Real Time Blogging

“ Joe, just fast forward through the commercial, please!.”
Tonight, my wife and I were watching television. We had DVR’d the program we were watching, it had broke for a commercial but I had to get up off the couch to visit the bathroom. My thought was … why fast forward through the commercials when I have to take a break anyway. So I excused myself, let it play on and came downstairs to do my thing. I had just finished up when from the next room I heard the familiar “You’ve got mail!” coming from my computer. I could still here Antonio Banderas masquerading as a bee selling nasal spray coming from upstairs, so I decided to quickly check my mail.
“ Joe, what are you doing down there? The commercials are almost over.”
“I’ll be right there honey.” I answered. The email was alerting me to a new comment on a “Practically Wisdom” post. This is too exciting for me. I have to check it out. I’ve been working hard at trying to make new friends in the blogging community. I’ve been researching how to get others to read my posts. So far I’ve fueled my blog (which I’m sure will soon cost me about $4.00 a gallon) … I’ve begun “blog rolling” (when I showed my wife all she could do is roll her eyes … she’s not easily impressed) … I’ve signed up for and I’m still trying to understand “feed burning” (well, I’ve fueled it, why not burn now) … and I’ve been spending too much time on other people’s blogs, trying to make funny comments on their posts hoping someone will read them and ask themselves, “Who’s Practically Joe? I think I’ll check him out.”
“Joe, I’ve paused it now, hurry up! Are you coming back?”
”Yes dear, I’ll be right there.” (she’s gonna come down here soon) … anyway … where was I? Oh yeah … So I’m spending a lot of time blog reading and not blog writing (sorry I still haven’t mastered the blogging lingo yet) … there’s a lot of funny people out there. I want to put them all on my “Practically Friends” blogger’s list. It’s all good! I’m enjoying the humor, each writer’s uniqueness, their followings and their comments. I did receive a few comments since I studied up and put myself out there. It really feels good to know someone other than my family has read my posts.
“Joe, I’m going to bed if you’re not coming back up!” ”
That was her just then, did you hear her? She seems to enjoy my posts, although she’s not happy that I write about her a lot. (Hey, I got to get my material somewhere, right?) “Joe, have your fun writing about me but if you ever put my picture on there, I’ll kill ya!”, she said to me one day. She never uses the computer on her own. She has an AOL email address and has never used it; even AOL doesn’t know she has it. When she reads my blog, I have to do everything for her. She hasn’t the slightest clue how to get it up on the screen. However, she does like to move the screen up and down with the mouse wheel.
“Joe!!!”
“Shit! You scared the hell out of me! You even made me type s-h-i-t!” She snuck down and has been standing behind me without me knowing. I’m being really brave here … still typing. Wait a sec … I just know she’s gonna say something else. (I’m getting a little scared here)
“You’re supposed to be watching TV upstairs with me. What the hell are you doing?”
Wow … this is real cool … I’m writing this as I’m answering her … “Hon, I just got an email … someone commented on my blog, isn’t this exciting? I just have to see who it is and what they said.”
“Well, who is it and what did they say?”
“I’m not sure yet, let me see … It’s from … Anonymous and they want me to know the steak is good at the Wadhurst restaurant.” … “Isn’t this great?”
“Hmmm. Goodnight, I’m going to bed.”
“Okay honey, I’ll join you as soon as I post this. Goodnight.”

Guess What's Cookin' ... Me!

