Junk Cars & Tall Grass

junkcarI couldn’t believe what I saw in the paper! Our local lawmakers, in their unfailing wisdom, passed a law against parking cars on residential lawns. What is the world is wrong with these council members? Do they not know this is Tennessee?

If they do not want to have cars parked on the yard, they should move out of the South. They should go to some place like Chicago where you not only can’t park a car in the yard, you also can’t park one on the street, unless you want to get it towed and a hefty fine to boot.

Cars in the front yard are a southern tradition, a part of our heritage. After all, this is Nashville, the redneck capital of the world. Do these lawmakers not know that it is no longer a matter of shame to be a redneck, but rather a matter of pride? Our right to have a few rusting heaps on the lawn is almost as important to us as our collection of Jeff Foxworthy recordings.

Everybody knows that the best racecar drivers and many a skilled auto mechanic grew up taking apart and putting together an old junk car of some sort. Like a proficient computer hacker, they learned by trial and error. Any grease monkey will tell you that he was convinced that one of these days he would get her running and take her cruising. Whether he did or didn’t is of little consequence, rather the important thing is that he tried, that he persisted, and that he learned from his efforts.

Everyone should probably have a junk car or two, just to show support for our traditions. You might as well take away grits, turnip greens, and guitars. Junk cars are as much a part of southern culture as trailer parks. Are we going to start towing mobile homes away next? Is nothing sacred any more?

To add insult to injury, the council, passed a law that grass could not be over a foot high. Now isn’t that a hoot? If they don’t want to see the junk cars, they most certainly should not pass a law as senseless as this. Letting the grass grow tall enough to hide the old cars is how the good ol’ boys keep them out of sight. I’ll bet some folks have old cars that they don’t even remember having.

If the council had a few old cars to work on, maybe they would be too busy to have time to sit around scratching and thinking up wearisome laws that infringe on the rights of others. A few rusting cars at the courthouse might be a nice touch. They could work on taking apart an engine piece by piece and putting it back together again. They might even learn a thing or two that would come in handy in fixing some of the problems with government.

Just like we need history and antiques to help us remember our past, we need a few old rusty cars for the edification of our heritage. Not only is it our right, it is our legacy as southern rednecks. It is our obligation as residents of a city known world wide for country music to uphold all its diverse southern traditions.

So, deflate the tires that are not already flat, boys, and put her up high on some cinder blocks! They are coming for your old heap in the middle of night. If you don’t have a gravel driveway or a garage to park her in, she may be gone by morning and rusting away down at the city impounding lot. Probably she isn’t worth the price of towing and storage, even if you had the money to bail her out.

There is only one hope, one small loophole. It allows growing of tall grass if essential to a landscape design. I say get a variance! If your landscaping happens to have a few rusty car sculptures in its design, who can say that is not beauty in the eye of a redneck?

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Automotive, Humor, Southern Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

E. R.

erHave you been to the emergency room of a large metro hospital lately? I hope not! Those places are a zoo. I had occasion to visit the walk-in area of one the other day, fortunately not as a patient.

The first thing I noticed was a security guard and metal detector. Were they afraid terrorists would attack the hospital, or what? The detector buzzed as I went through, probably from the cell phone in my purse. The security guard merely yawned. Guess I didn’t fit the profile.

“Where do I go to get someone’s stuff back?” I asked.

“Get in line,” she told me. I figured I’d best not push it or they might decide it was worthwhile to interrogate me after all.

As I said, I was not there on an emergency. My daughter came through the ER as a patient earlier, and they had locked up her wallet. I just wanted to get her stuff back. But there I was in line with all the sick folks who were trying to out complain each other since the most critical patients are seen first.

The stressed out receptionist was talking to the man at the front of the line and filling out forms. He put his head down on the counter and told her he was having chest pain and felt nauseated. I tried to remember how to give CPR and drew a breath of relief when she finally finished his forms.

“Who’s next?”

Before I could open my mouth a little guy with a stocking cap jumped in front of me and said, “I am!”

“What is your problem?” asked the receptionist, with sweat beads popping out on her forehead and a wisp of hair falling over her eye.

“Psychiatric,” said the new customer, “Didn’t my doctor call you?”

Boy, was I ever glad I hadn’t argued about whose turn it was next. Maybe it was my imagination, but he seemed to get processed much faster than the guy with the heart attack had.

Finally, I made it to the front. “Err, I just want my daughter’s stuff that you locked up. See, I have the form that the nurse filled out and my daughter signed it.” I waved it under her nose.

