About the fruitcake
I like fruitcake. Beats me how fruitcake got such a bad rap. If you have time and inclination, take one you get this year from your Aunt Cecelia. Line the tin it comes in with aluminum foil, wrap the cake in cheesecloth and pop it back into the lined tin. Every ten to fourteen days, remove the lid, drizzle some bourbon, rum, brandy, or cognac over the top, sparingly. (Don’t mix spirits. Pick the one you like or need to get rid of for fear it is past it’s ‘use-by’ date and stick with it.) Be careful not to use too much spirit; you don’t want a soggy cake; too moist, skip the spritz. Cover the spiked loaf and let it stand in a cool place.
By Thanksgiving next year, you’ll have a fruitcake folks will fight over. Nobody is saying you have to share.
No tin? Improvise. You have an engineering degree, right?
Don’t worry for me. There are those family members mortified they will get another fruitcake this year and be faced with disposing of it in an ecologically friendly way. I will be of service. Family must stick together.
Senior Day Part 1
Got the reception I figured it would. Also suspect viewers stumbled across a notice in their “readers” and weren’t paying attention, mistakenly linking to it. No clear indication that anyone actually read the whole of episode one. There were no comments registering indignation. Factually, there were no comments at all on the full read. Hmm. A subtle message.
One reader was mildly disappointed I’d not provided a Spanish translation. Sheesh. That’s expecting a bit much – I have enough trouble with English.
Senior Day Part 2
Here’s the second part tease.
The Main Event
You remember sometimes I can’t avoid shopping Senior Geezer Day, or cannot make the early dawn or late evening hours of the gala? Happened to me about two weeks ago. This particular day, successfully parking my truck, miles and miles away – not really, I know a secret spot by the dumpster in the back of the store – I reluctantly entered the store and the real adventure began. At once, I felt like Spartacus.
Just inside the outer door, I was greeted by a battle over possession of one of the motorized carts. Neither contestant required support while they flailed their arms about emphasizing their superior claim. I left the debaters to their discussion.
Fortunately, the third cart I pulled from the row of waiting carts was not covered in some unimaginable slime, belying the fact that it was still loaded with lethal microbes, viruses, and evil fluids like every other cart there. At least I couldn’t see the evil it held. (No, on my walk from my secret truck parking spot to the front door, there were no stray carts.) I found a cart with four working wheels. One was questionable, but for the moment looked like it would last. My cart and I headed from the entryway into the store.
Inside, having wrapped-up their front-of-store battles, handicap-carters continued to be entertaining. An empty HC cart idled (I guess) in the canned-vegetables aisle. Threw its rider, I suppose. A reasonably old geezer, looking every bit entitled, tottered up to the abandoned cart, stared at it briefly, shrugged his shoulders (no mean feat) and started to twist his weary body into the driver’s seat. Suddenly, from ten yards down the aisle, a man much the first man’s junior, screamed and brandishing his cane, every bit as spry as Terry Bradshaw on his best day, charged the cart yelling, “that’s my cart, you get the hell out!” These seniors can be feisty. The older gent yielded.
Earlier instances come to mind. Once a three-hundred and fifty pound ballerina left her cart, walked first to the cooking spices shelf, tip-toed a can of sage from the topmost shelf, pirouetted to the freezer case across the aisle, hoisted a thirty pound turkey and chunked it into the cart with the finesse but not the accuracy of Michael Jordan. One of the pneumatic wheels exploded. I did not wait to see what came next.
No point in bothering, but here’s the link to the full second episode. Remember, it is NSFW.