“Hi, my name is Joe and I like to tan.”
As far back as I can remember I’ve spent each summer perfecting a tan. At the slightest hint of spring, the race is on to cook myself. I don’t want to be that guy on the beach with the white hairy legs and tanned left driving arm. Even worse, I think I’d rather die then be Mr. Tee Shirt lines.
Attempts to prevent this embarrassment include taking advantage of sunny days in April, laying out in the back yard wearing nothing but swim trunks, socks and a scarf until my goose bumps caused shadowing. Well, I’ve now taken it to a new level.
It’s only May and I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but I’m practically tanned. Yep, about 95% of my body is a darker shade of pale. Lord knows I’ve abused myself over the years, but all former vices aside, this is Practically Joe, right now, living on the edge. Despite all the warnings, I have discovered indoor tanning and I’ve done it weekly since last November. My wife went to Florida after Thanksgiving and I went to Tanamania, down the street. At least for a while, we looked like we vacationed together.
So there! I’ve admitted it. I look danger in the eye but I'm the one wearing goggles. Go ahead ... check my eyelids, they're part of the 5% of me not tanned.
Oh, and you should remove your socks, I learned the hard way. It will take my feet and ankles a few more visits to catch up.
So, let me share a few things I’ve learned in case you might ever want to give indoor tanning a try.
I prefer the tanning booth to the tanning bed.
One time using the bed was enough for me. It was like being a burger patty on a George Forman grill.

Plus, there was work involved. You have to spray and wipe down the top and bottom of the bed after each session. You might want to spray it before each session as well. (My apologies to the person who used bed #3 after my session.) I also found it difficult getting in and out of the thing. It’s high off the floor (there should be a step), it’s difficult to close once you’re in it (you pull the lid down but then your arm is bent and because you’re like … in a griddle … you can’t straighten it back down) and you have to be good at sit ups (because once you’re done you can’t grab the top to help yourself out because it comes right back down and you’re laying there again with your bent arm.)

The booth, on the other hand, is quite easy.
Open the door … step in … close the door … undress … tan … open the door again … step out … and you’re done. Oops!! Wait! … open the door … run back in … close the door … get dressed … then open the door … then step out … and your done.
"Crap!!! That was embarrassing ... Now I'm turning red."

