Evidence of the extraordinary longevity of tattoos has finally been discovered, in a mummified Mayan female whose panoramic tattoos have lasted almost two thousand years.
Tattoo artists were ecstatic at the discovery, immediately citing the mummy as proof that once you’re lucky enough to have a tattoo, you can forget about upkeep.
On the other hand, those who have decorated themselves with tattoos but in later years regretted the colorful self-mutilation, were widely distressed by the discovery. As one man with a prominent tattoo on the pierced tip of his nose told us, “I suspect when I’m finally old enough to feel really stupid about this tattoo it’ll still be here., Now, I know if I want to get rid of it, I’ll have to fork over the bucks for plastic surgery.”
Curiously enough, the mummy’s bones revealed what at first appeared to be dichotomous lifestyles. She was apparently motherly, because bone evidence revealed that she had given birth to a child, but a variety hardly motherly clubs were also found buried with her.
An archaeologist explained the seeming duality of tender sentiment and weaponry by stating, “My theory is that she went to the grave, regretting the tattoos and asked to be buried with clubs so she could ward off any evil spirits who might arrive to apply even more tattoos.”
viernes, 12 de noviembre de 2010
An Efficient Commute
This morning, as usual, I was pressed for time. I had to be to my "9 to 5" especially early and I woke up late. Instead of rushing around more than I already had been, I thought I would take the time to finish my "getting ready for work rituals" in the car. After all, I have seen countless others in my rearview mirror and beside me in their cars do the same, so why can't I?
As I grabbed my things, I raced out to the car and started on the 32-minute commute to work. As I was brushing my teeth, I realized, I had no place to spit out the toothpaste foam that accumulated in my mouth. So, I rolled down the window and masterfully drooled down the inside of my car. Crest and saliva dripped down the inside of my car door into the power lock and window switches. At least my car has a minty fresh scent to it. I took a swig of orange juice and remembered what vomit tasted like.
Not having a lot of time to worry about my toothbrushing experience, I figured I should do my hair next. One of the nice things about owning a Pontiac Vibe is the 110 Volt AC plug built into the car. Perfect for my wife's hair dryer. Red lights were spaced perfectly to allow me to safely dry my hair. I wasn't about to dry my hair with a towel in the car. That would be just dangerous. The hair paste and styling of my messy spiky hair went off without a hitch.
The final thing on my list to do before work is shave. Now, I won't really go into a lot of detail, but I will say that this was the hardest task of my commute. I made it to work with a little time to spare and the only evidence that I was really hurried this morning was a hairdryer on the passenger seat, dried drool on the driver's side door and shaving cream with beard stubble on the floor mats.
As I grabbed my things, I raced out to the car and started on the 32-minute commute to work. As I was brushing my teeth, I realized, I had no place to spit out the toothpaste foam that accumulated in my mouth. So, I rolled down the window and masterfully drooled down the inside of my car. Crest and saliva dripped down the inside of my car door into the power lock and window switches. At least my car has a minty fresh scent to it. I took a swig of orange juice and remembered what vomit tasted like.
Not having a lot of time to worry about my toothbrushing experience, I figured I should do my hair next. One of the nice things about owning a Pontiac Vibe is the 110 Volt AC plug built into the car. Perfect for my wife's hair dryer. Red lights were spaced perfectly to allow me to safely dry my hair. I wasn't about to dry my hair with a towel in the car. That would be just dangerous. The hair paste and styling of my messy spiky hair went off without a hitch.
The final thing on my list to do before work is shave. Now, I won't really go into a lot of detail, but I will say that this was the hardest task of my commute. I made it to work with a little time to spare and the only evidence that I was really hurried this morning was a hairdryer on the passenger seat, dried drool on the driver's side door and shaving cream with beard stubble on the floor mats.
America To Sue Rest Of World For Ungrateful Behavior
America, which has sacrificed the lives of its citizens and its material plentitude more selflessly than any other nation in history to come to the assistance of other countries, noted the astonishingly heated negative commentary about it emanating from virtually every corner of the globe and has decided to sue the rest of the world on the grounds of ungrateful behavior.
The President said, “You can’t just go out there and sacrifice your sons and daughters lives and expend so much of the national treasury and not get a little something back. We’ve got sorrowful families all across the land, with whose losses I deeply sympathize, and we can’t even afford to fix the potholes on federal highways. So what choice do we have? We’re taking the ungrateful foreigners to court. Justice will be served. We merit and demand some praise here.”
A grandmother for the plaintiff stated, “My family has lost loved ones in three different wars and all in countries that I haven’t heard a good thing said in about America for years. When I take the stand, watch out. I’m patriotic pissed.”
The international court at The Hague has declined to take the case, primarily because it is in The Hague. Upon learning of that court’s disinclination, the U. S. has appealed to the U. N. to find a venue that will hear the case.”
A prominent attorney for America commented, “We’d rather not have the trial here. Holding it in our own country will detract from the credibility of the outcome, but having it in an unfriendly location is bound to create the kind of inflammatory demonstrations that will lead to a lot of free press.”
