franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas

[franksolich]

After they press it down, hard, until every trace of fat and taste has been expelled, that seven ounces will be more like three.

I inquired one time, oh, maybe about four or five years ago, about the history of the hamburgers at this bar.

The owner, the wife of the Norwegian cook Swede whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, has owned the place since the early 1970s.

She said that up until the hyperinflation of 1977-1981, the hamburger had been 8 ounces and cost $1.00, which was sort of "high" for the time, excepting that it included a lot of extras.

By the time Ronald Reagan was moving into the White House to set things straight again, it'd fallen to 7 ounces, and risen in price to $2.50.

She'd determined a long time ago that seven ounces was the minimum size of hamburger the public was willing to take; make it any smaller, and even with a lower price, it wouldn't sell.

It's now $6.50--it was $4.00 when George Bush was president--but that includes a lot of extras.

I, along with any other customers ordering it as "carry-out," get charged a flat five bucks for the hamburger and an order of french fries, because I, and other customers ordering it as "carry-out," don't demand the extras; we just want a hamburger and french fries, period.

She recently warned me that, due to the higher taxes and 0bamacare, to come into effect on New Year's Day, the price for "carry-out" is going to rise to six bucks, and for all the extras, eaten there on the premises, $7.50.

When I inquired about why only standard-sized buns for such a large hamburger, she showed me the price-list, revealing that the distributor handles only a limited inventory of buns, all of them standard-sized.  Sure, she could get buns of any size from distributors in Sioux City or Kearney or Columbus or Omaha, but they aren't willing to send a big semi-truck way up here out in the middle of nowhere to drop off a couple of cases of hamburger buns.

One works with what one can get.

[franksolich]

The neighbor and his wife stopped over in early afternoon, to drop off some Christmas presents, and to pick up some Christmas presents.

It was pretty much an even trade; about four cubic feet of presents for them from me, and about four cubic feet of presents for me from them. 

They also wanted to be sure I was all hunkered down for the snow; that I had enough provisions to last me until tomorrow (Thursday) evening, when the neighbor and some other people can finally plough their way through to this place.  I have plenty of provisions.

And most importantly, the cats have plenty of chow and cat-litter.

I said it was fine; I wanted to be alone today anyway.

"You know, I wonder," the neighbor's wife commented, "December must be a very sad month for you, so many anniversaries."

I replied yeah, sure, there's some of those--we seem to die when the ground's covered with snow (other than my mother, who died during the height of summer so long ago), and there's four such anniversaries this month, but there's only one, really, that still pains.

[franksolich]

Beginning Wednesday afternoon, the roof of Nebraska got high winds with only a little bit of snow.

After the winds died down circa midnight, it began snowing heavily, but the flakes lazily drifted down.

So no snow-drifts, no built-up snow, anywhere, just about 4-5" of snowing laying there minding its own business.

I think I'll go to the big city this afternoon, Thursday afternoon, to scout around for a primitive for Christmas; time's getting close, and I need a specimen for study.

[franksolich]

All her plans fell apart, so I ended up doing nothing, nothing at all.

When a friend of the neighbor's was here about suppertime, I bitched about how the "window of opportunity" to find a primitive for Christmas is rapidly closing; it's already December 20, and only five more days.

He knows what I want a primitive for Christmas for; for the sheer joy of observation and study.

He suggested I've been ignoring a fertile field with scores of primitives; the insane asylum in the big city.

Problem, however; I don't think they let these guys out, and even if they did, I wouldn't touch one with a ten-foot primitive.

The nuthouse used to be for nuts, period; nuts of all stripes and colors.

The past few years, it's been converted into a high-security holding-pen for sex offenders.

There used to be as many as 1500 lunatics there; now there's 220.

This does by the way have an unfortunate effect on statistics reflecting on the big city; a high percentage of registered sex offenders, making it seem as if the big city's as bad as Skins's island.

The statistics don't point out that 220 of those 225 sex offenders (in a city of 22,000) are behind barbed wire.

I'm going to the big city in the morning, but I think I'll pass on checking out the madhouse.

[GOBUCKS]

The past few years, it's been converted into a high-security holding-pen for sex offenders.

There used to be as many as 1500 lunatics there; now there's 220.

I'm going to the big city in the morning, but I think I'll pass on checking out the madhouse.

While you're there, stop by and ask them if they just checked in a guy named Dennis.

[franksolich]

Well, I went to the big city this afternoon, but only for a couple of hours.

I saw lots and lots of people, people all over the place, but no primitives.

I'm starting to get worried.

First, I got the Looming Dilemma Monday evening, and then franksolich is facing a very real prospect of having no primitive for Christmas.

[GOBUCKS]

franksolich is facing a very real prospect of having no primitive for Christmas.

I'm pretty sure you can get them at Costco.

[franksolich]

I'm pretty sure you can get them at Costco.