Not Your Average Practically Joe

“Joe, let’s not cook tonight?”
My wife and I felt like going out for dinner the other night.
We decided on a place called “Not Your Average Joe’s”
On their website, NYAJ’s describes themselves as creative, casual, cuisine.
They go on to say that if you like creative dishes that are innovated and unique; enjoy coming to a restaurant dressed as you are even though the food is worth dressing up for, and like the idea that they have cuisine (meaning they apply high standards of culinary art to everything they make) ... well then you should eat here. They add … if this restaurant sounds like your kind of place then, just like the others who go there, you are not your average Joe. Hey, that was clever. But, what if I’m “Practically Joe”?
We went because they invited us over for fancy looking dishes and blue jean cuisine. Besides, it’s on the way to our daughter’s house where we planned to stop later after having a bite to eat.
But tonight’s dining experience will be a little weird for me … here’s how it unfolds.
“We should of called ahead, I hope we don’t have to wait.”
Here we go. I named a dozen other places on the way, as we were 10 minutes into the 25-minute drive, even though I knew it didn’t matter. I was just covering my bases. We pull into the parking lot she says …
“Look at all the people hanging around, there’s a long wait, you go in and find out how long the wait is.”
I squashed this suggestion by parking in the furthest space from the door I could find and then saying ... “Don’t make me have to walk all the way there and back, just come with me now, I’m sure it not too long a wait.” Translation … a beer or two while waiting and the time will fly by.
“I’m really hungry, I wish it wasn’t so long a wait, where’s the beeper?”I answer, “We can go somewhere else (knowing she’s here to stay but I have to cover my bases), it won’t be that long and the beeper’s in my pocket (okay, so I like it when it vibrates), lets have a drink.”
I can bet on what comes next (it’s a 50-50 shot). She’s reading the drink menu and barely audibly talking to herself … “margarita? … martini? … what’s a mojito?? … wine? … hmmm, a wine-spritzer? … don’t see that on here …”, then … (I should of bet because I know her so well) …
“I’ll just have a Bud Light bottle … no glass.”
She always emphasizes the “no glass” … and she’ll send the glass back if one is accidently delivered. I just love her. Then, on to the next predictable topic of conversation as we wait …
“Let’s look at a menu so we’ll be ready to order when we’re seated.”
This is actually a great idea … if it worked. We both went through the entire menu changing our minds over and over again until we finally decided. Later, when ordering our meals, she will definitely change her mind on the spot and order some type of salad. I will not be upstaged and order something else as well (just to show her I can do it too) but of course I’ll most likely order something I really didn’t want and regret it through the entire meal … She’s definitely better at that than I am.
We are finally buzzed (oh, what a nice surprise, this feels good) …
“Joe, what’s with the stupid look? Is that buzzing coming you’re your pocket?”
Busted!
So the hostess finally leads us to our table and this is when it becomes a bit weird. I hope you can clearly envision this. The section we were led to was the type where there is a long wall with cushioned seats with a bunch of two-top tables running along it with a chair across the table for the other diner ... sort of like what’s shown in the picture, only this bench curved at the end making it a two-cushioned seating arrangement with a chair option. Being “practically” a gentleman, I offer her the cushioned seat as usual but then … my wife, seizing an opportunity, suggests …
“Joe, sit here next to me, on the cushioned bench.” Kind of perplexed, I reluctantly agreed and awkwardly sat at the curved section, next to her. Big mistake! I immediately became uncomfortable, not physically, my butt was happy, but mentally uncomfortable like “oh-oh” uncomfortable. The hostess, smiling at how cute we were sitting so close says, “let me remove this chair to give you more leg room. I now saw my only escape route being carried away. I am now feeling like I’m sitting at the head of a really long dining room table with a dozen or so unfamiliar guests focusing in on me.
Noticing me looking like a deer caught in headlights, she asks …
“Honey, what’s wrong, don’t you want to sit next to me?”
Barely hearing her ask, all I can see is this … Then five silent seconds go by and a fellow at the next table (2 feet away) asks … “Have you been here before? Try the steak tips they’re really good. Where are you guys from?” … Then my wife …
“Oh, we’re from Peabody, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.”
All the while, the others diners down the line studied me for reactions, as they chewed, chuckled and I sincerely think … felt for me (again, as they chuckled.)
Finally, when the conversation with the next table became a little uncomfortable even for her, she turns to me and seeing me staring daggers at her, she innocently asks …
“What???”
From there we argue back and forth, me trying to understand why she, all of a sudden, wants me next to her instead of across from her … and she, continually suggesting that I go look for my friggin’ chair … and them (our dining guests), still looking down the table at me, now whispering while covering their mouths so I can’t read their lips … I stand up and say …
“That’s it! I'm sorry dear. I’ll be right back, I need to find my chair, I can’t enjoy my meal if I can’t look into your beautiful eyes.”
“Oh honey, that’s so sweet. Hurry back.”
Yep, as soon as all our guests get up and leave.

Dance, Dance, Dance!

Last week was the end of the season for Survivor.
This week the American Idol season ended.
Now starts another one of my favorites ... "So You Think You Can Dance!"

Here's a little something that got me warmed up for the two hour opener.