Not surprisingly, France, Germany, and Spain have also nixed the idea of hosting the trial, maintaining that since they’re all being sued, supporting the action seems inadvisable.
Britain and Italy are understood to be considering the matter. Tony Blair is the most disposed to hosting it, saying, “We hardly ever badmouth America, so we hope to come through the trial with flying colors.”
The Italian government has expressed some willingness to host it but has indicated it may charge for rental of the courthouse. “I’m confident of victory,” another attorney for America maintained. “All you have to do is look at the newspapers. All the incriminating evidence you need is on the lips of leaders and the public in general in just about every country of the world. The only thing that stands in the way of a big win for the U. S. is finding a country where we can conduct the trial.”
Should the verdict go as the plaintiff hopes, the expectation is that the guilty will henceforth base their comments on a true understanding of just who this country is.
One of the most persuasive arguments the nation’s attorneys hope to present is based on the usual philosophical tactic of imagining the opposite argument.
As the lead attorney for the country put it, “Will you please tell us what other country in the world, besides your own, you would prefer to possess the amount of power America has? We are, in fact, the first nation in the history of the world that could conquer it but, in addition to being freedom-loving people that the whole idea offends, we’re savvy business people who know we just can’t afford the worldwide upkeep.”
The President said, “You can’t just go out there and sacrifice your sons and daughters lives and expend so much of the national treasury and not get a little something back. We’ve got sorrowful families all across the land, with whose losses I deeply sympathize, and we can’t even afford to fix the potholes on federal highways. So what choice do we have? We’re taking the ungrateful foreigners to court. Justice will be served. We merit and demand some praise here.”
A grandmother for the plaintiff stated, “My family has lost loved ones in three different wars and all in countries that I haven’t heard a good thing said in about America for years. When I take the stand, watch out. I’m patriotic pissed.”
The international court at The Hague has declined to take the case, primarily because it is in The Hague. Upon learning of that court’s disinclination, the U. S. has appealed to the U. N. to find a venue that will hear the case.”
A prominent attorney for America commented, “We’d rather not have the trial here. Holding it in our own country will detract from the credibility of the outcome, but having it in an unfriendly location is bound to create the kind of inflammatory demonstrations that will lead to a lot of free press.”
Not surprisingly, France, Germany, and Spain have also nixed the idea of hosting the trial, maintaining that since they’re all being sued, supporting the action seems inadvisable.
Britain and Italy are understood to be considering the matter. Tony Blair is the most disposed to hosting it, saying, “We hardly ever badmouth America, so we hope to come through the trial with flying colors.”
The Italian government has expressed some willingness to host it but has indicated it may charge for rental of the courthouse. “I’m confident of victory,” another attorney for America maintained. “All you have to do is look at the newspapers. All the incriminating evidence you need is on the lips of leaders and the public in general in just about every country of the world. The only thing that stands in the way of a big win for the U. S. is finding a country where we can conduct the trial.”
Should the verdict go as the plaintiff hopes, the expectation is that the guilty will henceforth base their comments on a true understanding of just who this country is.
One of the most persuasive arguments the nation’s attorneys hope to present is based on the usual philosophical tactic of imagining the opposite argument.
As the lead attorney for the country put it, “Will you please tell us what other country in the world, besides your own, you would prefer to possess the amount of power America has? We are, in fact, the first nation in the history of the world that could conquer it but, in addition to being freedom-loving people that the whole idea offends, we’re savvy business people who know we just can’t afford the worldwide upkeep.”
America: Still So Young No Americans Allowed
If sometimes, weighed down with the complexities of uneasy empire, we perchance wonder if America could be freedom’s fading star, it’s somewhat reassuring to realize that the nation is so young it still does not recognize the existence of Americans. Even the Indians don’t completely get the nod, because they’re still camped out on reservations.
We might see the persistent refusal to accept “I’m an American” as a recognized nationality, at least on the home front, as a consonant reflection of our mixed and matched heritage. But it does present us with inconveniences.
Tell a fellow American who asks your nationality, “I’m an American,” and what does he say? “Oh, come on, tell me, really, what are you?”
“I just told you,” you repeat, in your resourceful attempt to nationalize yourself, “I was born and rear-beaten in America.”
“No, no,” your interrogator presses on, “I mean, where did your parents come from?”
“Well,” you let out, “my mother was born in West Virginia.”
“Then where did your father come from?”
Now, you’ve been cornered, so you finally confess that he came from here, there, or wherever. Let’s say Ireland. And what does your pouncing interrogator reply?
“Oh, so you’re Irish.”
Actually, the only time you get to be an American is when you’re likely to suffer the slings of outrageous interactions in distant lands.
“Oh, so you’re an American,” you're told, usually in a tone that intimates at least a slight reprimand, as soon as the securely French, Italian, or whatever person you chance to chat with determines you’re from the USA.
And, no matter how much effort your make to elude detection by speaking in the tongue of your assailant, the nonchalant accusation pops to the fore as soon as your first Yankee twang intrudes.
