Like to text, do you? You may like it less after reading this story from Randall Stross, a business prof at a Cali’ college, who reports what carriers aren’t eager to tell you about texting — like, that it costs them bupkis but they charge you through the snoot anyway.
Happily, as a certified geezer and AARP member, I don’t text, so AT&T has to find another, more circuitous route into my wallet. The $99 refurbished iPhone 3G, now . . . I can feel those cold corporate fingers exploring my lint-filled pockets even as we speak.
Back when I was a man, instead of whatever it is I am now, winter was just another season, albeit one that required more clothing. I’d kit up like the Michelin Man and go out for a road ride, or maybe a mountain-bike jaunt. If the weather was truly foul, I’d settle for a quick hour of cyclo-cross. Got to keep that edge, I’d think. Racing season is just around the corner.
But I quit racing several years ago, and these days I find less joy in a frozen, slushy outing that ends in a bike wash followed by laundry detail. I’d ski or snowshoe, if we had any snow, but unlike the San Juan Mountains the Front Strange is woefully light on precipitation. And my idea of a good time is decidedly not sharing the highways with a few jillion of my closest friends en route to a ski weekend in the mountains. These silly sods can’t even drive properly on dry roads.
So I run. It’s shameful, I know, but it’s also simple. Pull on the tights, long sleeves, cap, gloves and shoes, and off you go (with a courtesy call to the National Earthquake Information Center in Golden to let them know that Godzilla is on the loose again).
Herself and I are fresh back from a run through Monument Valley Park. While taking the scenic route home along an east-west set of railroad tracks, I noticed that the homeless folks quartered here, generally under a bridge or in various makeshift shelters barely masked by sparse foliage, got themselves a gift from Santa this Christmas — a pair of sturdy dome tents, one large, one small.
Are you out and about, greedily snapping up those post-Christmas deals? Me neither. And we have plenty of company, according to The New York Times. The dismal post-holiday buying follows a hideous pre-Christmas shopping season, as reported byThe Wall Street Journal and passed along by Steve Benen at Political Animal, who is predicting widespread bankruptcies among retailers in the new year. Oh, goody.
I just took a drive through Bibleburg’s downtown after retrieving the Subie from Heuberger, and the sting in my wallet pocket failed to distract me from noting that Tejon Street wasn’t exactly rocking with shoppers. The malls may be doing a little better, but I’ll be damned if I’ll visit one to check it out. I hate those places. And anyway, I’m stony broke.
Careful, señores — hot plate! Whoops, never mind . . . these here are cold.
I meant to shoot a couple pix of dinner, but spaced it (lots of balls in the air, trying to get everything to finish cooking simultaneously), so you’ll have to settle for a shot of the aftermath.
We started off with a sparking rosé, corn tortilla chips and the pico de gallo salsa I made last night, segued into chicken and jalapeño quesadillas, and then dove into the main meal, a blend of red and green chile in honor of the holiday — chicken enchiladas smothered in green chile, Anasazi beans with chipotle chile, red chile roasted potatoes and posole. Dessert was an excellent raspberry cobbler prepared by Herself, as I’m not much of a baker.
I wound up having to make two batches of green chile, because the first one tasted not quite right. Not inedible, I thought, but not top shelf, either, and I’m not quite certain why. I ordinarily use a 50-50 mix of hot and mild Hatch chiles, and I suspect the hot ones may have gone slightly off thanks to an overlong stay in the fridge after defrosting. So, thinking that a case of the Chihuahua cha-cha would make a poor holiday gift indeed for my sis and brother-in-law (to say nothing of Herself and me), I whipped up a second batch using only the fresher mild chile and that proved serviceable, after I needled it a tad with some ground green and a dash of ancho powder. I had a few poblanos squirreled away, but there was no time to roast and peel the buggers. As it was, I was still cooking when the kinfolk arrived.
Nobody had to talk to Ralph on the big white phone afterward, so I consider dinner a smashing success. If you’d like to take a whack at these recipes, they’re all in the Santa Fe School of Cooking Cookbook, except for the variation of posole that I make, a one-pot jobber with diced pork that’s so old I can’t remember its origins.
What was on the menu at your place? Leave me some recipes in comments — but don’t expect me to cook ’em anytime soon. We’re gonna have leftovers for days.
Late update: Almost forgot another holiday tradition: Dancing with Herself to “Fairytale of New York” by The Pogues.