The Landscaping Scissors

Today, being that it was my day off, I got to mow the lawn.
Just like most tasks I perform, there are certain rituals involved to get the job done properly. For instance, there is grass on all four sides of the house and there are doors on three of the four sides. So the first thing I do is open the inside doors and then make sure I unlock the screen doors associated with each. The opened doors allow me to retreat into the house quickly and easily, whether it is because I really have to pee or if I accidently disturb another hornet’s nest. Simply opening the doors from the inside without unlocking the screen door immediately causes cussing and sometimes a quick “plan B”, which reminds me I need to get a couple of screens fixed.
My mower is a trusty machine; it was used and abandoned before it came to live with us. It has front wheel drive and has an add-on clippings catcher. Over the past six years since my son-in-law gave it to us after he fixed it up for a customer of his who never paid his bill to reclaim it, I have never done anything but add gas a number of times and replaced an air filter only once when it was suffering from a cough. I’m not sure how often it was used before we got it, but I must’ve put over a couple of thousand yards (no pun intended) on it myself.
The ritual needed to be performed to get our mower going is this … I roll it out of the shed, pump the little rubber gas thingy 15 times and pull the cord thingy twice. The first pull is so easy I almost fling my arm back out of my shoulder socket, while the second pull always seems as though the mower is pulling back playing tug of war with me. It’s okay. This happens every time. Next, I pump the rubber gas thingy another 10 times only at a slower pace than I used the first time. While developing this process, I’ve discovered that pushing the gas thingy different amounts of times resulted in various types of problems, like hic-cupping, motor seizures, billowing black smoke and one time I swear it electrically shocked me. So, after a number of trials “10” times and only “10” times does the trick. After the tenth pump, I pull the cord and the motor starts up … but for only 4 to 5 seconds. I then quickly pump the gas thingy 3 more times, wiggle the spark plug wire connection and pull the cord once more and then it starts with a puff of smoke and finally continues running, ready to kick some grass butt.
I now go into my section and cut routine. I have to start from the outer edge of the grass area, closest to the shed, and circle the entire house so that I am always closing in on the landing area. The landing area is the last patch of grass to be cut. Usually there’s one of those big tall paper-recycling bags waiting there for the clippings. Sometimes I also leave a beverage or cookie there as well … you know, like a reward for completing my chore. So around and around I go, from the back of the house to the side of the house to the front of the house, following only the perimeter of the tall grass until I actually get so excited when I have to veer out of the way of the bag and my reward as the tall grassy area diminishes into one last foot wide strip.
There is one difficult area where timing and accuracy really matters.
In a previous post, My Little Brown Friends, I mentioned my neighbor has a landscaping crew who comes to cuts his lawn and yard. Well, between our yards is one of those coral type fences, you know the kind the cowboys always jump over when the horse they’re attempting to convince to wear a saddle bucks and kicks and chases them trying to bite them in the ass.
Because our mower is difficult to manuever under this fence, I must figure out which day the landscapers are coming (usually a Tuesday) and cut my grass before they arrive. This way, after they wiz by the fence on their big ass, sit down type tractor mower there remains a half-foot patch of uncut grass from the front of the yard to the back of the yard, under the fence, separating the two yards. I love sitting on the back porch drinking my beverage, eating my cookie and watching the poor dude with the weed-whacker trim the edge of my grass. Afterall, like I said, it’s a tough spot to mow.
In the end, I roll the mower back into the shed; I empty out the add-on clippings catcher into the brown paper sack and I head back into the house. I lock all the screen doors, close and lock the three inner doors, shower and begin to prepare dinner for the wife and me.
A half-hour later … “”Honey, I’m home. Nice job cutting the grass.”
“Of course it’s a nice job”, I think to myself. ”Oh Joe, by the way, I moved the clipping’s bag you left in the middle of the back yard. I guess you didn't realize there’s a patch of tall grass still uncut where the bag was sitting?”
“Oh crap, Where are the scissors?”

Pow! We Deliver

"Joe, can we get an order of scallion pancakes?"
Sure honey, those skinny thin crusty things filled with fake onions sounds yummy. I’ll order them for you. I’m gonna have the greasy, spicy spareribs, the kind where you don’t even have to mess with a bone. Dip them in the sweet sauce, then dunk them in the hot yellow stuff …. Mmmm mmmm … I love that “up your nose almost making you have to sneeze feeling!”
"Okay Joe … I’ve decided … I’ll have the fried tofu with vegetables in the spicy pepper sauce."
Wow, my wife’s living on the edge today. She chose something with the word “fried”. Okay … let’s see … I should order something that has some veggies. Veggies are supposed to be good for you. What’s with the chop suey, and the chow mein and then subgum? Does it mean the veggies are chewy? Oh geez, forget the veggie idea. Hmmmm … moo shi … no that has those water lily flowers in it, who knows if some frog crapped on them. Forget the poo-poo platter, I like what’s on it but I just can’t get past the name. Moo Goo Guy pan … cows and guy goo in a pan? … I don’t think so!
"Joe!!! You going to pick something or what???"
Yeah, yeah, sit tight in your rickshaw will ya honey, I’m deciding already.
"Joe, you know I have 20-20 hearing, don’t get smart with me. Pick something, I’m starving."
“Sorry honey.” (I have to stop thinking so loud.) Where was I? Szechuan, Polynesian, Hunan, Human? Wonton, don’t wantton? Pork this, pork that? Lo mein, high mein? Kun Pow …. “POW!!!” Hey! That hurt!
”Forget it! I’m making a salad.”
Oh great. Veggies.