Will Durant, the popular (dare we say American?) historian, estimated that it takes about eight-hundred years for a country to develop a civilization. I wonder how long it takes short of that to develop the nationality that might achieve it.
We might see the persistent refusal to accept “I’m an American” as a recognized nationality, at least on the home front, as a consonant reflection of our mixed and matched heritage. But it does present us with inconveniences.
Tell a fellow American who asks your nationality, “I’m an American,” and what does he say? “Oh, come on, tell me, really, what are you?”
“I just told you,” you repeat, in your resourceful attempt to nationalize yourself, “I was born and rear-beaten in America.”
“No, no,” your interrogator presses on, “I mean, where did your parents come from?”
“Well,” you let out, “my mother was born in West Virginia.”
“Then where did your father come from?”
Now, you’ve been cornered, so you finally confess that he came from here, there, or wherever. Let’s say Ireland. And what does your pouncing interrogator reply?
“Oh, so you’re Irish.”
Actually, the only time you get to be an American is when you’re likely to suffer the slings of outrageous interactions in distant lands.
“Oh, so you’re an American,” you're told, usually in a tone that intimates at least a slight reprimand, as soon as the securely French, Italian, or whatever person you chance to chat with determines you’re from the USA.
And, no matter how much effort your make to elude detection by speaking in the tongue of your assailant, the nonchalant accusation pops to the fore as soon as your first Yankee twang intrudes.
Will Durant, the popular (dare we say American?) historian, estimated that it takes about eight-hundred years for a country to develop a civilization. I wonder how long it takes short of that to develop the nationality that might achieve it.
Amazing Trivia Part 1
I admit it .. I LIKE trivia, tho it serves no purpose for me since I can never remember any to bring up in conversation. But still, it is fun, so I've created this list of amazing trivia that I found to be absolutely riveting.
1. Snails can sleep up to 3 years.
Not so amazing actually since I managed to sleep thru 6 years of jr. high and high school. And when you think about it, what do snails have to do all their lives? Sure, they leave great slime trails and make excellent targets for salt shakers and little boys, but other than that there’s not much more to do but sleep after an exhausting run across a sidewalk.
2. American Airlines saved $40,000 in 1987 by eliminating one olive from each salad served in first-class.
Until I read this, I was convinced that there was an olive missing from my salad, yet no one would believe me. Now I am vindicated! I am now searching for proof that the airlines have taken one peanut from each bag .. I'll keep you posted.
3. An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain.
After reading this, I realized that I know of many people with the same problem! But that’s an article about politicians I'm working on. For me, it's usually that my eyes are bigger than my stomach...
4. Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories an hour.
Well, I'd like to see anyone keep this up long enough to actually lose 150 calories. Now that I think about it, I DON'T want to see...
5. Donald Duck comics were banned in Finland because he doesn't wear pants.
This is completely understandable.. I mean, who wants to look at a duck with no pants on? Besides, I understand that it is the law for all birds to wear pants in the city limits of Finland.
6. If you pass gas consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb.
I tried to prove or disprove this, but two things stopped me ... I couldn't stand to look at a bowl of chili after the third day, and my girlfriend threatened to leave me ... although it was kinda hard to tell what she was really saying with that gasmask on.
7. In ancient Egypt, priests plucked EVERY hair from their bodies, including their eyebrows and eyelashes.
Now, this piece of trivia leaves ALOT to the imagination, which is probably a good thing. BUT, I would like to point out, you'd have to be pretty limber to get some on those hairs .. nuff said.
8. The ant always falls over on its right side when intoxicated.
I know this trivia fact isn't true 'cause I've gone drinking with my ants several times and I've watched them fall over in several different directions... usually they tend to fall on my uncles tho.
9. The average human eats eight spiders in their lifetime at night.
I don't know about this fact ... I've seen several spiders at night and never once felt compelled to eat one. Though I hear that spider is tasty if barbequed correctly.
10. And now for our final fun trivia fact:
Some lions mate over 50 times a day... No wonder the females do all the work.
1. Snails can sleep up to 3 years.
Not so amazing actually since I managed to sleep thru 6 years of jr. high and high school. And when you think about it, what do snails have to do all their lives? Sure, they leave great slime trails and make excellent targets for salt shakers and little boys, but other than that there’s not much more to do but sleep after an exhausting run across a sidewalk.
2. American Airlines saved $40,000 in 1987 by eliminating one olive from each salad served in first-class.
Until I read this, I was convinced that there was an olive missing from my salad, yet no one would believe me. Now I am vindicated! I am now searching for proof that the airlines have taken one peanut from each bag .. I'll keep you posted.
3. An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain.
After reading this, I realized that I know of many people with the same problem! But that’s an article about politicians I'm working on. For me, it's usually that my eyes are bigger than my stomach...
4. Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories an hour.
Well, I'd like to see anyone keep this up long enough to actually lose 150 calories. Now that I think about it, I DON'T want to see...
