A Sure Sign Of Summer: Kettle Corn For Breakfast

June 9, 2016January 28, 2021 / Ally Bean / 60 Comments

Tiny blue vase, handmade, purchased from potter at festival, filled with a daisy + rosemary from our garden, sitting on the kitchen counter… and taking up much less space than the bag of kettle corn, also purchased at festival.

I know for sure that it’s summertime because I’m eating kettle corn for breakfast.

[Don’t judge.]

Last weekend we went to the first festival of the season where we purchased a bag of kettle corn.

Said bag, which is too large to fit on the pantry shelf, is now sitting on the kitchen counter near the new vase featured in the photo.

[We bought the “small” bag of kettle corn, btw.]

From what I can tell, all festivals around here are required by law to have at least one kettle corn booth wherein they make the stuff fresh before your very eyes.

Then the kettle corn makers are required to give you a free sample of it right when you’re tired from walking around the festival, but not hungry because you just ate something filling at the previous food booth.

[I’m a sucker for a pulled pork sandwich with a speciality BBQ sauce.]

So, you decide to buy a bag of the kettle corn to take home with you because you know you like it. And because this is a festival that helps some small town OR civic organization OR large church make money that they use to help the needy.

[The cynic in me says the festival might be helping itself first before the needy, but whatevs.]

And that, my gentle readers, is how I know it is summer. I’ve got popcorn kernel residue stuck in my teeth before 8:00 a.m. and I’ve helped the needy. 😉

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HOW DO YOU KNOW FOR SURE THAT IT’S SUMMERTIME WHERE YOU LIVE?

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Candy & Eyeballs & Nickels, OH MY!

October 29, 2015October 29, 2015 / Ally Bean / 36 Comments

Old School Jack-O-Lanterns.

Around here Halloween is A BIG DEAL.

Just about everyone decorates the exterior of their house for the holiday. And most of the families, save the conservative Christians and the Mormons, are home to hand out candy or whatever on Trick-or-Treat Night.

It’s the one time of year when adult neighbors, often with a bottle of beer or a glass of wine in hand, sometimes in costume, accompany their kids to our doorstep, then actually acknowledge and speak with us.

The Harvest Moon.

Trying to set a good example for the kids, I suppose. Be cordial. Even if we, your parents, can’t be arsed to say “hello” under any other circumstances.

Be that as it may, I still find it to be a fun holiday.

If only because little kids dressed up are a hoot to watch stumbling around the streets. And because bigger kids are a hoot to talk with as they try to barter for more candy. Both make me laugh.

Treats For The Beggars.

In the past, on evenings with perfect weather, we’ve had 220 beggars. Because this neighborhood is growing, with many new homes built this past summer, I’m planning for 250 kids who will get a piece of candy OR a bloody eyeball OR a nickel.

And if we’ve handed out all of that before the 2 hours of begging is over, I think we’ll take our chances, turn off the lights and hope that these kids don’t know about soaping windows!

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So what’s up with your Halloween plans, my gentle readers? Share your spooky or kooky in the comments below.

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When Good Grapefruit Has Bad Marketing

September 24, 2015January 28, 2021 / Ally Bean / 35 Comments

To your left you will see a photo of half a grapefruit, on a pretty white bread & butter plate, plus the label off the sturdy red mesh bag it came in.

This grapefruit, purchased at the local K. Roger, is not as humongous as many of the grapefruits available, nor is it as intensely pink in color as most of the individually sold grapefruits.

It was tasty. Easy to section. Juicy, but not overly so. With just the right amount of sweetness.

# # #

But here’s the weird thing about this grapefruit. Just like Proust’s madeleines, this grapefruit stimulated long-lost memories from my childhood.

It reminded me of being an elementary school-age girl. Sitting at home in my parents’ warm kitchen while eating breakfast at the old, slightly wobbly, wooden drop-leaf table. Listening to the local AM radio “Quickie Quiz” show. Wondering what I’d be doing at recess later in the morning.

So considering the effect that this grapefruit had on me, I’m left wondering what marketing genius came up with the idea to name this product:

NOT your MOTHER’S Grapefruit.

# # #

Putting aside the stupid inconsistent capitalization of the letters of the product’s name, if there was ever a fruit whose essence reminded me positively of my past, it would be these grapefruits.

And considering that grapefruits are pretty much the same old fruit now that they were 40 years ago, I’m irritated with the somewhat passive aggressive marketing message that I’ll be an old fuddy duddy if I don’t buy these particular grapefruits.

I understand that times change, but I gotta wonder how it could be that bad-mouthing grapefruit is the key to more sales. Does that even make sense?

My Unhappy Story Of Flying Trapped Inside A MRI With Wings

June 25, 2015June 25, 2015 / Ally Bean / 37 Comments

Seating chart for MRI with wings.

While on vacation last weekend, I spent one leg of my travels on a flight from hell, trapped inside a MRI with wings. This would be a plane that is known to aviators as a Bombardier CRJ 200.

This airplane, while not the smallest one I’ve ever flown on, was the worst flying MRI I’ve experienced because– and I hope that I’m not going to get too technical here— THERE WAS NO AIR CONDITIONING AS WE WAITED AT THE GATE AND THEN ON THE TARMAC FOR TAKEOFF… ON A HOT SUMMER DAY… AT MIDDAY.

I’d love to tell you what airline I was on, but I’m not sure. It was some pokey little airline, doing business under some obscure name, for some larger, formerly independent, airline recently acquired by some huge US airline.

In other words, the usual inane flying experience that I’ve come to know, pay exorbitant amounts of money for and loathe.

# # #

As fate would have it two things occurred simultaneously while I was on this flight from hell trapped inside a MRI with wings.

First of all, I had a hot flash.

To be clear, that would be my body spontaneously increasing its core temperature while I was sitting in the middle of the airplane, Seat 7C, where the ambient room temperature was close to 100ºF.

Trapped, I was.

And so far beyond toasty that I could barely keep conscious. I could see my vision begin to tunnel– and I knew that I would faint, unless I thought of something fast.

So I shut my eyes, let my head droop and begin to remember how cold and bleak it was on our screened-in porch in February, when I’d step out there for a bit of fresh air, mid-afternoon, with my mug of hot tea.

Oddly enough this mental distraction kept me from passing out and it gave me an opportunity to decide that, if I lived to tell the story, I’d call out the airline on this unconscionable, unhealthy, inhumane, ridiculous, shameful, cheap-ass behavior.

Didn’t their mothers teach these airline PTB to not treat other human beings as chattel? Hmmm?

# # #

Actual MRI, similar to Bombardier CJR 200.

This would be the end of the story if it weren’t for the man next to me on the flying MRI with wings from hell who was an employee of one of the airlines that was part of the afore-mentioned cluster.

And he was taking notes. Lots of them.

For real.

And he was telling me EVERYTHING that this flight crew was doing that was wrong, that was illegal according to FAA standards, and that was just plain stupid.

So despite being the most physically and emotionally uncomfortable I’ve been on an airplane in decades, I had the pleasure of knowing that this flight crew, a bunch of yahoos who really should be ashamed of themselves, were going to get in trouble.

AS IN FAILING TO PASS INSPECTION. JOBS ON THE LINE. HELLO REVIEW BOARD [I CAN ONLY HOPE].

It is because of this note-taking man that I can look back on this flight as a learning experience for the crew as well as for me. To wit, I will never, ever in a hundred years set foot inside a Bombardier CRJ 200 again.

And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t either.