1

And This Is Why I Always Wash “Pre-washed” Salad Mixes

Two people were recommended for post-exposure rabies treatment after a consumer in Florida reported finding a dead bat in a packaged salad mix, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention said Saturday.

The bat was sent to the CDC after it was found in a bag of Fresh Express Organic Marketside Spring Mix.
“The deteriorated condition of the bat did not allow for CDC to definitively rule out whether this bat had rabies,” the Atlanta-based agency said.
The CDC said the risk of rabies transmission was extremely low but not zero, so the two people who ate salad mix were recommended for treatment as a precaution.
They are fine and show no signs of having rabies, the CDC said.
How can you not notice a deteriorated bat in your salad before you eat it?
Image result for bat in salad
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6

Idle Hands Are The Trumps’ Playground

So. I’ve been trying these past few weeks to wrap my head around the outcome of the presidential election. I haven’t been very successful at it. I take a lot of deep breaths and tell myself to calm down, it can’t possibly be as bad as I imagine it will be.

But as it turns out—it already is.

Der Führer went on a “victory tour” yesterday and exulted in his crushing defeat of his foe (nevermind those 3 million more votes she got, which weren’t illegally gained, by the way.) He railed against the “dishonest” media, yet again, and continued his call for flag burning to be cause for loss of one’s citizenship, despite the fact that that has been proven to be un-Constitutional.

Hey, no biggie. Or bigly. Der Führer is calling the shots and when he says throw out the Constitution, we will respond by saying “How far?”

Anyhoo. I am tired of waking up in a cold sweat at 3:00 in the morning. During menopause I used to wake up in a hot sweat. I’ll take that over this any day.

So I’ve been pushing myself to get crafty (not Trump crafty, but actual craft-making crafty) and make some Christmas decorations. Since my maternal great-grandparents were from Norway, I used to have several of those red and white paper woven heart baskets that I had made when my son was a baby—50 years ago now.

But, cue the violins, all of my Christmas decorations were stolen from a storage unit a couple of years ago by a Grinch-like thief, so I decided to make some more.

This time out of felt.

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Then, figuring I’m on a roll (and hoping my fingers will last a little longer before going numb from the exertion), I found some designs on the interwebs for a Dala horse and a bird. These two are pretty small, around two to three inches in length, but my artificial Christmas tree is pretty small too, so they should work just fine.

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Then, my daughter saw them and requested a little larger Dala horse in slightly retro colors to go with her decor.

Et voilà!

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And lastly, in an “idle hands are the Trumps’ playground” fervor, I souped up a standard gingerbread house my grandkids sold to raise money for their school. It came pre-assembled with a kind of puny pack of candy and a bag of white royal icing.

I, however, had biglier plans.

I went to Walmart and bought a couple packages of pre-made cake decorations in the shape of Christmas lights and also a bag of red cookie icing. Then, being on a felt “bender,” I made a 3-D Snoopy.

The decorating process was somewhat excruciating—the royal icing was too watery at first and then too dry and kept oozing out of the zip-lock bag they provided. I always say “Next year I make my own!” and this time I mean it. If Alton Brown can do it, so can I.

The results were pretty satisfying, even though I was a wreck by the time I finished.

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So, that’s what I’ve been doing to try to retain my sanity. How about you?

How are you coping in the post-Trumpian Apocalypse?

5

Yes. Let’s Go Back to the “Good Old Days.”

From a Trump rally in Janesville, Wisconsin:

As Trump spoke, some listened. Peggy Sue Metz, 47, a trucking dispatcher from Rockton, Illinois, lamented not making it inside and being forced to share the sidewalk with the protesters, who she suspected, were raised with the values of unionized schoolteachers rather than those of their own parents. “It would be nice go back to the days when the father worked and could support five kids and the mother could stay home and raise the kids properly,” she said.

In other words, Donald Trump will make sure women stay pregnant and in the kitchen if he’s elected.

 

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0

How to Be Your Own Crazy Uncle at Thanksgiving

From Politico written by Matt Lattimer:

Target: Your brother-in-law, the loyal Jeb! donor

Arrival: Emerge from a black stretch limousine with gold trim, undercarriage lights, license plate reading: NUMBER 1.

