Wednesday, February 24, 2021

Tuesday, January 26, 2021

Public Service Announcement

If the dish you are making calls for garlic, but you're not sure how much you need -- the baseline is one clove for each serving, plus one for the pot.

That's baseline. You may need more if garlic is a featured part of the dish.

We're not in Britain -- think of the children. And if any Gentle Readers happen to be visiting from Jolly Olde England -- USE MORE GARLIC.

Brought to you by the Campaign To Make Food Tasty.


Saturday, January 23, 2021

History didn't begin in 1994

I'd like y'all to meet Charles Curtis. Born in the Kansas Territory in 1860, Mr Curtis was an enrolled member of the Kaw Nation, by way of his mother; and his first languages were French and Kansa. 
A gregarious man, Mr Curtis studied law, and then found himself representing the State of Kansas in the United States Senate, until he was tapped to run as Vice President of the United States in 1928, winning quite handily. 

He served as the 31st VPOTUS for one term -- his running mate was Herbert Hoover, and that didn't bode well -- and resumed his legal career after leaving politics, until passing away in February of 1936. 

He was the first Native American to serve as Vice President; the first multi-racial person to serve as same, and the last unmarried person to hold that office. 

History, kids. It didn't start in 1994. 


Wednesday, January 20, 2021

Aged like fine milk

When George W. Bush became President, he was openly mocked -- anyone else remember "Chimpy McBushitler" -- brazenly disrespected, and political hacks made millions hoping he would fail.

To the cheers of the Left.

Then Barack Obama was sworn in, and suddenly ...

And the Left decided that anyone who treated President Obama the way the Left treated Bush was a traitor, and probably sub-human.

Well, as things do, President Obama left office, and Donald Trump was sworn in. And suddenly "Openly defying ... brazenly disrespecting .. hoping that he fails" not only stopped being "treason", but it took the religious fervor of the Bush years, and turned the knob to 11.


Seasons come and go, and all that, and now a Democrat is back in the Oval Office. And we're supposed to forget the riots -- not to mention the open defiance, brazen disrespect, and hoping for failure -- and make nice.

"Come together", "Unity", and all that.

I would say that's rich, coming from people who spent four years of the Trump Presidency, and 8 years of the Bush Presidency, trying to tear things apart, and spitting upon the idea of "unity", but the Left -- like all other fanatical religions -- can't see their own hypocrisy.

Nah, y'all can take your "unity", fold it until it's all corners, and shove it up until you gag on it.

Nothing but the back of my hand to you.


Requiscat in pace

FarmDad has taken the journey that calls to all of us sooner or later. 

I met him, as I have met a lot of people, on-line. First through comments here, and then I started noticing him during the infrequent times I would try irc, usually he'd be offering laconic thoughts on Things In General. 

He was one of the folks that ferreted out my email address, and I noticed a sharp mind behind those one-liners. When Herself and I received an invitation, along with some other folks, to come out to his place for a weekend, we accepted. 

The first morning I walked into the restaurant where everyone was supposed to meet, I was on edge and twitchy. A rangy man in a worn Carhartt jacket stood up, gave me a firm handshake, looked me in the eye, drawled, "I'm Bob. This is my wife, Jeannie. Coffee in the white jugs. Welcome." He clapped me on the shoulder, and moved off to talk to someone else. And that began a friendship that I have always treasured.

Bob was a product of the rural American West, and when they were polishing him they left some of the bark on.

He was courteous, generous, stubborn, opinionated, and the salt of the earth. If he had a biscuit, and you were hungry, you had a biscuit. If you called Bob because things went rodeo at two in the morning, Bob and Jean would show up in his pickup with tools, and hugs, and a Plan To Put Things Right.

When my heart went squiffy some years back we were in the middle of fixing the porch. I woke up from a doze in the recliner to find Bob looking at me, I blinked, because -- quite frankly -- he was the last thing I expected to see, and he drawled, "Well, you look like [deleted], but not as bad I as expected. You got bottle jacks and outside power?"

Porch got fixed. And the back deck.

If you were wrong, Bob would tell you so; and if you did right, Bob would let you know.

I miss him already. Terribly.

Vaya con Dios, buddy. We'll see you on down the road.


Sunday, January 17, 2021

John Farnam was right

Respected firearms instructor John Farnam has a couple of quotes that I would like folks to meditate upon.

"Don't go stupid places. Don't hang out with stupid people. Don't do stupid things."


"Asking for trouble is a pretty good way to get it."

Matter-of-fact, I would like folks to meditate upon these quotes until about, oh, February. And as far away from Washington DC, and/or any State Capitol as is physically possible.

I understand that folks are irate, but right now ... you can't do any good. There is no way. shape, or fashion -- short of Odin showing up to personally smite some dacoits -- that you can win. 

You can, on the other paw, do a great deal of bad.

Take the anger that you are feeling right now, and channel it into passion. Constructive passion.  Find a candidate who exemplifies what you want in a representative and start -- now -- setting the ground for the 2022 mid-term election. And dedicate the next two years to building that candidate's support.

Stop supporting toxic social media. If you feel that social media is unfairly biased against you -- why are you supporting them with your presence? Facebook, and Twitter, honestly don't give a warm bucket of rat expectorant about you.

They do, however, listen to their pocketbooks. As my friend Jay says, "Money talks, but cash screams." 

Don't just stop posting on social media -- delete your accounts there. Advertisers will notice. The stock market will notice. And shortly thereafter ... the tech oligarchs will notice. Make them whimper.

But don't go to DC for a kittenish little march. There are ten thousand ways that will go bad, and no way for it to go right. Don't go picket your State Capitol, because they're not going to listen.

