Don't Turn the Page!

Johnny wants me to write about the snake in the basement but I don’t want to write about the snake in the basement.

I mean, I do want to write about the snake in the basement, but I also want to write about fish cakes. I also want to write about so many other things. Like the Raven and the Plastic Cup, the Miracle Mechanic, Andy and the Internet, or the fact that I Stubbed my Second-to-Middle Toe and Broke it -- On my Stairmaster!

Man! I’ve been working so hard on something else these days that all these stories have whizzed by me like public rest rooms on an interstate highway. Meaning, by the time I pick up on the signs, I’ve passed the exit. “Hey! It looks like there might be a … oh, man.”

At least I haven’t wet myself. Not yet.

I absolutely have to write, though, before I forget, about the fact that Johnny lost all the email addresses he collected at the funeral. This doesn’t surprise any of you, does it? I mean, don’t forget we’re talking about a man who’s replaced his green card more times than Johnny Carson did his wives (have I dated myself with that reference? How about J. Lo and fiancés? Courtney Love and diaphragms? Although that last one’s probably not too adept a metaphor, if you know what I’m saying. And if you do know what I'm saying, could you explain it to me, please? Because I’m afraid that it’s disgusting. Thank you.).

Anyway, the point is – or this point is, anyway – that now all of these presumably Irish (or possibly English) people are leaving comments on my blog, and I’ve got no bleeding idea who they are! I mean, well, Mook I know. Johnny remembers about Mook. I think I might have even met her once – right, Mook? Twelve years ago? I was the one who kicked your uncle Mick’s ass at the snooker table. But, Mook, we looked in the pocket of Johnny's Funeral Suit like you said, and your email address simply isn’t there.

And Hubert – Hubert? Are you out there? Are you one of these alleged Irish people, too? I think you might be, but when I tried to find out where you were commenting from, you didn’t even show up on my sitemeter, so I now think you might just be a ghost. Either way, who are you? Johnny’s absent-minded, sure, but Hubert seems to both of us a name that anybody would remember if anybody had been introduced. Especially if the Hubert in consideration was translucent. Or a relative.

So, if I may be permitted a private note to Mook and Hubert and the rest of the whoevers that Johnny so proudly told to read my blog? My email's in my profile. Right over there ---> So please -- please, please, please -- drop us a line. And would those of you who read this be so kind as to spread the word to those who don't? Because Christ knows there’s enough trouble in Johnny’s family these days without the nice ones thinking he’s a yob.

(Oh man, I'm going to hell. I said "Christ knows" and here it is, Maundy Thursday.)

Which brings us right back naturally around to fish cakes. It does. What? Of course it does! Did I not say right up front that I don’t want to write about snakes in the basement?

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind snakes. Really, I don’t. I used to pat them at the Worcester Science Center and therefore know firsthand that they aren’t the least bit slippery or digusting at all. Not like Courtney Love. Shudder. And lord knows I prefer snakes to a spider – or even to these little grey-black spotted beetles we’ve been discovering around the AssVac lately. I don't have any idea what these beetles are. When I try to identify them on the internet, I just keep bumping up against the same general construct, and I plain old don’t want to know what’s going on in the secret nether regions of my house that might call for a forensic entomologist.

I don’t! La la!

So, fish cakes. I mentioned eating them a couple weeks ago and Sparkle asked me for a recipe. I fessed up that I'd bought mine, so my mother kindly posted a recipe there in the comments. You can find it here. But I say “my mother posted a recipe” instead of “her recipe” because I don’t remember ever eating fish cakes when I was growing up. If I we did have them, let me tell you, there is no chance I wouldn't know how they were made.

(Although, to be honest, if we had them, I'd know how to make them but the recipe would go something like this: “A piece of shmo and a slab of shma and a little bit of flour, plus whatever you discover almost-rotting in your crisper drawer.” My mom was (is!) a killer cook, but she’s never been what you call particular about details.)

Okay, so what the hell am I talking about now? Oh, right. The fish cakes. Well, I do not have a recipe. Mom posted one already and if you want the healthy one I got from Charlie you’ll have to comment here and ask her to post it, too. I don’t know how the Christ she gets them to stay in one piece, anyway.

(Oh man, there goes my last best hope at Purgatory.)

I really started writing this here particular blog-post to share my recipe for veggie stew. It is veggy-yummy, and I forgot about it till I was downloading Johnny’s beard-pictures from my camera and saw the shot I’d taken of it weeks ago. Even at the moment that I took it I knew what I planned to say. But then, like a bathroom-break, it fleeted. I’ve been holding it for weeks, now, and I’m fixin’ to explode, so I’ve simply got to get this off my euphemistic chest.

Ahem

So, um, tune in on Friday for

How to Make a Really Yummy Veggie Stew

Oh, and by the way...

JOHNNY FOUND A SNAKE IN THE BASEMENT!!

Oh please. It's just a brown snake. Did you really think, Grover, that there'd be an honest-to-god Monster at the end?