“Lorinda!” Come out here, she yelled toward the back.

Meanwhile an injured delivery man in line behind me was dripping blood on the floor and holding a towel on his hand. “Do you have insurance?” the clerk quizzed, as the poor guy struggled to find his Blue Cross card. Fortunately, it was his left hand that was injured, so he could sign the forms without too much trouble. Forms are very important to an emergency room it seems, almost more important than blood or pain.

Lorinda eventually showed before I fainted and looked at my form. “This stuff has gone to the cashier’s office,” she said, as a wheel chair whizzed by and through the automatically opening blue doors, narrowly missing my toes.

I left with the metal detector still buzzing in my ears, and headed out to search for the cashier’s office. I finally found it only to be told that I had the wrong form. My form was only for the ER. “The patient needs to come in and sign our form,” said the cashier.

“But, she can’t come! She’s critical. That’s why I’m here.” What’s the matter with these people anyhow?

“Bring her on a stretcher to the back hall and I’ll come out there,” the clerical Einstein generously offered. Rules are rules, he insisted, and he could lose his job if he digressed from them, regardless of permissions or conditions.

What a ludicrous policy!

Believe it or not, I finally ended up meeting him out back with a paramedic pushing my daughter on a stretcher. The deal went down okay, and I got her wallet back at last.

I must be dreaming this, I thought. Surely it is an episode of MASH returning to give me nightmares. Afraid not… It is for real … just an ordinary day of business as usual at the hospital.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Health, Humor, Rants | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

The Waiting Room

waitingroomA few years ago, I was forced by circumstance to spend a great deal of time in the trauma waiting room of a large hospital. While this is obviously a place of great drama, it also became a source of great amusement. After lengthy observation, I began to notice that the people in the waiting room actually seemed to fall into amusing categories.

The Campers – These folks move in for the duration of their significant other’s illness. They bring suitcases, blankets and pillows. If anything goes wrong, they want to be there, almost as if nothing bad can happen if they are there to prevent it. I kept wondering when they would pitch a tent and build a campfire.

The Munchkins – In spite of rules against eating in the waiting room, these people have to eat anyhow. Eating is obviously their greatest pleasure in life. One family actually brought in a laundry basket and huge cardboard box filled with chips, pretzels and snacks. After watching the consumption marathon for endless hours, it began to frighten me to think about what they might do if they ever run out of junk food to munch on.

The Parkers – They mark their territory. They hang around until a good chair is vacant, preferably a recliner, and pounce on it. Like explorers, they stake a claim, plant an imaginary flag, and the chair is now their property for the duration. They proceed to pile belongings next to it. If they get up to visit or use the phone, they put a purse or pillow on it so no one else will use it. Take my advice and don’t ever trespass on a parker’s chair unless you are prepared for a turf war.

The Litterbugs – leave a trail of trash behind them. These folks are somewhat similar to the munchkins, except they spread it around. They bring in soft drinks, newspapers, fast food, snacks, and fried chicken dinners. They sit in different places and leave their trash strewn behind on tables or the floor, seldom bothering to use the trash can. Fortunately, a cleaning crew comes in once a day to prevent the other occupants from being buried in paper cups and chicken bones.

The Porcupines – These people have a problem with simple rules like “no children” allowed. They bristle and become angry when asked to go to another waiting area. Sometimes they complain loudly about security or hospital staff. They do not seem to understand that this waiting room is subject to dangerous germs and bacteria inadvertently carried out of the trauma unit by visitors. The rules are for their own protection, not just to protect the rest of the occupants from their brats. That is just a side benefit.

The Gabbers – stay on the phone all the time. While cell phones are allowed, these folks never have one and continuously tie up all the house phones with personal calls. They are oblivious to the need of anyone else to make a call, and even to the fact that doctors use waiting room phones to reach patients’ families. There were two phones in the room and one gabber often had calls on both at the same time. One could only wonder at the insensibility to anyone’s needs other than their own.

The Party People – are usually large families who come in due to the current emergency and end up having a family reunion. They bring friends, visit, talk loudly, laugh and generally have a whooping good time, seeming to totally forget the reason they are there. While I can understand families wanting to draw together in time of crisis, I was astonished by how quickly a serious occasion seemed to turn into a shindig.

Eventually, the initial shock of the situation wore off and I began to realize that the trauma waiting room was making me crazy. I escaped as often as possible and learned to visit periodically instead of staying there constantly.

