Category Archives: Life

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Why does anyone still use parsley to garnish food? And then there’s the larger question of why anyone would garnish food – put something (barely) edible on a plate just to make it look better by some outdated standard or custom. The food itself should be attractive, and should need decorating. What a waste, unless my suspicions are true and seedier diners and other restaurants wash off and re-use their sprigs of parsley from plate to plate, customer to customer.

Traveling on business, I got up early to run out for breakfast at the local “Bob Evans,” Down on the farmmm.” I was the first customer and was waited upon immediately by a pleasant woman who took my usual order: Fake eggs (Egg Beaters or some other brand of yellow colored egg whites), hash browns, wheat toast, lightly buttered and a small orange juice. And I opened my copy of the USA Today that I picked up in the hotel’s lobby.

Seconds later – I’m not kidding, it was the fasted food ever, like getting gas at a NASCAR pit stop. – my breakfast was in front of me. As you can see, there were the eggs, the hash browns and a strangely hard and flavorless slice of tomato. I knew this about the tomato because I had had the same breakfast the day before. I didn’t want the tomato, but that at least it was a vegetable people regularly eat. And then there’s the ubiquitous sprig of parsley artfully laid on top of the tomato. In light of the recent news about an outbreak of potentially deadly food-born disease in Germany, I thought for a moment I heard the little sprig singing to me to the tune of those annoying Swiss lozenge commercials… “E-co-liiiii.”

I was in hurry. With no one to talk to over breakfast, I wolfed down my food and was done barely 10 minutes later. “Yum.” (I’m kidding. Eating on the road isn’t nearly as glamorous as many people think. You’ve got tons to do, and way too little time to do it. Eating when you’re traveling on business, particularly in small towns and on a reasonably limited budget, is more about survival than gastronomical delight.)

You saw my plate before I ate. Now take a look at the after-shot. Notice anything? (The parsley! I’m talking about the parsley.) It’s still there. No surprise. Let’s take a survey. Would everybody who’s ever actually eaten his or her sprig of parsley raise his or her hand?

“Yes? …You there in the blue bowling shirt and Buddy Holly glasses. Where is that, Kansas? …You’re the only person with your hand up and waving it like you have a question?”

“I do,” he said, pushing his glasses up to bridge of this nose. “What does parsley taste like?”

“Excellent question. Most people don’t know. Suffice it to say that it’s bitter and otherwise unpleasant. No one but Food TV cooking show hosts actually uses in their food except, in an emergency, to “complement” (or kill) the taste of some other flavor.”

And yet, there it is. Parsley. Personally, I rather they use dandelions. They’re free and conveniently located in places such as my neighbor’s lawn. They have all those nice yellow petals that would match my eggs, brighten my day and I could smear them on things like I used to do when I was a kid. …I’m not sure, but aren’t they edible too? Is dandelion wine a real thing, or just a figment of some folk singer’s imagination?

-wf

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Why doesn’t everyone where cargo pants? Let’s start by listing the pros…

They’re substantially more comfortable than the business “slacks” that so many men wear to their white collar jobs. Yes, that’s right. I said “slacks,” not “pants” to make the point that, whatever your age or lack of it, wearing khakis or their dressier equivalent is old school, and not in a good way. For all intents and purposes, you’re wearing your father pants.

They’re more durable. Pants that last longer cost you less.

They’re easier to manufacture because the pockets are on the outside. And the pockets last longer because they’re made of more durable, exterior grade material.

Most importantly, they hold more. Not just more of the usual stuff, wallets, cell phones, little packages of Kleenex, but other things – like sandwiches and Baby Ruths that wouldn’t fit or would be squished in regular pants pockets.

They not only hold more stuff, it’s easier to get that stuff out without having to squirm or unhook your seatbelt and risk the wrath of an overzealous flight attendant. (“Sir,” she said sternly, “would you puh-lease keep your seatbelt fastened.” There’s no question mark because she wasn’t asking. This is the same flight attendant who, only moments ago, bending over to help the gentlemen seated across the aisle from me, thrust her tush into my face so suddenly and extensively (“Yikes!”) that I instinctively recoiled into the space of the woman sitting in the middle seat to my right – who thought I was, who know what. Trust me, this tush-thrusting was not the pleasant sexually suggestive experience some of you may be thinking. Are you kidding? Lesser reflexes and I could have been seriously hurt.)