Cocktail hour: Bring your own wine, from your private vineyard—the greatest vineyard in the world. It puts Napa to shame, OK? Offer some to your Bush-loving brother-in-law, who is a teetotaler, and also the host. When he says no, pour the wine into his glass anyway. Say: “Maybe this’ll give you some energy.” Refer to him constantly by an emasculating nickname (Mr. Snooze, Four Percent, Hot Pants). Get the kids onboard with this early.

Dinner: Your over-the-top opinion is required on everything. The cranberry sauce is not good; it’s “fantastic.” The stuffing isn’t just bad; it’s “a total disaster.” Spice up your anecdotes with absurd claims. The White House was named after Betty White. You were the inspiration for the Terminator. If nobody takes the bait, quickly ratchet them up: Many leading rabbis have privately told you that Moses was a “really big Christian.” When anyone objects, deny you just said that, then repeat it as fact as soon as your brother-in-law tries to speak again.

After dinner: Turn the largest available TV to the football game and spend all your time alternately praising Tom Brady (who is not playing) and blasting every other player as a “no-talent loser.” Elbow the kids away from the Monopoly table to show them “how the game is really played.” Start with the Teamsters (you) skimming 10 percent of all rent on the hotels or else “there’s going to be some really ugly accidents.” Hand the 13-year-old banker a $50 under the table. When he notices it’s real, tell him, “There’s more where that came from, OK?” Regardless of actual results, declare victory.

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10

Wasabi-flavored Kit Kat Bars and Doughnuts

There was an article in The New York Times today entitled,

“You Probably Don’t Want to Look in the Crisper.”  

It features eleven of New York’s top chefs and what the insides of their refrigerators look like.  Whether you’re a “foodie” or not, it’s worth a read:  click here.

Here’s my cartoon of what Julia Child might have secretly kept in her fridge.

 

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9

Methinks the Lady Doth Protest Too Much

Note from the Eldercare Underground:  Nutrition Nazi Edition

Went over to see my mother at the Hotel today after my Zumba class.

I figure if I can withstand 45 minutes of strenuous (but fun) dance routines to songs like Shakira’s “Rabiosa” and Arash’s “Boro Boro,” I can withstand 45 minutes of visiting with my mother.  Fun not necessarily included.

Plus, the sound systems for Zumba and my mother’s TV share about the same decibel range for creating nerve deafness, give or take the loss of a few inner ear hair cells.

When I got there, she had just finished having her lunch in the dining room. 

The Retirement Center (aka the Hotel, as I call it) has chef prepared meals that are nutritionally balanced.  The noon meal is typically the largest one of the day, with the evening meal being lighter due to the elderly clientele’s general preference for that kind of thing.

When my mother and I go out anywhere for lunch, she always complains about the size of the portions of the meals, to which I always tell her she doesn’t have to eat it all if she doesn’t want to.  Everybody has different appetite levels and not everyone eats like a sparrow like she does.

Being the Virgo that she is (laser-like in her observations of others), she has taken to commenting to me about the eating habits of her tablemates in the Hotel’s dining room.  She observed that several of them usually left most of their vegetables untouched on their plates. 

The other day she said that none of her friends had eaten their carrots, even though she’d told them “You’ll eat your carrots and like it!” 

(Some of you may remember this is similar to what she’d told my brother at a family dinner years ago, right after he’d told her he couldn’t eat a particular Mexican dish because he was allergic to cilantro.  Pay no attention to that man swelling up with anaphylactic shock over there.)

So today she launched into a critique of the lunch; its size being too big, its general fat content being too much, and the fact that the pumpkin pie they served for dessert had a huge mound of whipped topping on it that was just too much for words, so on and so forth ad infinitum.

I started to say that she didn’t have to eat all the dishes of the main course if she wasn’t that hungry and that she could always scrape off some of the offending topping if she so desired, but I was quickly cut off when she casually remarked:

“But, I ate it.”

Ah.  I see. 

And I’m sure she liked it, too.