HAUTE CONTAMINATION

In case you hear some tramping going on in your neighborhood, not to worry!
It’s not Big Foot. Inspectors from your local Environmental and General Services Department may be checking out your recyclable bins. In Tucson, AZ they will be checking out the bins at 24,000 homes for four weeks looking for prohibited materials. Doesn’t that sound like fun?Imagine finding Grandma’s false teeth in an empty box of Cheerios. If, in four weeks, the inspectors discover more yucky stuff in your discarded newspapers, all those beautiful plastic bins will be removed and sent to recyclable Hell.

China used to take all of our recyclable materials, but in 2018 they got upset about something and will no longer accept our waste. So, we are on our own for millions of tons of waste, and contamination is costing lots of money. It’s pretty obvious that dirty diapers cannot be recycled. Neither can a dead skunk, which if reincarnated, has already been recycled once.

Therefore, it’s probably a good idea to bury a deceased animal—unless it’s a very small goldfish. Perhaps, then, a discrete flush down the commode would be acceptable (depending on the owner’s attachment to “Fred The  Fish.”) Tucson’s fire department will pick up a live rattlesnake and release it into the desert, but not too far from home, so it can find its way back.

When my son, Josh was in 4th grade his class assignment was to collect an assortment of insects. Josh received an award for the best variety of bugs which he had recycled from our swimming pool filter.

It’s not surprising that soon we will see Dolphins jumping out of the ocean wearing masks. Those masks that are now keeping us safe are polluting our waterways. “A mask can take as long as 450 years to break down.” Ah, for the good old days when all we saw tossed off of boats were cigarette butts and beer cans.

I know that recycling plastics, paper, and other discarded approved materials can help preserve our earth for future generations. However, I do resent it when someone takes someone else's work or ideas and recycles them as their own. But, looking at the positive Benjamin Disraeli said, “Plagiarists at least, have the merit of preservation.”

Esther Blumenfeld

UNEXPECTED RETURNS

These Covid-19  months have been extremely difficult for everyone—some people more than others—and finding something to laugh about has been a real challenge. Sometimes, nothing seems funny anymore.  However, I have found that memories that have been well stored, and filed away, tend to pop up unexpectedly when I think about a subject to write about. For instance, how often in life has an unexpected event provided a laugh? Well, given a choice it’s always better to laugh.

Many years ago, my grandmother had forgotten to put away a tube of shoe polish after polishing her shoes in the bathroom. The next morning, my Uncle Harry began to brush his teeth. To paraphrase Gertrude Stein, “A tube is a tube is a tube!” Admittedly, Uncle Harry’s mistake wasn’t as serious as confusing ear-drops and eyedrops (or drinking them), but one should beware of the inappropriate use of medications.

My Mother (the sister of the uncle with black teeth) was told by one of her friends that the cream used to shrink swollen hemorrhoidal tissue, when applied under the eyes, will also shrink those eye-bags. So, standing at the bathroom mirror, she began to apply the cream under her eyes—just as my Father walked past the bathroom. He took one look at what she was doing and said, “Dear, I think you are applying that at the wrong end.”

My brother (the son of these two people) knew that our parents frowned upon his smoking cigarettes. He was a teenager and naturally had to try a cigarette, so, one day, he went into the bathroom, opened a window, took a few drags and blew the smoke out of the window—right over Mother’s head as she was picking flowers. His smoking days were over.  It helped that he threw up.

It is always an unexpected pleasure to run into a friend from home when traveling to a foreign country.  One day, at Heathrow Airport, my Father recognized a man whom he had met somewhere, so  he gave him a heartfelt greeting. Turns out that it was Walter Cronkite, and he had met him on our living room television set.  

When in New York my husband, Warren and I got on an elevator with Isaac Stern.  Warren shook his hand and expressed his admiration for the famous violinist.  After we got off the elevator, I said to Warren, “My, God!  How could you shake hands with Isaac Stern’?  What if you had broken a finger or something?” He looked at his hand, and replied. “ My fingers look okay to me.”

