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When I saw Daisy-brand squeezable sour cream at Shop-All, my first thought was that they were solving a problem that didn't exist. Then I remembered the last time I'd done make-your-own-tacos with the kiddos. Despite the fact that I'd laid out separate spoons for the sour cream, salsa, shredded cheese, and caramelized onions, my tub of pure-white sour cream ended up looking like some swirling rainbow Van Gogh might've painted.
So, I dropped squeezable sour cream into my cart.
I've waited until we've used it three times before settling on my #convenientish review score.
Our first experience with the cold, weirdly plump tube was conventional enough: on baked potatoes. My kindergartner Karen needed help. My 14-year-old Zach discovered you could suck air into it and make fart noises. More or less, a typical meal for us.
Use #2 was preparing quesadillas for a neighborhood cookout. I made an assembly line: me on tortillas and beans, Zach on jalapenos, Karen on sour cream. She'd improved her two-hand-twist technique by then, and we showed up to the cookout with a platter of respectable -- if not perfectly uniform -- quesadillas.
Last Sunday was our third sour cream occasion. I cooked pancakes but forgot to put the syrup out on the table. The cat was making hacking sounds in the basement and I was halfway down the steps, so Karen went looking for the condiment herself...then I distinctly heard her ask her brother, "You could prolly put this on pancakes, right?"
All in all, I'd say the end result has been more consumption of sour cream -- which is great for the people at Daisy and not bad for me either. Sour cream has calcium, some protein, and both my kids can use the fat.
Overall, I'm a fan. On my convenientish scale of 1 ("Money-sucking gimmick") to 10 ("Utterly indispensable"), I give squeezable sour cream an 8.
My 14-year-old son, Zach, is obsessed with #HankTheTank, the 500-pound bear in Colorado who barges into people’s homes and raids their fridges.
“We need a New Jersey Hank!” Zach said the other day. “Me and Reggie have a plan, we’re doing it. We’re luring a bear into the neighborhood.”
I informed him that was insane.
“Whatevs — it’s *brilliant*,” he said. “Hank doesn’t bother anybody. He’s, like, chill. He just hangs out and mows down leftover pizza.”
“I think his damage path includes drywall and light fixtures too.”
Zach sneered like I was quibbling over details. “The people in his hood, who’ve encountered him? *They* don’t even want him euthanized. What does that tell you?”
“There’s a lot of space between wanting an animal dead and wanting it as a house guest,” I said. “Does New Jersey even have bears?”
“Yes! The interweb says we have black bears.”
“In our region? Wouldn’t they be more in the wilderness?”
“The New Jersey wilderness?”
He had me there.
I pivoted. “What exactly are you proposing? That we make a trail of munchies from the sidewalk to our front door? Put up a sign, ‘Bears welcome here’?”
“Mom, that word has another meaning you’re probably not aware of—”
“I know the other meaning,” I said. “What I’d like to understand is how we go from spending $5 more on an extra-large pizza” — this had all started with Zach’s request to go XL for the leftovers — “to having these bro-bear visits you and Reggie are imagining.”
Zach gripped his bangs, playing with the fold of the pizza menu. He mumbled something about trusting the process, living his truth, et cetera.
Then Granny came downstairs. She was still wearing her lavender wristbands and pickleball sweats.
She glared at us. “You realize I can hear every last word from upstairs?”
Zach and I looked at each other, shame-faced.
Granny continued, “I’ll say this: you can count me out on those pears. They’re too high at Aldi’s, and Walmart pears taste like mush. Just buy me my usual grapefruit.”
And she left to watch TV in the living room. Her judge shows were about to start.
My biggest, wildest adventure to date — the one that started it all, ANARCHY OF THE MICE — is on sale today, free in Kindle format!
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Anarchy of the Mice (Third Chance Enterprises)
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Anarchy of the Mice (Third Chance Enterprises)Today only, my cozy mystery, The Begonia Killer, is available free in Kindle form! A Kirkus Reviews starred book: "Well-paced plotting, sharply-etched characters ... a diverting mystery with a beguiling, shrewd, and tough hero."
The Begonia Killer (Third Chance Enterprises) www.amazon.com/dp/B08XZQJDVN/ref=cm_sw_r_apan_glt_PECB4S4M70C17622NDKZ
The Begonia Killer (Third Chance Enterprises)
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The Begonia Killer (Third Chance Enterprises)I made a whole mess of twice-baked sweet potatoes last night. I was one-thousand percent sure they would be a hit. My kiddos *love* regular twice-baked potatoes. I’d never put in the trouble to fix sweets this way - it’s labor intensive, scooping out the insides, recombining with goodies and filling/rebaking the shells — and I couldn’t wait to see them wolfed down.
I even found a recipe online with a 4.93 rating on more than 500(!) reviews. Success was guaranteed.
I thought.
Karen hated the texture. “They’re stringy-ish! I don’t like those stringies on my tongue.”
She wiped her tongue off with her fingernails, scraping every last trace, and ate no more.
Zach was convinced I’d used the wrong spices. “Did you put, like, *oregano* in here?”
I said no, just cinnamon and a pinch of nutmeg.
He insisted, “Pretty sure that’s oregano, Mom. You should watch it with these online recipes. People prank a lot on the internet. Older people don’t understand.”
Speaking of older people who didn’t understand the internet — Granny, I figured, was a surefire win. She has a huge sweet tooth. These were going to be right up her alley.
But no.
“Aw, they taste like sassafras candy! What in the world did you go ruining good yams for?”
She spat out the mouthful, grumbling about her dentures rotting.