No Costco in the big city.

There's a bicycle shop and a coffee shoppe, but there were only decent and civilized people therein.

[franksolich]

The neighbor, his wife, and their four small children were here today, the only visitors for whom I cared, as I've been in a funk lately, not in a good mood at all.

Everybody's all effervescent about Christmas, and the neighbor's wife said she was coming over early Monday to fix up the Christmas turkey, which I'm supposed to cook for her beginning circa 4:00 Christmas morning.  They'll have it for dinner Christmas Day, and the business partner and I will go over there Christmas evening, to finish it off.

I was reminded of the standing, always-open, invitation to join them for noon too, and now I'm thinking about it, as the odds of finding a primitive for Christmas seem to be melting away faster than butter on a hot tin roof.

Although I'm desperate for a primitive for Christmas, I'm worrying less about that, and more about the Looming Dilemma, to be presented me Christmas Eve evening.

[franksolich]

“Well, your odds of finding a primitive for Christmas went down by one recently,” the neighbor said, when he came here to pick up a piece of farm machinery early Sunday morning.

“Remember that guy who was killed in that automobile accident south of here a couple of days ago, whose SUV [sports utility vehicle] got turned into a ‘U’ by a semi-truck, crumpled into the size of a basketball?

“The tow-truck driver said the only recognizable piece on that mass of wreckage was an 0bama sticker.”

Yeah, I’d heard about the accident; some people are totally reckless.

It was the middle of the night, and the guy, from a blue state, had been following a native of the area (i.e., someone intimately familiar with the way the highway is).  The speed limit on the highway’s 60 mph, and the guy in front of him was going 62 mph, but that wasn’t fast enough for the guy behind him.

So the 0bamaite had pulled out, and instantly became a statistic.

“You know, it amazes me,” I said, “how many people end up paying with their lives simply because of their rudeness, their bad manners.

“Like poor lil Treyyvon, who mouthed off one time too many.

“It’s a rather harsh ‘penalty,’ for a simple act of discourtesy, but excresence happens.

“I’ve never known a polite, considerate person to get blown away.”

[franksolich]

Some older gentleman came over here shortly after noon, to drop off Christmas presents from the property caretaker and his wife.  He's a drinking pal of the caretaker at the VFW Club in town, but although I've known his face for eight years now, I don't know his name.

I was told his name when we first met, but I didn't grasp it, and was too embarrassed to admit it.

It looks as if the caretaker and his wife bought franksolich some clothes, although I haven't opened any of the packages yet.  The clothes I buy, I buy at the thrift stores (excepting underwear, of course), because I'm really rough on clothes, as if an 8-year-old boy.  When given clothes as gifts, I treat them as gingerly as if they were the Bayeux Tapestry or the Shroud of Turin.

I'll find out later this week, what's behind the wrapping-paper.

The older gentleman and I talked about the weather.  There's still a couple of inches of snow on the ground, but no ice.  Temperatures all this week are supposed to be only single digits, plus and minus; no precipitation, no wind, in the forecast.

This is the guy with whom I've had many arguments.....about the exact same subject, every time.

He's of the old school, and thinks that in cases of bitterly cold weather, one's supposed to let a motor vehicle warm up.  He thinks I'm ruining cars and trucks (I have a car, but more frequently use one of two newer sedans or one of three newer pick-up trucks owned by other people but left here), because thirty seconds after the ignitions's turned on, I take off.

In my defense, however, I don't take off at full speed.  I got two miles to go to reach the highway on this road:

and so until I reach the highway, I let the motor run at its own speed, which usually for a couple of minutes is 10-15 mph.

It's a never-ending argument.

[Chris_]

If the temperature is below freezing, one generally wants to warm up the engine for at least thirty seconds.

[BlueStateSaint]

I've heard that for cars with a few (teenaged) years on them, this would be a good idea.  Today's cars, however, are pretty much going to warm up better under load; i.e., in gear, at idle, but moving down the road.  I figure that if I'm going to burn the gas, I might as well get some mileage out of it, and I'll let it roll slowly (in D, the RAV will hit 10 to 15 mph at idle) for the first mile or so.

[GOBUCKS]

I've always thought the idea about "warming up" an engine dates back to the days before multi-grade and synthetic motor oils.

Until the engine heated up, in the old days, the oil might not flow and provide lubrication.

I've warmed up my car in really frigid weather, but only so the heater will kick in.

[franksolich]

The property caretaker was over this morning, bringing a couple of presents from people in town, one of them being from the woman who owns the bar, Swede's wife.  He was also checking on some things near the house, because it'd gotten bitterly cold during the night, and was still a few digits below zero by 9:00 a.m.

Swede's wife had given me one of those 5-pound "wheels" of real English cheddar cheese, such as what one finds in catalogues from places selling cases of oranges and apples.

"You know, boss, Swede's worried because he hasn't seen you for a week now.  He wonders if you're ill.