They come in a variety of styles with as few or as many pockets as your sensibilities can tolerate. If you like, you can start simple and work your way up gradually, depending upon your coworkers’ reactions.

And now the cons…

It’s hard to escape the notion that you’ve just returned from a safari and haven’t had time to change before coming going to the office.

Cargo pants are unequivocally casual.

That’s it. I mean, that’s it? Yes. Those are the only drawbacks.

Now com’on, admit it. I’ve made a very, very persuasive case. You’d really prefer to wear cargo pants to your next presentation or Board meeting, you just aren’t man enough, not confident enough to make a fashion statement, even one this practical. You fancy yourself to be a trendsetter, but you’re not. How pathetic.

My advice is that you grow a pair and take those cargo pants you keep in your closet to wear on weekends, slip them on, one leg at a time, and fill up all those pockets. Go ahead. I dare you. Now go to the office, and let me know how your day goes, and about the promotion you thought you were going to get. I want good news… so I can get up the nerve to wear mine to work.

-wf

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Why do restaurants – upscale, moderate and low end, it doesn’t make any difference – insist on having their wait staff interrupt your meals, your conversations, your most personal and professional moments to ask, “Is everything okay?” (“Well, it was until you asked.”)

“Honey?” she says seductively, reaching between her class of wine and the votive candle, across the soft linen tablecloth to touch the back of my hand. “…Why don’t we skip..”

“So how are you folks doing?”

Get my point. Or maybe, “And so, Mr. Goldman, do we have a deal?” I ask after my pitch perfect over dinner closing presentation. Mr. Goldman straightens up, his head actually bobbing vertically, unable to suppress the hint of a smile, “I think,” he begins to tell me in a seriously deep voice, “I can speak for Mr. Sachs when I say, ‘Congrat…”

“And was the Salmon everything I promised? …More wine?”

Where was that guy when my last girlfriend was in the process of dumping the living crap out of me?

For one thing, I’m way too nice a guy to tell the waiter the truth, that the fish was too salty, the vegetables overdone and the wine too bitter. (If I were more sure of myself, I’d have ordered a sweet rosé instead of one those dark, overpriced wines real men pretend to like.) No, I’m way too nice. “Everything’s fine, thank you,” I tell him. “Now please go away before your obnoxiousness blows any chance I have of getting lucky tonight.” ..Yeah, I wish. (“And I was this close,” I think to myself, desperately wondering how I can reclaim the moment.)

I was on the road last week where I had breakfast at a Bob Evans, “Down on the farm.” I was there 20 minutes, during which the waitress asked me no fewer than 3 times how I was doing, and the manager came over once to inquire for herself. Did I have a particularly severe scowl on my face? Was I grumbling something awful while I wolfed down my fake eggs (Egg Beaters) and hash browns? No. I was reading through the morning stories at MSNBC.com on my cell phone. I think I need to smile more while I’m chewing my food.

-wf

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Why are hotel trashcans so small? Do they think we’ll make less trash if there’s no place to put it?

I’ve been traveling a lot lately, staying at small town Marriott Courtyards. See the picture of my trash can. I left the hotel pen on the floor to give you an idea of its size, the trash can that is, and because it (the pen) rolled off my tiny desk without me noticing. No comment on my late evening eating habits, please. I want you to know that, behind the Pepsi bottle and the box of Brent & Sam’s chocolate chip pecan cookies, is an empty bottle of Ocean Spray Apple Juice. It’s the bottle with the blue top. So there. I also had a York Peppermint Pattie which I kept in my room’s refrigerator until it was perfect.

Sure, the trash cans may be too small, but then the plastic liners in them are too short. Somehow, it all makes sense. (Who buys this stuff?) I’m pretty sure the liners are made by the same people – may even be the same bags as the ones that come in the ice buckets, which are also too short and fall into the bucket as soon as the first cube hits them. I’ve tried holding my hands around the outside of the bucket as if I was strangling it, but then I have no way to push on the dispenser.

Nice lamp. What do you think?

-wf

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

I’ve decided to help the country tidy up a bit. To that end, here are some things I don’t understand that shouldn’t be too hard to fix. I’ll publish another one every now and then. In the meantime, maybe you can suggest one or two of your own.

By the way, “wuf” is the way you say “wf” which is the how I sign my posts. It’s “wf” for “WordFeeder.”

So why are restaurant booth seats too low? More to the point, why would the restaurant want me to feel short? Maybe if I brought a baggy full of Cherrios and a sippy cup for my beer, management would get the point.

-wf