On Inauguration Day, you don't need to see the Plagiarist Of The United States take his oath of office. Nielsen ratings are still a thing -- turn off your TeeVee that day. Step out on your front porch and flip the bird DC-wise, if you need to, then zorch your Facebook account. Nuke your Twitter account.

If you feel you have to scream your outrage at the whores and catamites in Washington DC, do so from your back porch. You will have exactly the same effect, with little chance of it being used to hurt everyone else.

I'm begging you:  Don't go to DC or your State Capitol. Those are stupid places. Don't go there with your new social media friends, because those are stupid people. And don't protest. They're looking for a reason, and you protesting is stupidity that you're handing them on a silver platter.



Tuesday, December 22, 2020

*cue maniacal laughter*

During the lead-up to the little unpleasantness variously known as "Desert Storm", "The First Gulf War", and "Opening Moves Of The Latest Unending War" the US military instituted a mandatory anthrax vaccination program.

Right, wrong, or indifferent, that vaccine has been blamed for a lot of ills being suffered by veterans of that conflict, so -- out of curiosity, you understand -- I asked some Desert Storm veterans if they were planning on taking the COVID vaccine.

The replies were ... unprintable. One might even say "corrosive in the extreme". The politest response was maniacal laughter, followed by, "You're serious? [Deleted] that, ask me again after someone else has guinea-pigged it for a couple of years."

I haven't seen any outreach towards those folks, or to the families and caretakers of those folks afflicted with Gulf War Syndrome, who (correctly or incorrectly) attribute that condition to the mandatory vaccine.

Nothing on the media, or from the

Y'all might want to get ahead of the curve on that one.

Just saying.


Monday, December 14, 2020


Well, looks like Joe Biden is the new President of the United States.

I offer my congratulations to him, and I solemnly promise to show his Presidency the same grace and support his followers showed his predecessor.

Sauce for the goose being sauce for the gander, and all that.


Merry Christmas, my friends ...

 ... And Happy Holidays!


Sunday, December 13, 2020


Every so often I am reminded that there are massive divisions between the Southwest and the rest of this great Nation, and never so much as the Christmas Season and Drug Deal Tamales.

For those poor, un-tamaled folks outside of the Southwest, this Season heralds the appearance of Little Old Mexican Ladies -- or their representatives -- who bring tamales.

Now, most Health Departments have rules, regulations, and ordinances regarding the things you have to do before you are allowed to sell pre-made foodstuffs.

On the other paw, most abuelitas don't give to hoots in hell about the regs concerning commercial food productions -- nor do they have any interest in ponying up the fees and other dosh required to become sanctified by the Bureacracy.

So, a lot of these tamales are sold on the sly -- depending on how tolerant the local Health Department is. They'll be a battered pickup, or four-door car in a parking lot, you pass over cash and receive a ziplock baggie containing a brick-sized lump of tinfoil with Heaven stuffed into little cornhusk packets.

Or someone in your office knows someone, who knows someone, and will pass along your order, or take up a collection.

Yes, you can get tamales from actual, certified restaurants and suppliers, but I've never had tamales as good as those from a random Mexican grandmother, passed over still steaming, and wolfed down at a stop-light, or in the driveway.

These tamales -- either pork or chicken -- are a big part of Christmas for me, and I kind of feel sorry for those folks in other parts of the Country who have never had them.



Saturday, October 24, 2020

Just saying

Folks, if you don't know that "coyote" is a word for a person who is paid to smuggle people across the Southern border into the United States, then you don't know enough about unlawful immigration to have an opinion on the subject. 

 That goes double for politicians. 


Saturday, October 03, 2020

Tales Around The Supper Table

Well, that was faster than I thought.

A snippet: 
"Peace, seidrman."

It was a whisper, barely louder than the breeze around us, and conveyed the same kind of quality you would expect if a Harlequin romance novel went emo, got a Ph.D in Literature, and spent a century or so wandering through a thesaurus trying out complicated synonyms for boredom. I took a closer look: it was a male, model-thin and pale white, with shoulder-length hair that the breeze fluttered playfully about. His face had never seen acne, nor a whisker, and came equipped with a chin you could split logs with. The chest was bare to what Texas thinks of as an autumn chill, also completely hairless and cut with a decent amount of muscles above skin-tight leather pants. I knew, just knew, that the eyes would be blue and piercing.

I gave the lady a little shove in its direction, safed and holstered the Wilson, before closing my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose and gently shaking my head. “You brought a vampire into Wichita Falls? Are you nuts?”

My ears flicked around as I noticed the sleepy annoyance radiating from the gravestones. Thing is: a vampire isn’t an undead. A vampire is a dead body that got colonized by a mostly-sentient fungus with aspirations and a really good PR team. And they tend to annoy the actual undead.

The lady waved a hand dismissively, “It’s not like we’re in Chicago, or New Orleans, or L.A., even. I think Jean-Pierre can handle Podunk easy enough.”

I was willing to bet that before his corpse got colonized by the magical equivalent of over-sexed mildew, what was standing in front of me was named Phil, or Bob, or Frank, but that’s a damned vampire for you.

This time the whisper had overtones that could be best described as attempting to muster enough Give-A-Damn to become a sneer: “I, who taught Machiavelli, who played the intricacies of the Court of Louis Catorce the way Mozart played with music. I have little to fear from these mortals.

“Yeah, well, they don’t do ‘intricacy’ around here. They do dynamite and bulldozers at noon.” I attempted to poke the lady somewhere that I wouldn’t get slapped for, fail, and settled for making finger quotes, “And the next time I see you, it’ll be in a solemn press release from the Sheriff’s Office lamenting you getting your ass killed while resisting arrest.”

She cocked her head at me, trying to conceal her amusement at the thought of the rube attempting to protect her, while the vampire leaned against the side of a mausoleum, probably getting ennui all over the marble. Eww.

If you want the rest, you'll have to buy the book.