.”

When I woke up it was in my own bed and Herself was still here, so I made her toast, tea, and oatmeal just to stay on her good side. You never know. There’s a bad moon on the rise.