5. Donald Duck comics were banned in Finland because he doesn't wear pants.
This is completely understandable.. I mean, who wants to look at a duck with no pants on? Besides, I understand that it is the law for all birds to wear pants in the city limits of Finland.
6. If you pass gas consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb.
I tried to prove or disprove this, but two things stopped me ... I couldn't stand to look at a bowl of chili after the third day, and my girlfriend threatened to leave me ... although it was kinda hard to tell what she was really saying with that gasmask on.
7. In ancient Egypt, priests plucked EVERY hair from their bodies, including their eyebrows and eyelashes.
Now, this piece of trivia leaves ALOT to the imagination, which is probably a good thing. BUT, I would like to point out, you'd have to be pretty limber to get some on those hairs .. nuff said.
8. The ant always falls over on its right side when intoxicated.
I know this trivia fact isn't true 'cause I've gone drinking with my ants several times and I've watched them fall over in several different directions... usually they tend to fall on my uncles tho.
9. The average human eats eight spiders in their lifetime at night.
I don't know about this fact ... I've seen several spiders at night and never once felt compelled to eat one. Though I hear that spider is tasty if barbequed correctly.
10. And now for our final fun trivia fact:
Some lions mate over 50 times a day... No wonder the females do all the work.
jueves, 11 de noviembre de 2010
A Revised History Of Pasta
While Marco Polo, a Venetian, is generally given credit for discovering noodles in China, recent research suggests that Italian pasta in all its glorious varieties was actually discovered in Rome nearly a century earlier, and quite by accident, by a remarkably unlikely epicurean named Julius Amplonius, with the able assistance of an invading barbarian named Klunk, The Great.
The momentous event occurred one afternoon when this portly patrician was dining at a chic restaurant just off the Roman Forum. He was savoring a sip of red wine from Tuscany when a group of alarmed citizens came running by, screeching, “The barbarians are coming! The barbarians are coming!”
Amplonius had witnessed their arrival before, and by now he had made peace with the ancient wisdom, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may be out of food and wine.” It was by such Stoicism that the wise were able to witness the destruction of the Roman Empire while preserving a somewhat peaceful life. So, with a knowing smile, Julius simply raised his glass toward the fleeing crowd.
“What are you going to do, Julie, just sit there and eat?” a citizen who knew him quite well asked.
“Why not?” he replied. “I’m thirsty. Not to mention hungry.” With that, he indulged in another taste of the Tuscan red.
“You’re crazy!” a speeding friend called. “Run, Julie! Run!”
Just then a waitress who doubled as a temptress arrived with Julie’s lunch, which might be described as a plate of proto-pasta. It consisted of a flat, round piece of dough that hung just a bit over the margins of the plate. It had a baked tomato sitting in the middle of it, with a single chunk of parmesan cheese next to it, and around both was a wreath of fragrant basil leaves.
“Enjoy your plano,” she said, putting down the dish, for that is the name the proto-pasta was known by.
“Thank you, gorgeous,” Julius told her, and gave her a pinch.
“Oh, you silly man,” she replied, and, looking about, seemed nervous. “Can you do me a favor, love, and close out your bill now?”
“No problem, you sex kitten,” he said, and reached for his purse. He took out enough Roman coinage to include a generous tip. “Keep the change,” he told her, and pursed his lips expectantly.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, and gave him a luscious but ever-so-brief kiss. Then she hurried off after the other fleeing citizens.
Julius calmly picked up a knife and fork and began to eat his proto-pasta.
Just as he cut off and savored his first bite, in rushed a huge, fur-covered barbarian, with a leather shield and the fateful sword with which he would help Julius discover pasta in many of the varieties we enjoy to this day, from lasagna to angel hair.
“Uh!” he grunted, and raised his sword.
Julius continued to dine. “Uh! Uh!” the barbarian raged, for the sound “uh” comprised much of the everyday range of his proto-language. To attract the attention of the unperturbed diner, he swung his sword in a circle and just happened to whack off the head of a statue of the great Augustus. It crashed to the marble floor.
Julius couldn’t help but notice the decapitation and, placing a leaf of basil on his tongue, said, “That wasn’t very nice. I kind of liked that statue.”
The barbarian could not, of course, understand a word. In an effort to establish a bit of good will, at least long enough to allow him to finish his meal, Julius held up his bottle of wine. “Like some vino?”
“Huh-Uh!” the barbarian managed to say.
“Suit yourself,” Julie told him. “Got a name?”
The barbarian stared at him without comprehension.
“Name?” Julius repeated, pointing to himself and then at the barbarian to illustrate the point of his question.
“Klunk,” the barbarian said.
“I might have guessed,” Julius commented.
“Klunk, The Great,” the barbarian continued, with some intellectual effort.
“Good for you,” Julius told him, and put out his hand. “I’m Julius, The Roman, also known as Julie, The Ample. Have a seat.”
“Huh-uh! I am conqueror – conqueror of Rome!” Klunk managed to say.