The Neighbor (Part 1)

“Sandy Connors and Mrs. Bee”

Spinning tires ripped through patches of colored leaves, kicking them up to create a wake of dust and orange colors. She was rushing along, faster than usual although she didn’t know why. She was on her way home from school, cycling the same route she had taken for the past three months since starting back to school: the same boring streets, the same boring houses … the same boring town.
She was in the final stretch of her ride. In the distance she saw a strange object and as she drew nearer the small figure grew into a massive open end of a moving company truck. She wondered what was up. Maybe someone finally bought the old Spinner house? It was the only empty one on the block … only two doors down from her own home. The truck looked empty. It was just sitting there as if it was beckoning her to pedal right into its big open mouth.
“Not today!” she thought to herself.
Closer and closer she came never turning her head to check for cars exiting the many driveways dotting tree-lined Forest Avenue, where she lived all of her 13 years.
Sandy knew she was riding a bit dangerously but taunted fate because something needed to happen … something to distract her from thinking about him. Something did. It was a huge boulder.
She caught it with her peripheral vision. She learned to use it recently. She just hadn’t mastered it yet. That’s because of him. He made it difficult for her to concentrate. She couldn’t wait for her business with him to end.
Her hands automatically squeezed the hand brakes. Loose gravel and leaves formed a carpet under the dirt-bike causing it to fishtail and leave the ground in a sideways sweep, landing Sandy sprawled out at the curb staring up at the huge piece of granite in front of Mrs. Beecher’s lawn.
Sandy was more embarrassed than hurt. She lay there for a few seconds staring at the monstrosity. She slowly moved her fingers, the ones that were practically pointing to the rock. Her head was resting on her extended arm and her view from that angle was as if she were using her arm as a rifle sighting in on Mrs. Bee’s new lawn ornament. It sort of looked like a huge mountain in the distance if she eyed it with a squint.
Slowly Sandy turned her head hoping to not find an audience. Everything remained quiet. There were no cars coming. There was still no activity around the empty moving van. It seemed as though the “coast was clear”. Her daredevil antics appeared to have gone unnoticed. As she began to untangle her knotted legs her attention was drawn back to the strange rock. This time it caused her to let out a shrilled scream.
From over the top of the boulder came two hands grasping its rough edges as if someone was on the other side scaling it. Following the gripping fingers, Mrs. Bee’s head popped up with her eyeglasses falling to the tip of her nose.
“I see you met my new friend.” She said. “I haven’t named it yet but Gibralta tends to top my list, so far. Get up dear. Are you okay?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bee. I think I’m going to live. At least nobody saw my landing. I would have crawled under that thing if someone had.”
Sandy managed to pick herself up and as she stood there brushing the dust off her school uniform she looked at her favorite neighbor and asked, “So, did it fall from the sky?”
Mrs. Bee chuckled as she came out from behind it. “No, my child. If it had, this monster would have sunk itself deep enough to pull in my front porch. That would have been terrible, don’t you think?”
Many times Sandy sat on the old porch swing with Mrs. Bee. As a matter of fact, Sandy’s old photo album that she keeps under her bed, up in her room across the street, had at least one picture from each year growing up, of her and Mrs. Bee together on that swing.
“Oh, thank God that didn’t happen Mrs. Bee. Where would we sip lemonade in the summer and hot cocoa in the winter?”
Arm in arm, the two friends slowly climbed the old wooden stairs, where at the top step sat a cigar box, which had attracted a swarm of flies that relentlessly bombarded themselves into every exposed side.
Sandy didn’t notice, she just couldn’t wait to hear more about Mrs. Bee’s new lawn ornament.
(Where did the rock come from? What was in the box? Who was the mysterious "him" she was thinking about and what kind of business with her did "he" have? ... Stay tuned!)