Shortly after that experience, Warren was invited to lecture at the University in Mexico City. My Spanish is halting.  His Spanish was nil. He knew that an interpreter had been assigned to him, but was convinced that no one would show up. So, in Spanish, he titled his presentation, “There’s a Dead Horse in My Bedroom.” Students were lined up around the block.

Uncle Harry talked better than he listened. One afternoon he decided to sun bathe on the back porch of our house.  He had forgotten that Mother was hosting her group of Mahjong playing ladies, until he heard them entering the front of the house. He, and his jock strap, had no choice but to let the chips fall where they may as he streaked past them.  Afterwards, all he could say was, “I hope they noticed my gleaming white teeth!”

Esther Blumenfeld

SLUG IT OUT

Charles Darwin can rest easy, because his Theory of Evolution is still working.
After reading about the biological phenomenon called autotomy, I am convinced that some members of the Untied States Senate have sea slug DNA in their spit. For instance, it’s a fact that sea slugs can regrow hearts and brand new bodies after decapitation—just like Dick Chaney.

Biology researcher, Sayaka Mitoh describes sea slugs as being “small, cute and weird.” That certainly brings Senator Lindsey Graham to mind. This small, cute man was a best friend of the moderate Republican Senator John McCain. They saw eye-to-eye on so many issues until Senator McCain died. Then Lindsey Graham decapitated himself, and turned weird. Now his head keeps twisting and moving back and forth—along with his mouth. I don’t think he likes children very much, because recently, on a television interview, he said about the youngsters arriving at the border from Mexico, “Children could easily be terrorists.” Maybe that’s why they call it, “The terrible twos.”

Aquatic Ecology Professor Yoichi Yusa cut the heads off of 16 sea slugs. Several of the creatures regenerated. One even lost and regenerated his body twice. Reminds me of Senate Minority Leader, Mitch McConnell. With one body he delivered a scathing rebuke of former President Trump and his pals, “We cannot keep drifting apart with separate facts and separate realities.” And, then, with his second body he said, “I’d vote for him again.”

It is well documented that other creatures can cast off body parts when necessary. Some animals can autotomize their legs, appendages or tails whenever it suits them. Maybe, that’s the evolution going on with Senator Ted Cruz who has promised to “tell the truth and defend marriage." However, he really dropped an appendage or two when his wife was attacked and called “ugly.” Actually, I think she looks okay. So where’s the truth when Cruz calls the Voting Rights Bill a “fraud law.”? And where’s the truth when he and his buddy, Josh Hawley voted against the Senate certification of the Electoral College election count for President Biden?

When Hawley became a voice shouting about voter fraud (that was proven to be non-existent) he had obviously shed some skin. I don’t think he graduated at the bottom of his Yale Law School class in 2006. What kind of  constitutional lawyer  fights only for some people’s liberties? When at Stanford, people thought he was a “thoughtful, sophisticated person of depth.” They are now confused. Perhaps, like sea slugs, who eat a certain type of algae, he can now photosynthesize his food for thought from sunlight and oxygen just like a plant. That’s what probably happens after slug decapitation and the head sort of acts like a plant.

We need to watch to see if his face turns green. That’s a tip off!  We have already had a President with a colorful complexion. Maybe green will become the new orange.

Esther Blumenfeld

LET OUT

After a year of benevolent sequestering, it’s a very strange feeling getting into my little Saturn, starting the engine and driving—not just driving—but actually going somewhere. It’s been a very long time since I drove to a destination. I hope I can remember the location of my favorite stores. I hope they are still there!

Even though I still wear my faithful mask everywhere, I am now putting on some makeup and wearing clothes a bit nicer than sweats. After all, going to a bank is now an occasion. It’s like going to a masked ball in a very expensive venue. It’s good that social distancing is still suggested, so I won’t be tempted to give the bank guard a hug.  The only hugs I have received in a year are in my Yoga class where I hug myself while twisting my legs into pretzels.

I never thought that a tiny watch battery would mean so much to me, but getting my faithful wrist watch to run again is better than arranging an exorcism.