I also learned that where there are people, there is humor, if only one tries hard enough to look for the funny side of life.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Health, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Murphy’s Laws for Rednecks

cabinI apologize in advance if this reminds you of your relatives. It reminds me of mine also. I love our southern culture, but sometimes I just have to have a little fun with it.

If you have a double first name, you won’t be able to spell either one of them.

If you convince the sheriff that it’s poison oak instead of marijuana, it probably is.

If your latest home improvement project is designing and building a mailbox, it will look like a brick tombstone.

If your picture is hanging in the post office, it will be a perfect likeness.

If you eat with your fork in one hand, it’s because you gotta hold your cornbread in the other one.

If your front yard needs mowing, you’ll do it when you get around to fixing the lawn mower.

If you want clean your ears, you will buy a package of bobby pins.

If you say you are a songwriter, your true occupation is a truck driver or a construction worker.

If you see shotguns at a shindig, it’s a wedding, a family reunion or a combination of both.

If you don’t have any empty beer bottles for target practice, you know it’s your duty to empty some.

If want to be a NASCAR race driver, the cops will catch you practicing on the Interstate.

If you pledge allegiance to the flag, it might be the flag of the Confederacy.

If you have relatives in jail, they were either growing, cooking, or distilling.

If you need a way to get rid of cooties, you can do so by picking and grinning.

If you get slicked up and dressed up, it will be for a special occasion, like a monster truck race or a gun and knife show.

If you can’t do something today, you’re waiting for the first of the month when the check comes.

For every car you own with wheels on it, you are allowed to have 2-1/2 cars up on cinder blocks.

When you celebrate, it will be tomato planting time, catfish bitin’ weather, hog killing time, or openin’ of rabbit season.

If you get a tan, it will be on your neck, your arms, or your butt crack.

When you kiss a woman, you always remove your toothpick first.

If you own a car, you figure on spending most of your free time trying to get it running.

If hold your nose when singing, you can sound just like your favorite country music star.

If you need a cure for ailments, you will use whiskey, tobacco, kerosene, turpentine or Vicks’ salve.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Southern Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

London Series

Riding the wave of the current interest in London due to the shooting incident, I’m posting links to a series of columns I wrote several years ago when I was fortunate enough to visit.

The London Series

This is a short series of columns written about my London trip.  I  hope you will enjoy it!   London pictures are also posted.

Traveling Light

My sister and I are planning a trip together to London. I’ve never done anything like this before, so it will be an adventure.

“I’ve traveled so much that I’m an expert at traveling light,” my sister told me.

London on the Budget Plan

It seemed like a great idea when my sister suggested a vacation tour to London.  I haven’t been anywhere like that before, so I was looking forward to it.  We found cheap tickets on the Internet for an evening flight.

Hop On – Hop Off

My sister is organized and has things like itineraries, maps, and guidebooks to make the most of a travel vacation like the one we took to London.  She wanted to see museums, universities, and palaces.

“What do you want to see?” she asked me.

“Er… I hear they have great pubs and fish ‘n’ chips.”

Oh! My Aching Feet!

We woke up to rain in morning.  It rains a lot in London — something about being an island surrounded by the sea, I think. What would we do since it is raining, I wondered.

“Go anyhow, of course,” said my sister.

The English Countryside

After checking out most of the museums in London, we were ready for something different.  We got up early to go to a flea market that my sister had heard of called Portobello Market. Well, actually, she had seen it in a movie.

London’s Last Fling

The entire time that I was in London, I was never able to figure out British money.  I don’t know why they don’t just use Euro’s like the rest of civilized Europe — not that I could figure that out either.


Posted in Humor, News & Current Events, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Dog Gone

dogI have a dog living under the bed. His name is Gizmo, but you can call him Giz. He is a miniature Sheltie. Giz is as weird as his name, very shy, timid and afraid. He spends most of his time hiding. I should mention that he actually is my daughter’s dog. When he is not under her bed hiding from imaginary doggy danger, he is looking out the window waiting for her to come home and protect him.

The other evening I was getting ready to go for my evening walk. Giz was not under the bed for once and was dancing on his toenails to go along. He goes on walks rather infrequently because he is either having paranoid delusions or is under the bed on the verge of another nervous breakdown.

Well, why not take the silly dog walking? He needs exercise too and perhaps a change of environment will help him to overcome some of his unreasonable fears, I thought.