What the Flock!

Today I wasted way too much time searching the Internet.
It began when I received an e-mail commenting about my fear of giraffes. The reader assured me they were harmless, social animals. It was also mentioned that they travel in herds. That got me thinking about the word “herd”.
Come along for another ride on My Brain Train.
(Click.) Animals that travel in herds are called “Ungulates” (hoofed animals).
Some examples are horses, sheep, scary giraffes and buffalo.
So, what about the hoof less animals: how do they roll? (Click.)
The first thing that popped into my brain was a “gander”, which I thought was a group of gooses. After I took a “gander” I learned that a “gander’ is a male goose and more than one is actually called “geese” and they travel in “flocks”.
Furthermore, a “flock” of “geese” is called a “gaggle” and a “gaggle” of “geese” in flight is called a “flight”. Someone was real creative with that one.
But wait! The “flight” or “gaggle” or “flock” of “geese” is also called a “skein”.
(Click.) And if that isn’t enough …
A “flock” or “gaggle” of “geese” can also be called a “herd”. ”That’s right, they ain’t got no hooves!” and they can still be a “herd”. Now before you say ”Joe, what the flock!”, let me try to explain.
When a “flock” or “gaggle” of “geese” are not officially a “flight”, meaning, of course, that they are not in flight, and they are congregated on the ground, if they are guided, let’s say, across the road to keep them out of danger, then they are being herded and qualify as being a “herd”. If they are herded a long distance, say, across town, then they become a “drove” because they are being driven even though they never got into a car!
Remember, you “herd” … oops … “heard” it here on My Brain Train!

The Truth About Giraffes

I just survived the finale of “Survivor Micronesia”.
I was marooned on my couch wearing nothing but my sweat suit and socks. I was also allowed a few personal items.
I had three pillows, two remotes, a phone, a diet coke, a box of crackers, a chicken sandwich, a slice of calzone and some dove chocolates.
I guess you can say I prepared myself well so I wouldn’t need to leave my little island, but I forgot the empty jar and had to give myself a quick bathroom break during one of the commercials. I made it through the entire three hours suffering only from a numb gluteus maximus.

When the program neared its end, viewers were treated to a preview of next season’s Survivor: Gabon – Earth’s Last Eden. Gabon is a West African country where pygmies originated and now is home to The Fang People who are ruled by a man named Bongo. They showed pictures of Gabon, most of them were clips showing large scary animals. I am writing CBS tonight withdrawing my audition tape. I hope it’s not too late.

Wild animals are not my favorite creatures. There, on the TV screen, were surfing hippopotami. Just because the word hippopotami ends in “ami” (excuse my French) doesn’t mean they are friendly. No sir …I’ve learned that the hippopotamus has killed more humans than any other animal. (Just check out the picture of a hippo skull.) And, did you know these fat bastards, could easily outrun a human? (please excuse my French again) I’m not so sure they can’t chase you up a tree either.

I’ve also read there are lots of African frogs there and adult frogs eat other animals smaller than themselves, including other frogs. The Goliath frog can grow to the size of a baby deer! Imagine crossing paths with the biggest of all Goliath frogs. When I croak the last thing I want to hear is a croak and a burp.

And everyone close to me knows that giraffes scare the bejesus out of me. Have you ever seen a more hideous creature? Did you know that when they walk both right legs move forward at the same time, then both left legs? How the hell do they not fall over? Then there is the bizarre neck, the nose-bleed height and those hairy horns. Also, the giraffe has a very, very freakishly long tongue. I think most of the giraffe's tongue is packed neatly into its neck. The giraffe uses its tongue like a monkey uses its tail. Really, it’s called prehensile, look it up! That’s how giraffes swing from treetop to treetop.
And, if you don’t see giraffes as I do, let me leave you with this little film clip.
"Oh, they’re so cute!"