“Good for you!” Julie told him, and couldn’t resist asking the most challenging question. “Are you sure you can afford the upkeep? It’s an expensive city to maintain.”
“What is upkeep?” Klunk wanted to know.
“You’ll find out,” Julius advised him. “Now, come on. Have a seat. You’ve had a hard day.” Then he pointed to his dish and indicated a reluctant willingness to share some of his food. “And enjoy some plano.”
Klunk looked down at the plate, and asked, “What is plano?”
“You don't know?” Julie inquired. “Where have you been?”
“Other side of the Alps,” Klunk managed to get out.
“Oh, no wonder,” Julie replied, and decided to educate the deprived soul. “See. This is a plate. Ever hear of a plate?”
“Plate?”
“Instead of eating off the table, or the ground, you eat off of a plate.”
“Uh,” Klunk said, with apparent understanding.
“Now, on the plate we put a flat piece of boiled dough, called plano,” Julius continued, lifting up the edge with his fork to demonstrate. “Then we put all kinds of goodies on top of it. In this case, a tomato, a piece of cheese, and basil leaves.”
“Uh-huh.” Klunk acknowledged.
“All you do is take a knife and fork,” Julius explained, picking the utensils up slowly, so Klunk wouldn’t mistake his intentions and send his head rolling the way of the great Augustus’s marble head. “Then you cut off a piece.” He went through the process and took a bite. “Ah, delicious! Sure you won’t have any?”
“Uh-huh,” Klunk said, holding his ground, and repeated with some effort, “Plano.”
“Excellent!” Julius exclaimed. “You'll be a true Roman in no time!”
“Klunk – a Roman?” the barbarian responded, visibly insulted, and raised his sword high above Julius. Then, unexpectedly, he brought the sword down on the plate and cut the plano right in half. “Now, what do you call it?” he was somehow able to ask.
Julius looked down at the two half-moons, and said, “I think I’ll call that one big agnolotti.” Then he took another sip of wine and smiled at Klunk.
Incensed at his inability to frighten Julius, he raised his sword again and whacked the plate three or four times. “What do you call it now?”
Julius examined it, and said, “This I’ll call lasagne.” With that, he took a bite and savored it.
Now furious, Klunk attacked the plate repeatedly, and demanded, “What do you call it now?”
Julius, despite his indifference to fate, was a bit shaken by all the clatter, and said, “I will name it linguine.”
Needless to say, Klunk swung his sword at the plate with an unprecedented volley of strokes. “What is it now?”
Julius examined the mishmash on his plate. By now, the plano was cut into thin strips, the tomato was diced, and the cheese was grated. After some deliberation, Julius announced, “You made what I will call spaghetti.” Still remaining remarkably calm, at least on the exterior, Julius took his fork and wound some spaghetti around it. Then he took a bite. “Delicious! And fun, too,” he told Klunk.
Enraged at his seemingly imperturbable true Roman, the barbarian now slashed at the contents of the plate until his arms were a veritable blur. Then, short of breath, he sighed, “Tell me what you name that.”
Julius looked closely at the mayhem in his plate. Now, the pasta was as thin as he could imagine it, and the tomato sauce, cheese, and basil were all mixed together. “It is so thin I think I will name it angel hair.”
Klunk became unexpectedly curious and bent toward Julius. “Angel hair? What for? You no angel. You fat Roman.”
Considering how finely the plano was now sliced, Julius could not imagine how much longer it could invite the attentions of Klunk and imagined that his own neck might well be the next object of the barbarian’s fury. Ever the clever Roman, he noticed that, as a result of Klunk’s exertion, his tummy was showing a bit.
Julie was, of course, also aware of the legendary weakness of the barbarian shield, as opposed to the metal shield that accounted for much of the impenetrability of the storied Roman phalanx.
So he pretended to move his knife toward the last remaining decent-size piece of tomato, saying, “No, my friend, I am not an angel.” With that, he quickly stabbed the somewhat exhausted Klunk, and added, “But you’re about to become one.”
Klunk looked down at his sudden, fatal wound with shock and fell to the ground with a thud. His head knocked the table and, if Julius’s hands weren’t so quick, the movement would have upset his glass of wine.
Leaning back and enjoying a sip, he said, “I think I’m gonna call all these things I discovered after my beautiful girlfriend, Pastina.” Then he rolled a bit on his fork and indulged in another mouthful, musing, “I just love Pastina.”
All the names Julius invented that day, with the undoubted help of the ill-fated barbarian Klunk, have come down through the centuries without alteration, except for the categorical appellation, which usage would eventually abbreviate to the more familiar word “pasta.”
The momentous event occurred one afternoon when this portly patrician was dining at a chic restaurant just off the Roman Forum. He was savoring a sip of red wine from Tuscany when a group of alarmed citizens came running by, screeching, “The barbarians are coming! The barbarians are coming!”