I put him on a leash and Giz trotted along beside me, acting as if he had just eaten a whole box of Prozac flavored dog treats, seldom stopping even to leave his autograph on mailboxes or trees. He was almost acting like a normal dog until we reached the end of the cul-de-sac where some neighborhood children were playing. When the children spotted Giz, they came rushing over yelling, “Can we pet him?” People tend to like Shelties because they all look like Lassie.

Surrounded by strange children, instinct took over. Giz panicked and tried to pull away from me. The children did not understand why Giz was trying to escape from being petted. Frankly, neither did I. He ran first one direction and then another but couldn’t go far on a leash. I was trying to calm him when he somehow managed to pull his head through the loop of his collar, breaking free and streaking back down the street as if chased by imaginary demons.

Dogs, children, and dust swirled around me as Giz bolted down the middle of the street toward the lights of an oncoming car. With my heart in my throat, I saw him veer out of the path of the car and into someone’s yard just in the nick of time, probably setting a new world record for the canine sprint. The children chased after him squealing.

By now we were creating quite a commotion on the normally quiet street. We called and called, but he didn’t come. I stopped to ask some neighbors if they had seen a dog. “Oh, the Sheltie? Yes, he was running down the street!” Well, that didn’t help much.

It was growing dark and the dog was nowhere to be found. There seemed to be nothing to do but return home at this point and hope that the stupid dog would calm down and find his way home later. Walking back with an empty leash, I peered into bushes and shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. How would I explain to my daughter that her little dog was lost, I wondered?

Well, when I arrived back home, the mutt was waiting for me on the back steps anxious to get inside. He made a beeline to his favorite spot under the bed, not even slowing down to check out his food dish. I haven’t seen him since.

I might as well face it; I have a permanent dog kennel under the bed – but at least I know where the dog is.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Creatures, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Irish for a Day

irishToday is St. Patrick’s Day and everyone will be wearing green. I don’t want to be different. Everyone wants to be Irish. They go to extraordinary lengths to find Irish relatives and trace their geology back to Ireland.

I turn on the radio and hear strains of “Danny Boy” on an Irish flute as it plays for the first of the many times I will hear it today. I have my morning coffee and flavor the black brew with a white stream of Irish cream, just because it seems like the right thing to do.

I wonder whether to go to the grocery and buy some of red, corned beef with spices and one of the green cabbages from the huge display mound in the grocery store, or whether just to opt for a Rueben sandwich from the deli. Deli will do just fine, I decide. While I’m there, I can pick up a loaf of green bread or a Key Lime Pie from the bakery. Of course, Key Lime Pie has nothing to do with Ireland, other than the mere coincidence of being green.

Today is a day when every one appreciates a mane of auburn hair and is even just a bit envious. They will ask a dozen times if I’m Irish and, of course, I will probably lie and say that I am, when in fact I don’t have the slightest idea whether I am or not. I really don’t know what my lineage is or why my mother gave me an Irish name.

The Scotch-Irish settled in the area where my ancestors came from, as attested by the names of the name of the town, Erin. But hard as I try, the only thing I can find for sure that is Irish in my house is potatoes and even their lineage is a bit suspect.

Some people really become enthusiastic over St. Patrick’s Day, mostly because it is an opportunity to drink beer and party. By the time the evening is over they will be seeing leprechauns and the slurred speech may not be because of an Irish brogue.

I’m surprised that St. Patrick’s day has not yet been declared a national holiday since a large percentage of the population claimed Irish heritage on the last census, at least according to what I’ve heard.

The wanna be Irish carry cards with a picture of St. Patrick on one side and an Irish blessing on the other. They are all named Patty O’ Something and are offended if someone suggests that they are not Irish. They have bumper stickers that say, “Kiss me – I’m Irish,” and drink Irish whiskey to show how patriotic they are.

Personally, I’m not sure what a limerick is exactly, or how to dance an Irish jig, or what the difference is between shamrock and clover, if any. I’m not sure either why claiming heritage from a country where people kill each other over religious and political differences and where hate is carried on through generations of violence is a desirable thing.

But eons of Irish poets and great literary figures have woven a romantic and legendary tradition of the Celtic people that has grown to enormous proportion.

And so, we celebrate the Irish and their contributions to our country, which was largely built through the sweat of the Irish immigrants. We embrace the shamrock trilogy and the symbolic green of the Emerald Isle. We cannot help but admire the hardy people who have faced great diversity and hardship good-naturedly.

On this most Irish of all days, we wear our green and try to be Irish, when, in fact, the most Irish thing about us is probably the fact that we have “kissed the ol’ blarney stone” and deceive ourselves that we are Irish-for-a-day.