The Master of Marriage

I am the master!
I am the sensei (sense-say) of my domain.
“Joe, sweetie, okay, that makes sense, let’s put it there.”
My student is in awe of my complicated kata.
“Joe, honey, be careful don’t lift with your back!”
I manipulate my chi, (chee) so I won’t hurt my knee.
“Watch it Joe, that looks really heavy!”
My jutsu has to always be just so.
“Try moving it a bit to the left, Joe.”
My loud kiai (kee-eye) makes her fear for the worst.
“Oh honey, that had to hurt, are you okay?”
My pen just stuck my ken.
“Joe, you shouldn’t lay it down on your desk.”
I add the mojo to our dojo.
“Wow Joe, I never believed you could do it on your own!”
I am a "marital" arts black belt!
“Okay Joe, just three more of those 5 gallon Poland Springs water bottles left to bring here and you get your back rub.”
Heeeeeeeee-Yahhhhhh!

Chocolate Rain

Tic-Tac to the Rescue

A Couple of nights ago I was out with a few friends celebrating and I guess I had a few drinks more than usual. Usual is no drinks. But we were celebrating. I like Southern Comfort. I like my Southern Comfort straight up or on the rocks, plain and simple. As the night wore on, people were getting loud and conversations were becoming a bit confusing. One of my friends asked,
”Joe, would you like a tic-tac?”,
I remember projecting my voice across the loud table a few times, mostly while asking ”I’m sorry, what did you say?” But now I was a bit embarrassed, thinking to myself, do I have Southern UnComfort breath. Maybe I was exhaling remnants of swallowed SoCos at my friends across the table. Not wanting to offend, I graciously responded with, ”Sure, I’ll have a tic-tac.”
A few minutes later one of the bartenders delivered a tray of drinks to our table. I was instructed to drop the shot glass filled with Rum into a larger glass of Red Bull and something else and then drink. Well, I drunk, was drunk, no, I drank … well anyway … you get the idea.

What's for Dinner?

Hmmmm … What shall I make for dinner?
”Joe’s Tabula Rasa Crust Pizza”
In case you’re Latin’s a little rusty, the phrase ”tabula rasa” means ”blank state” … so you take the tabula rasa crust, which is flavored with classic Italian herbs, and create your own masterpiece by adding a little olive oil and your favorite toppings. “Magnifico!!!”
”Joe’s Chicken Pomodoro”
Fire-grilled, boneless, skinless chicken breasts topped with diced tomatoes, strips of yellow squash, roasted zucchini slices, Provolone cheese and pomodoro and pesto sauces … add the rice, pasta or potato dish of your choice and “Voila!!!”
”Joe’s Trout Fillets in Oil & Brine”
Oh yeah! Laid over a bed of greens and drizzled with the oil/brine mixture, maybe combine it with some sun dried tomatoes and Arugala on focaccia and make it a completely unique Panini. “Awesome!!!”
”Joe’s Gazpacho Soup”
I can start off with this … Take some tomato, cucumber, onion, green pepper, lots of garlic, cilantro and some jalapeno pepper … “BAMMM!!!! Refreshing because it’s served cold.
Let’s see … for dessert …
”Joe’s Flan Parfait Cake”
I know what you’re asking yourself. Is it Flan? Is it Parfait? Is it cake? Well let me tell you. Begin with a layer of dark, moist chocolate cake. Add a very subtle touch of caramel on top. Then, top that with a thick tier of creamy flan and cap that with thin layer of dark chocolate. But wait … we’re not finished yet. The dark chocolate on top is next covered with a truly luxurious layer of whipped cream with just a bit of a caramel crown. “Heaven!!!!”
I just love reading my Trader Joe’s monthly flyer.