Amplonius had witnessed their arrival before, and by now he had made peace with the ancient wisdom, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may be out of food and wine.” It was by such Stoicism that the wise were able to witness the destruction of the Roman Empire while preserving a somewhat peaceful life. So, with a knowing smile, Julius simply raised his glass toward the fleeing crowd.
“What are you going to do, Julie, just sit there and eat?” a citizen who knew him quite well asked.
“Why not?” he replied. “I’m thirsty. Not to mention hungry.” With that, he indulged in another taste of the Tuscan red.
“You’re crazy!” a speeding friend called. “Run, Julie! Run!”
Just then a waitress who doubled as a temptress arrived with Julie’s lunch, which might be described as a plate of proto-pasta. It consisted of a flat, round piece of dough that hung just a bit over the margins of the plate. It had a baked tomato sitting in the middle of it, with a single chunk of parmesan cheese next to it, and around both was a wreath of fragrant basil leaves.
“Enjoy your plano,” she said, putting down the dish, for that is the name the proto-pasta was known by.
“Thank you, gorgeous,” Julius told her, and gave her a pinch.
“Oh, you silly man,” she replied, and, looking about, seemed nervous. “Can you do me a favor, love, and close out your bill now?”
“No problem, you sex kitten,” he said, and reached for his purse. He took out enough Roman coinage to include a generous tip. “Keep the change,” he told her, and pursed his lips expectantly.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, and gave him a luscious but ever-so-brief kiss. Then she hurried off after the other fleeing citizens.
Julius calmly picked up a knife and fork and began to eat his proto-pasta.
Just as he cut off and savored his first bite, in rushed a huge, fur-covered barbarian, with a leather shield and the fateful sword with which he would help Julius discover pasta in many of the varieties we enjoy to this day, from lasagna to angel hair.
“Uh!” he grunted, and raised his sword.
Julius continued to dine. “Uh! Uh!” the barbarian raged, for the sound “uh” comprised much of the everyday range of his proto-language. To attract the attention of the unperturbed diner, he swung his sword in a circle and just happened to whack off the head of a statue of the great Augustus. It crashed to the marble floor.
Julius couldn’t help but notice the decapitation and, placing a leaf of basil on his tongue, said, “That wasn’t very nice. I kind of liked that statue.”
The barbarian could not, of course, understand a word. In an effort to establish a bit of good will, at least long enough to allow him to finish his meal, Julius held up his bottle of wine. “Like some vino?”
“Huh-Uh!” the barbarian managed to say.
“Suit yourself,” Julie told him. “Got a name?”
The barbarian stared at him without comprehension.
“Name?” Julius repeated, pointing to himself and then at the barbarian to illustrate the point of his question.
“Klunk,” the barbarian said.
“I might have guessed,” Julius commented.
“Klunk, The Great,” the barbarian continued, with some intellectual effort.
“Good for you,” Julius told him, and put out his hand. “I’m Julius, The Roman, also known as Julie, The Ample. Have a seat.”
“Huh-uh! I am conqueror – conqueror of Rome!” Klunk managed to say.
“Good for you!” Julie told him, and couldn’t resist asking the most challenging question. “Are you sure you can afford the upkeep? It’s an expensive city to maintain.”
“What is upkeep?” Klunk wanted to know.
“You’ll find out,” Julius advised him. “Now, come on. Have a seat. You’ve had a hard day.” Then he pointed to his dish and indicated a reluctant willingness to share some of his food. “And enjoy some plano.”
Klunk looked down at the plate, and asked, “What is plano?”
“You don't know?” Julie inquired. “Where have you been?”
“Other side of the Alps,” Klunk managed to get out.
“Oh, no wonder,” Julie replied, and decided to educate the deprived soul. “See. This is a plate. Ever hear of a plate?”
“Plate?”
“Instead of eating off the table, or the ground, you eat off of a plate.”
“Uh,” Klunk said, with apparent understanding.
“Now, on the plate we put a flat piece of boiled dough, called plano,” Julius continued, lifting up the edge with his fork to demonstrate. “Then we put all kinds of goodies on top of it. In this case, a tomato, a piece of cheese, and basil leaves.”
“Uh-huh.” Klunk acknowledged.
“All you do is take a knife and fork,” Julius explained, picking the utensils up slowly, so Klunk wouldn’t mistake his intentions and send his head rolling the way of the great Augustus’s marble head. “Then you cut off a piece.” He went through the process and took a bite. “Ah, delicious! Sure you won’t have any?”
“Uh-huh,” Klunk said, holding his ground, and repeated with some effort, “Plano.”
“Excellent!” Julius exclaimed. “You'll be a true Roman in no time!”
“Klunk – a Roman?” the barbarian responded, visibly insulted, and raised his sword high above Julius. Then, unexpectedly, he brought the sword down on the plate and cut the plano right in half. “Now, what do you call it?” he was somehow able to ask.
Julius looked down at the two half-moons, and said, “I think I’ll call that one big agnolotti.” Then he took another sip of wine and smiled at Klunk.
Incensed at his inability to frighten Julius, he raised his sword again and whacked the plate three or four times. “What do you call it now?”