"And just so you know, he took your name off the posted menu."

I mentioned that no, I hadn't been ill, and have been going for my usual cuisine to the VFW Club instead, where the heavy sour dour cook Donna doesn't make commentary on how I like my food.

"And besides," I continued, "I'll see Swede soon enough, on my birthday, when I'll order his most-expensive Italianate delicacies, which should freak him out.

"And then it'll freak him out even more after I'm done, and show him it's my birthday, and so hence the meal's free."

The caretaker grinned, and then commented about all the presents on the dining-room table, "You haven't opened anything yet."

I reminded him it's not Christmas--December 25, to be specific--and I'm not one of these people with poor impulse-control who has to open presents early.  I could wait until it's time.

"But boss, you don't even open your presents up on Christmas day.  You leave them sitting there on the table, maybe every three or four days opening one up, clear until your birthday in March, when you're finally done.

"It's a good thing people who give you perishable stuff, give it to you unwrapped."

Oh, but I'd already opened one I said, showing him the gift from the femme.

"Are those real rocks on there?" he asked.

I showed him by taking a Mason jar of home-made apple jelly, and scratching the glass.

"They're probably only a step above industrial-grade, and they're parts of carats, not full carats, but they're real."

It was a paperweight commemorating the 60th anniversary of the accession of H.M. the Queen, and unfortunately it's not destined to hold down paper, but to repose in the safe-deposit box at the bank, as it's much too valuable to keep out in the open, just like that sterling-silver anniversary-clock under a glass dome commemorating the 25th anniversary of the accession of H.M. the Queen, and the heavy gold letter-opener commemorating the 50th anniversary of the same, along with somesuch other items whose composition is at least partially valuable metals and jewels.

[shoes off the couch]

Excellent. Merry Christmas and don't worry about warming up the vehicle, It'll be fine.

[franksolich]

On Christmas Eve, promptly at 5:00 p.m., I showed up where I was supposed to be, to have dinner with my hostess from Thanksgiving and her extended family.  Besides she and her husband, her niece was there with her family, husband and three adolescent sons.

It was a good time, spend over turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat rolls with real butter, cherry pie, and coffee and milk; what a proper Christmas dinner is.  The conversation was mostly idle chitchat about family and people in town.

Near the end, the matter of Christmas presents came up (like franksolich, they open theirs on Christmas morning, instead of prematurely on Christmas Eve; these are not impatient people wanting quick immediate gratification), and I mentioned that the femme earlier that day had “insisted” I open my present from her, and that I was impressed.

It was a paperweight, in the form of St. Edward’s crown, about as tall as my thumb and of course bigger around, made to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the accession of H.M. the Queen.  It came with a “certificate of authenticity” in a wooden box, alleging it was a “limited edition” and that “only” 6,000 had been made.

I had assumed the stones were fake, until the femme ran one of them along the side of a Mason jar of home-made jelly, scratching the glass--a thing I later demonstrated to the property caretaker.  They’re real diamonds--but only chips of diamonds at that--slightly above industrial grade, but they’re real diamonds.

“That’s a wonderful gift,” my hostess said; “I don’t think anybody could possibly top that.”

I heaved a sigh of relief; I wasn’t to get a Christmas present from her after all.

- - - - - - - - - -

But my hopes were dashed when, upon getting ready to depart, the hostess did give me a present, wrapped in a box about half the size of a shoe-box, with the jeweler’s trademark on the gift-tag, and yes, it weighed about as much as that particular item I had held on Thanksgiving Day, and alas commented upon how wonderful it was.

I was cornered, but sort of left off the hook when she reminded me, “Now, you’re supposed to open it at home, on Christmas Day, not right now.”

In the kitchen, I told the niece, “You know, I really can’t take this; it has tremendous sentimental value to your family, and I’d be a heel to take it away from you.  She means well, but she’d do better having you have it.”

“Oh no,” the niece said; “she’d asked me about it Thanksgiving night, if I minded, and I said of course not.  There’s so many family relics here that this one thing doesn’t amount to anything.  She wants you to have it, and so take it, with all the family’s good wishes.”

Damn.

So I returned home.  It was still bitterly cold, probably either +3 or -3 degrees, something like that, and I put the wrapped present on the dining room table with all the other presents, thinking I’d get around to opening it up sooner or later.

Then I slept for a while, and got up at 4:00 a.m. to start cooking the turkey for the neighbor’s wife, as she’d instructed.  It was far too cold to kick the cats outside, and so I risked keeping them in as I used the natural gas stove, fervently hoping that if it exploded, the cats would merely be flung out over to the next county rather than blown to pieces.

I survived; the turkey got cooked okay, and the neighbor's wife was here circa 9:00 a.m. to finish it up before taking it home.

[franksolich]

By the way, the end.

Alas, franksolich got no primitive for Christmas.