The eagle has landed

December 24, 2008 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 3 Comments

The snowman lives. And the traditional O’Grady-family Christmas flick — Monty Python’s “Life of Brian” — is queued up for viewing just as soon as a certain wine-sipping hash-slinger finishes his pre-holiday cookery.

The posole is done, as are the Anasazi beans with chipotle chile and the pico de gallo, and the green-chile sauce is on deck. That leaves only the chicken breast to cook and shred, the corn tortillas to fry, the cheese to grate and the enchiladas to assemble and cook. Oh, yeah, and the potatoes to dice, toss with Chimayo red chile and chopped onion, and roast. And jeez, the chicken quesadillas. Can’t forget the appetizers.

Back in the kitchen. There’s chicken to cook and shred. If I wait to do the green chile until tomorrow, the house will smell like Santa Fe, but without all the silver and turquoise. Happy holidays to you and yours from the Zen Druid, who hugs the tree, even though he knows that it is an illusion.

Desperado

December 23, 2008November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments

A certain publication (which shall remain nameless) is getting a little sloppy with funds disbursement lately, as in payment for services rendered. Gentle reminders have failed to spur management to action, as have mumbling, grumbling, bitching, moaning, complaining, cursing, and the usual heavy-handed hints of dire consequences.

So now it’s time for direct action. If I don’t see a check for the agreed-upon amount in my mailbox by close of business Christmas Eve, the chubby lil’ snowman gets one right in the top snowball. The iceman goeth, get me?

Oh, who am I kidding? Nobody gets Eugene O’Neill references anymore. Not even chubby lil’ snowmen decked out in sheriff’s suits who suddenly find themselves playing a bit part in a two-bit drama. But he’ll get a hot lump of 158-grain coal under his 10-gallon hat if I don’t get my money.

Four wheels warm, two wheels cold

December 22, 2008November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments

I'm melting, melting ... what a world, what a world.

My Subaru has a thing for thermostat gaskets (it doesn’t like them), and this morning I had to drop it off at Heuberger for the annual replacement of same. Herself was rocketing about the house, getting ready for work, so I chucked the Voodoo in the car, cranked up the heater and the seat warmer, and rolled off to Motor City. Fifteen degrees, said the dashboard thermometer. O, goody.

The mechanics all looked at me like I was from another world; Pluto, or maybe Goofy. And it’s true, I did not look as though I had just stepped from the pages of Bicycling magazine. In point of fact, I may be the worst advertisement ever for fashionable cycling.

My winter kit is a motley collection of premillennial gear, most of it so old I can’t remember where or when I got it (though most of it was made in the USA, which is something of a tip-off). From top to bottom, today’s ensemble went like this: Columbia tuque; Patagonia ski mask; Smith glasses; Cannondale jacket; Patagonia turtleneck; Pearl Izumi gloves, bibs and heavy-duty tights; SmartWool socks; Hi-Tec GT Euro shoes. Only the gloves, glasses and shoes came from overseas. And I know for a fact that the socks are the only item purchased in this millennium, from Colorado Running Company.

The Sammy Safetys among you will notice that this list does not include a helmet. So sue me. I wear a 7 5/8 hat. Try stuffing that fat bastard into a helmet without a pry bar and some Vaseline.

Late update: The Subaru remains unfixed (shorthanded at the shop), and the ’83 Toyota 4WD won’t start (a battery that even my charger won’t reboot). O, bugger. And me with an incomplete holiday grocery list, too. Off to the auto-parts store for a heavy-duty battery.

That sinking feeling

December 21, 2008November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 3 Comments

You know it’s cold outside when The Mighty Turk would rather be curled up in a nice warm bathroom washbasin than outdoors, oppressing squirrels in honor of the winter solstice. We put him out a couple of times, but like a furry boomerang he just kept coming back.

Tonight I’m making a chicken cacciatore for Herself and a couple of pals. It’s a variation I picked up from Emeril back when we lived up in Weirdcliffe and still had TV, and it’s pretty hard to screw up. I do without the wings, which I consider too much trouble to eat, and on occasion I’ve used whole wheat flour and red wine instead of the white stuff, and somehow it almost always turns out edible.

Of course, a true Zappatista would be serving up the Lonesome Electric Turkey for a solstice banquet. But I’ve always been something of a backslider, no matter which faith I happened to be professing at any given time.

I’m stuck in this old city now

December 20, 2008November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 5 Comments

Oh, Colorado’s calling me
From her hillsides and her rivers and her mesas and her trees,
When blizzards snap the power lines
And all the toilets freeze
In December in the Colorado Rockies
—Colorado, by Christopher Guest, Sean Kelly and Tony Hendra, 1973

The wind sang us a lullaby, the snow was thick as cream. . . .

People and critters get weird around these parts come December. My old pal Hal, who ranches chickens, burros and beeves outside Weirdcliffe, claims the deer ate his Internet the other day. It seems only fair, as he’s been eating them for years, along with elk, antelope, and other four-legged neighbors, generally after shooting them first. But still, it leaves a country boy a tad isolated, especially if his TV blows up about the same time.

Meanwhile, down here in Bibleburg, our large and ferocious feline Turkish has developed a fondness for my lap, in an oddly closeted sort of fashion. If Herself is not in evidence, Turk’ will leap up on my drawing board, stalk across my closed Asus Eee PC laptop to the next table over and give me the big blue eyes until I pat my quads a couple of times. Then he hops aboard and commences to purr, knead, nap and otherwise act like an actual cat instead of a furry Edward Scissorhands.

If anyone walks into the office, of course, I am less of a love boat than a launching pad, much to the detriment of my sweat pants (and quads, or what remains of them). But that’s December in the Colorado Rockies for you.