On my first parole day, the most entertaining event I attended was held at my favorite bakery, Beyond Bread.  I followed a woman into the bakery.  Suddenly, she abruptly stopped in front of me, and started screaming. Needless to say, I made a wide berth around her and quickly walked to the counter.  Happily, she wasn’t screaming because I had taken her place in line, but she was shouting and running in circles because the store manager had politely offered her a mask to wear in his establishment. She flailed her arms about and shouted about her “rights,” and she yelled about the Governor of Arizona. She was certain that he had told her that she did not have to wear a mask. How smart is someone who takes advice from a business man, turned Governor, who couldn’t sell ice cream in Arizona, a State with 350 days of sunshine.

The Crazy Lady yelled, “No one can tell me what to wear!” Obviously, no one had told her to wear longer pants. I did agree, however, that no one should make this woman cover her nose and mouth, because stuffing the mask into her mouth would have done all of us a favor.  As I left the establishment by the far, far away exit, I heard “Security, we need you at the front entrance.”

I don’t think they let her buy a loaf of bread, but I hope she got her just desserts.

Esther Blumenfeld

WHAT'S COOKING?

My mother was a beautiful woman who relished nothing more than dressing up, going to a party and having fun, and no one deserved it more than she, but, cooking was not high on her list of enjoyable activities. However, she did make delicious chicken soup.

“When I was a child every skinned knee and sniffle was soothed with a cup of Mama’s chicken soup, and later, in college, dreams of home and soup gave me incentive to study at final exam time. So, when I asked my Mom for the recipe, I was shocked at how easy it is to prepare. Incredulous, I asked, ‘Are you sure this is all there is to it?’ Although she had never written down the recipe, she swore by the ingredients. After the third, ‘Are you sure you haven’t left something out? This is too easy.’ Dad, finally interrupted, ‘Daughter, if you want to complicate it, you can always throw in a dead squirrel.’”
(Mama’s Cooking, Celebrities Remember Mama’s Best Recipe, Blumenfeld and Alpern, c. Blumenfeld 1985)

Escaping to the United States from Fascist Nazi Germany, my parents loved the United States of America, and Mother wanted nothing more than to be able to cook like a real American. No longer did she want to cook Wienerschnitzel or Sauerbraten, but she wanted to prepare American meals. Unfortunately, it took her awhile to learn which dishes complemented one another, and how to prepare them. For instance, she took a liking to crab apples, but they didn’t quite taste the same on top of a fried steak, and in Germany corn on the cob was only fed to farm animals. Also, to my dismay, she couldn’t stand the smell of peanut butter. Salad was always a hunk of iceberg lettuce with French dressing, because bottled French dressing had to be American, because surely the French would never serve it. And, cold cuts on rye bread had to be American (except when salami was served with chicken fat slathered on the bread.) Obviously, my family was blessed with good genes, because her cooking did not kill us, and my parents died of old age, and my brother and I are on our way there.

When the United States entered the war after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, many food stuffs were rationed including butter. So, when baking a cake, which Mother planned to serve to a small group of Mahjong playing ladies, she had to supplement cooking oil instead of butter. Happily, the creation looked beautiful coming out of the oven, but when she sliced it at the table, the center sported two perfectly formed sliced hard boiled eggs. One of her surprised guests gasped and said, “Ruth, How did you do that?”

I always thought that my Mother learned everything she knew about cooking from her mother who was even a worse cook than she. The best dish that Grandma made was a concoction of whipped egg white, and the rest of the egg stirred at the bottom of the glass with sugar and whiskey.  It was supposed to cure a cold. I remember that I would tell Grandma that I thought I was coming down with a cold, just to get a teaspoon of that stuff. Tasted pretty good! Did not cure anything.

Grandma was a bit of a mischief maker (that’s a nice way to put it) and had a way of getting under Mother’s skin. One evening my parents were hosting a very fancy cocktail party at our home. Mother had prepared an assortment of hordoerves. On one tray I spied a lonely cracker with cream cheese, topped with a lonely sardine that Mother had discovered nesting in back of our refrigerator.

Grandma, the fastidious kvetcher was the first person at the table. She spied the sardine cracker, popped it into her mouth, spit it out and shouted, “No one eat anything. The appetizers are poisoned.”That was when Mother discovered the joy of catering.

Esther Blumenfeld