Copyright 2000 Sheila Moss
Edited from original
Posted in Holidays, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Going Buggy

house“Where did all these gnats come from?” I asked, noticing some small bugs on the living room carpet. Closer inspection revealed they were not gnats at all, but tiny black ants with wings. Ants? With wings? Why would I have winged ants in my living room?

It can’t be TERMITES, can it? PANIC! I’d better call the bug man to check it out.

The call to the exterminator was not encouraging. “It sounds like termites. They are swarming everywhere. I have so many calls I can’t keep up with all of them. I’m going to do a job on your street today, so I’ll come by and look.”

I had that feeling of dread. I’ve heard termites make mud tunnels on the foundation. I went outside and looked. No tunnels, but the windowsill was full of the critters, and thousands of tiny pairs of wings were left behind.

The termite inspector came and confirmed my worse fears. “What we have here are subterranean termites.” He went on, “It’s a pretty big problem. They live in the ground, and we use a chemical method to inject a poison barrier in the ground around the house.”

Subterranean? I can’t even spell it and I’ve got it, I thought miserably. I was in no mood to argue, about bugs with the munchies. I wondered when the roof would come crashing in.

“Get rid of them! HURRY!”

“We have to drill into the ground and that means through the concrete patio and the garage floor.”

“Oh, super!”

He then proceeded to enlighten me about termites. “You are lucky! When they swarm they are getting ready to mate and create new colonies. It is a warning. Those are the kings and queens. They don’t do the damage. When they swarm, there are millions of them. People always panic.”

“The worker termites are white. They are the ones that do the damage. You never see them because they stay in the ground. They build mud tunnels up the foundation to get into the wood. Problem is, they don’t always build on the outside of the foundation; they can also build inside, even in the holes of concrete blocks.”

From the looks of my living room, those royals must have had one heck of a honeymoon.

I later found out that there are different ways to treat for subterranean termites. The exterminators can inject a barricade into the ground that the termites detect and, theoretically, won’t go through, or inject a poison barricade that termites can’t detect, or even set traps to attract them and let them take the lethal poison home to the colony since termites are social insects.

“We inject a barricade that they can’t detect. They dig right through it. When it gets on them, it gives them a fungus that they then take back to the colony.” This was far more information than I really wanted to know.

It’s mass murder, I thought. I would be responsible for killing thousands of bugs with biological weapons. I tired not to think of tiny termite screams, as I momentarily felt a pang of remorse.

Wait a minute – they are eating me out of house and home! I can’t feel sorry for termites! They do more destruction that any natural disaster and my house is their choice for a buffet banquet.

So, I hired a hit man to do the dastardly deed. The bug professionals came with coveralls, tanks, and drills. They drilled for what seemed like hours. All the stuff in my garage had to be moved away from the wall to make room. What a mess! The poison was injected, the holes refilled and the worse was over, except for paying the bill.

“They were in the wood,” confirmed the termite man. “They have started on the main supporting beam under your house. Fortunately, no damage yet, lucky thing you found them this year instead of three years from now.”

Funny, I don’t feel very lucky – on the other hand, I suppose the termites are having a worse day than I am.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss

Posted in Humor | 2 Comments

Spring Forward – Fall Back

timeThe time is changing again. I have an extra hour of daylight in the evening starting this week. But that creates a problem – what to do with my extra hour?  Just about the time I get adjusted to standard time, it springs forward to daylight saving time. I really hate all this dallying around with the clocks.

It should be great to get an extra hour of daylight. When I set the clocks forward and saw what time it was, it was terrible to realize that it wasn’t really the time I thought, but an hour later instead. My body didn’t seem to understand. Please, body, do not go back to the old time now. We have lost an hour of life. Force yourself.

Of course, losing an hour of sleep made me really tired. And because of being really tired, I woke up that next morning an hour late. Well, it wasn’t really an hour late, but the clock said it was an hour later. It made the daylight last longer, so long it seemed as if the day would never end.

The clock-changing bit happens on the weekend to give everyone a chance to remember before the workday. I actually had an hour less to get ready for the day since I woke up at the same old time. This made me run late and I ended up not being on time.

I wish I could use up that extra hour somehow. It’s starting to bug me. I know I will lose it next fall when I give back my extra hour to change to standard time, but it’s been gone so long by then that I won’t even appreciate it. I can’t seem to adjust. I can’t use it by going to bed early to get up sooner, and I can’t use it by getting up later as I then don’t have enough time.