Julius examined it, and said, “This I’ll call lasagne.” With that, he took a bite and savored it.
Now furious, Klunk attacked the plate repeatedly, and demanded, “What do you call it now?”
Julius, despite his indifference to fate, was a bit shaken by all the clatter, and said, “I will name it linguine.”
Needless to say, Klunk swung his sword at the plate with an unprecedented volley of strokes. “What is it now?”
Julius examined the mishmash on his plate. By now, the plano was cut into thin strips, the tomato was diced, and the cheese was grated. After some deliberation, Julius announced, “You made what I will call spaghetti.” Still remaining remarkably calm, at least on the exterior, Julius took his fork and wound some spaghetti around it. Then he took a bite. “Delicious! And fun, too,” he told Klunk.
Enraged at his seemingly imperturbable true Roman, the barbarian now slashed at the contents of the plate until his arms were a veritable blur. Then, short of breath, he sighed, “Tell me what you name that.”
Julius looked closely at the mayhem in his plate. Now, the pasta was as thin as he could imagine it, and the tomato sauce, cheese, and basil were all mixed together. “It is so thin I think I will name it angel hair.”
Klunk became unexpectedly curious and bent toward Julius. “Angel hair? What for? You no angel. You fat Roman.”
Considering how finely the plano was now sliced, Julius could not imagine how much longer it could invite the attentions of Klunk and imagined that his own neck might well be the next object of the barbarian’s fury. Ever the clever Roman, he noticed that, as a result of Klunk’s exertion, his tummy was showing a bit.
Julie was, of course, also aware of the legendary weakness of the barbarian shield, as opposed to the metal shield that accounted for much of the impenetrability of the storied Roman phalanx.
So he pretended to move his knife toward the last remaining decent-size piece of tomato, saying, “No, my friend, I am not an angel.” With that, he quickly stabbed the somewhat exhausted Klunk, and added, “But you’re about to become one.”
Klunk looked down at his sudden, fatal wound with shock and fell to the ground with a thud. His head knocked the table and, if Julius’s hands weren’t so quick, the movement would have upset his glass of wine.
Leaning back and enjoying a sip, he said, “I think I’m gonna call all these things I discovered after my beautiful girlfriend, Pastina.” Then he rolled a bit on his fork and indulged in another mouthful, musing, “I just love Pastina.”
All the names Julius invented that day, with the undoubted help of the ill-fated barbarian Klunk, have come down through the centuries without alteration, except for the categorical appellation, which usage would eventually abbreviate to the more familiar word “pasta.”
A Page From Betty Crocker’s Cookbook
Recently, while sitting in my chair drinking the last of my breakfast coffee, a thought staggered into my mind. I must confess most thoughts are quite lonely once they enter my mind, but this one had a nagging element to it.
Experience has taught me I should never give in to these strange trespassers. Every time I entertain any of them, I’m the one getting burnt.
This time was different. Don’t ask me how it was different, or how I knew it was different, it just was. Of course, looking back I could have been wrong.
The thought: why not surprise my wife by baking her a cake?
I know what you’re thinking. I thought the same thing when this suggested itself to me. But, the more I thought about it, the more delightfully delicious it sounded. How can anything go wrong if I am doing it for my wife?
The only question I needed to answer was what kind of cake should I bake.
After a long period of ruminating, I settled on a lemon sponge cake with peanut butter icing. This was going to be the best surprise my wife has ever received from me.
Sitting in a prominent place in the kitchen is my wife’s Betty Crocker Cookbook. I don’t know how long she has had that book, it’s been in our kitchen for as long as I can remember — which really may not be that long when I come to think of it.
I took the book, sat in my favorite chair and opened it. How do you read a cookbook? As I leafed through it, it did not have any rhyme or reason to me. In musing on the book I said to myself, how important is it to follow directions?
Placing the book back in its revered spot, I concluded that since this was my cake, I didn’t need help from anybody else, particularly Betty Crocker. This is the difference between men and women. Women need a lot of directions, while men enjoy the liberty of doing their own thing.
I knew exactly what I wanted. A lemon sponge cake, with peanut butter icing. What could be simpler?
Retrieving a large mixing bowl, I assembled all the ingredients I needed; flour, sugar, eggs, milk and baking powder. Everyone knows you cannot bake without baking powder.
I have no idea what baking powder is, except when you bake you use baking powder.
I put everything in the mixing bowl. The only thing I wasn’t quite sure of was the measure, but how hard could that be anyway? Betty Crocker mentioned a cup of this and a cup of that, but never defined what she meant by a cup.
I went to the cupboard and looked at all the cups. There were all kinds and sizes of cups and I did not know which one to use. I eyed a large coffee cup and said to myself, this will do just fine.
I dumped 6 or 8 cups of flour into the mixing bowl, I can’t remember how many. Then I cracked a dozen eggs and put that into the mixing bowl as well. Pouring a quart of milk into the mixing bowl, I whipped everything into a nice batter.