I could use the hour of daylight to do something I really want to do, I suppose. Trouble is I’m so tired and out of whack from trying to adjust to the time change that I don’t really want to do much of anything. I don’t really want that hour.

Maybe I could give it to charity. They always seem to need our time. Maybe we could all collect up our extra hours and pool them. If 24 people would donate, we would have an entire extra day. Is that how it would work, or would the hour we give be the same hour for everyone and so we would still have only an hour?

This is getting very confusing. The only way NOT to end up with extra time on my hands seems to be NOT to give up the hour to begin with. It’s an uphill battle.

I guess I’ll just save my hours. Surely something will come up sooner or later to use them for. I wouldn’t want to waste time now, would I? But whether I use time or lose time, I always need more time as there is never enough time.

I’d talk about this more, but my time is up. I’ve been killing time. See how this works? At least, now I won’t have to worry about what to do with that extra hour for a while.

Copyright 2002 – 2017 Sheila Moss
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The Chef Strikes Again

potato saladOkay, we are going to have another cooking lesson. After last year’s experience, I’m not trying to do deviled eggs. This year the eggs will go straight to the potato salad – no detours.

We will need four boiled eggs for the potato salad. Put these five eggs in a pan and cover them with water. Yes, I said FIVE! In case something unforeseen happens, we will have an extra – in fact, let’s boil six. Our track record with food preparation is not too good.

We will bring them to a boil, then turn down the heat and let them simmer for about fifteen minutes. Easy, huh? It’s is a cinch. If you can boil water, you can make boiled eggs.

Next, we need potatoes, obviously. We can fix them in two different ways, so we need to make a decision here. We can boil them whole with the peelings on, or we can peel and dice them, then cook. No, I don’t like peeling spuds either, so let’s cook them whole. It takes longer, but they will have more vitamins.

We need to fix five cups of potatoes. I don’t know how to measure whole potatoes either. Just guess. Put them in a big pot and cover them with water. Bring them to a boil and let them simmer for about 30 minutes. Yes, the same way you cook eggs, except longer. Put the lid on the pot and they will cook faster

Now we will chop up one cup of onions. I have a nice purple onion which will look pretty. You don’t like onions? Well, it isn’t potato salad without onions. Get over it.

Onions are easy to peel.. Use a sharp knife and cut them crosswise then slice them to make small pieces. Sniff, this onion sure is strong. Just keep chopping! Sob! This is the strongest onion I’ve ever seen. Boohoo! Hand me a paper towel. Sob! Sniff! Did I mention that chopping onions might make your eyes burn?

Are you watching the potatoes? They are boiling over. Get them off the heat! What a mess! Didn’t I mention that potatoes boil over easily? Okay, put them back and leave the lid cracked for the steam to come out. Good grief. Can’t you even boil water?

Now, the recipe calls for celery seed, but I like real celery. It’s that green tasteless stuff that people eat on a diet. Chop the celery to make about a cupful. Be careful. OUCH! The knife slipped! I better get a bandage before I bleed in the food.

Are the potatoes tender when you test them with a fork? Take them off the heat and pour out the water. Watch the steam, you can get burned. YOWEE! See what I mean? Now let’s peel the potatoes. After cooking we can peel and dice them easily. OUCH! My hand, I CUT my hand! Not again!

What was that noise? The EGGS! You let the eggs boil dry? Look at that. It blew up! I didn’t know eggs would do that. Well, they are done enough. Put them in cold water to cool. Now we need to peel them. Start at the big end and they will peel easier. Don’t worry about the part that sticks to the shell. Help me out here. I’m injured.

Okay, all we have left to do is mix it. Put the potatoes, onions, and celery in a big bowl. Add 2 teaspoons of sugar and 2 of vinegar. I know one is sweet and one is sour. No, it won’t explode. Don’t question the recipes.

Stir in 1 ½ cups of mayonnaise. We forgot the stupid eggs. Chop them and crumble up the yokes. Potato salad expands when you mix it. Get a bigger bowl.

Well, it turned out okay for a change. You can sprinkle it with a dash of ground cayenne pepper to make it look pretty. The lid came off? How? Oh no! All the pepper fell in, huh? Well, maybe we can just call it Cajun potato salad.

I’m going to the emergency room to get my hand sewn up. Clean up these pots and pans. This kitchen is a disaster. It looks like we had a food fight. What ever you do, don’t try to cook anything while I’m gone.

Next time we will make coleslaw, something with no cooking involved.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss

I suppose you readers have a better recipe? Okay, let’s have it! Hopefully, it does not include onions.

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