This was to be a lemon sponge cake but I could find nothing marked lemon in the cupboard. I opened the refrigerator, and as luck would have it, I found a quart of lemonade.
I poured this concoction into the largest cake pan I could find. As I was about to put it into the oven, I remembered the baking powder. How is this cake going to bake if it doesn’t have the baking powder?
Setting the cake pan down, I grabbed the baking powder and liberally sprinkled it on top of my batter. I have no idea what baking powder does but I put enough on my cake so it would do a good job.
Into the oven the cake went, and with a flick of the wrist I turned the temperature to 450 degrees. Remembering this was a big cake, I readjusted the temperature to 650.
The bigger the cake the hotter the oven, is what I always say.
Now all I needed to do was wait for my cake to bake. As I was waiting, I heard rumblings coming from the oven but just chalked that up to a good cake baking.
I guess I fell asleep, because the next thing I knew there was a strange odor permeating the air. It smelled a little smoky and then it dawned on me. My cake, it’s done.
What I pulled out of the oven did not resemble any cake I had ever seen. It looked like a burnt pancake, twice the size of the cake pan, with some kind of disease on the surface.
No amount of peanut butter icing in the world could camouflage this disaster.
It was about this time I began reassessing the idea of reading directions. Maybe instructions have a purpose after all.
I remember something the Apostle Paul said. “Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.” (2 Timothy 2:15 KJV.)
To live right without getting burnt you need the right directions.
Experience has taught me I should never give in to these strange trespassers. Every time I entertain any of them, I’m the one getting burnt.
This time was different. Don’t ask me how it was different, or how I knew it was different, it just was. Of course, looking back I could have been wrong.
The thought: why not surprise my wife by baking her a cake?
I know what you’re thinking. I thought the same thing when this suggested itself to me. But, the more I thought about it, the more delightfully delicious it sounded. How can anything go wrong if I am doing it for my wife?
The only question I needed to answer was what kind of cake should I bake.
After a long period of ruminating, I settled on a lemon sponge cake with peanut butter icing. This was going to be the best surprise my wife has ever received from me.
Sitting in a prominent place in the kitchen is my wife’s Betty Crocker Cookbook. I don’t know how long she has had that book, it’s been in our kitchen for as long as I can remember — which really may not be that long when I come to think of it.
I took the book, sat in my favorite chair and opened it. How do you read a cookbook? As I leafed through it, it did not have any rhyme or reason to me. In musing on the book I said to myself, how important is it to follow directions?
Placing the book back in its revered spot, I concluded that since this was my cake, I didn’t need help from anybody else, particularly Betty Crocker. This is the difference between men and women. Women need a lot of directions, while men enjoy the liberty of doing their own thing.
I knew exactly what I wanted. A lemon sponge cake, with peanut butter icing. What could be simpler?
Retrieving a large mixing bowl, I assembled all the ingredients I needed; flour, sugar, eggs, milk and baking powder. Everyone knows you cannot bake without baking powder.
I have no idea what baking powder is, except when you bake you use baking powder.
I put everything in the mixing bowl. The only thing I wasn’t quite sure of was the measure, but how hard could that be anyway? Betty Crocker mentioned a cup of this and a cup of that, but never defined what she meant by a cup.
I went to the cupboard and looked at all the cups. There were all kinds and sizes of cups and I did not know which one to use. I eyed a large coffee cup and said to myself, this will do just fine.
I dumped 6 or 8 cups of flour into the mixing bowl, I can’t remember how many. Then I cracked a dozen eggs and put that into the mixing bowl as well. Pouring a quart of milk into the mixing bowl, I whipped everything into a nice batter.
This was to be a lemon sponge cake but I could find nothing marked lemon in the cupboard. I opened the refrigerator, and as luck would have it, I found a quart of lemonade.
I poured this concoction into the largest cake pan I could find. As I was about to put it into the oven, I remembered the baking powder. How is this cake going to bake if it doesn’t have the baking powder?
Setting the cake pan down, I grabbed the baking powder and liberally sprinkled it on top of my batter. I have no idea what baking powder does but I put enough on my cake so it would do a good job.
Into the oven the cake went, and with a flick of the wrist I turned the temperature to 450 degrees. Remembering this was a big cake, I readjusted the temperature to 650.
The bigger the cake the hotter the oven, is what I always say.
Now all I needed to do was wait for my cake to bake. As I was waiting, I heard rumblings coming from the oven but just chalked that up to a good cake baking.
I guess I fell asleep, because the next thing I knew there was a strange odor permeating the air. It smelled a little smoky and then it dawned on me. My cake, it’s done.
What I pulled out of the oven did not resemble any cake I had ever seen. It looked like a burnt pancake, twice the size of the cake pan, with some kind of disease on the surface.
No amount of peanut butter icing in the world could camouflage this disaster.
It was about this time I began reassessing the idea of reading directions. Maybe instructions have a purpose after all.
I remember something the Apostle Paul said. “Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.” (2 Timothy 2:15 KJV.)
To live right without getting burnt you need the right directions.
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