So, yeah, that was twice-baked sweet potatoes. I know what leftovers I’ll be eating all week for lunch.
#dinnerTonight
Free today on Kindle, one day only! ANARCHY OF THE MICE, a Kirkus Reviews Best 100 Indie Book of 2020: "Bond’s three main characters leap off the page...hurtling from one life-threatening challenge to the next...a gripping thriller, sure to please its target audience and likely to have crossover appeal as well."
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Anarchy of the Mice (Third Chance Enterprises)
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Anarchy of the Mice (Third Chance Enterprises)I met her online.
Yeah, yeah — spare me your heehaws. It wasn’t Insta or Snapchat. She contacted me through my ProtonMail account, which is known to very few people on the planet. The Joint Chiefs and Secretary of State. Sergio Diaz, former mayor of New York City. Dave Hasselhoff.
She said she represented a cartel of “powerful, large-thinking individuals” who’d made an historic geological find. She’d been vague about what they were sitting on but hinted at beaucoup dollar signs.
The tease had been enough to get me on a plane to Ecuador.
(Full disclosure: her ProtonMail sig did include a headshot.)
Now I found her at the prescribed geolocation, resplendent upon these gleaming marble steps. I’d hiked two dozen flights to reach this point, the very pinnacle, and couldn’t see beyond her.
“Mister Rafferty,” she said in a smoky accent I couldn’t place. “You came.”
“Indeed.” I grinned despite my aching arches. Tasseled loafers aren’t endurance footwear. “What have I come to see?”
“Straight to business,” said the woman, who’d called herself Vega in our previous correspondence. “I expected foreplay from a man of your silver-tongued reputation.”
There was a lot to unpack between her words and the dress, which flapped and fluttered in the wind.
“Oh, my tongue won’t disappoint,” I said. “But first, I’d like to make sure you aren’t the cheese in some big steel trap.”
She took a coquettish step forward.
“My employers have found Lake Titicaca, the ancient body of water which spawned all of Incan civilization …”
In a voice like spiced chocolate dripping down the curve of a strawberry, Vega briefly explained the myth. Manco Cápac and Mama Ocllo, sons of the god Viracocha, had emerged from the depths of the lake to civilize and educate the men of Earth. The Peruvians had always claimed Lake Titicaca lived within their borders, but this was a lie. A tourist trap.
Local villagers had long testified that the lake behind Vega possessed magical healing and restorative qualities, but they were ignorant of why or how. Vega’s employers had connected the dots, combining cutting-edge archeology with the villagers’ lived experience.
“Truly, we are in the presence of miracle water,” she concluded.
It was a lot to swallow, but as a member of Third Chance Enterprises, I’ve seen some wild stuff. The world has more hidden waterfalls and sinkholes to Shangri-La than those not living in the realm of small-force freelance operatives realize.
I asked if she’d partaken in this miracle water herself.
Vega nodded, licking her lips. “The first time, my body came alive in new ways. Now I drink it every morning and night. It is bath salt for the soul.”
“I never did try bath salts. Always seemed vaguely unhygienic,” I said. “So, what’s my role here? Why did I fly four thousand miles and miss out on Caesar’s Monday Funday dollar shooters?”
“You have connections in the West — and the West is where the world’s wealth lives.”
*That’s a lot of W’s,* I thought. Vega had a flair for language, and who knew what else.
“Sounds like you’re after a Vice President of Marketing,” I said. “Do I look like a salesman to you?”
Her gaze traveled from my loafers to my sandy mussed hair. Her mouth’s twist seemed to answer in the affirmative.
“When you witness the lake, and what it can do,” she said, “we believe your reservations will melt away.”
She turned up the stairs, the part of her skirt riding higher, and beckoned me to follow.
#accomplice
Quaid Rafferty updated their business hours.
It’ll surprise exactly no one to point out that Elon Musk is a #supervillain.
Humanoid robots? Self-driving cars? This cybertruck, which looks ready to go head-to-head with the Delorean from Back to the Future?
These marvels are only the tip of the iceberg. Supervillains are a catty bunch — I could tell a few stories. The campfire buzz has it Elon is planning something *big* for the back half of 2025, possibly involving undersea lava flows and sentient jellyfish. Joe Rogan is likely involved.
I’m skeptical of the jellyfish bit.
His name came up the other night as I was chatting with Fabienne Rivard. She’d just gotten out of a meeting with EU regulators, who were acting squeamish about Rivard LLC’s proposed acquisition of the last independent provider of radioactive starting materials.
“If it were Elon cornering the market in uranium,” she mused in her thick accent, “they would say nothing. The double-standard is unconscionable.”
We were at a hookah bar in Istanbul, sitting close on a vermilion couch. Fabienne knew this territory, having impressively reoriented her father’s company around diversity and inclusion.
“To be fair to Brussels,” I said, “Elon never plunged the world into the first sustained anarchy in history.”
Fabienne crossed one mantis leg over the other, simpering. “We undertake many initiatives each year. Occasionally one veers off course.”
“Like the giant space laser that almost zapped me on the Santa Monica freeway?”
She fingered the collar of my sport coat, stroking the scar above my collarbone. “Tell me, who could believe SpaceX has no military ambitions?”
She became fixated on my neck, now squinting, now slowly tilting her head as though inspecting it — or preparing more amorous overtures.
I still hadn’t heard why she’d wanted to meet. Was she checking up on the experimental shark DNA-based vaccine I’d gotten from Rivard last year? Did she have a sidehustle mission to propose?
“As a rule,” I said, “I try to stay out of billionaires’ heads. Nothing good comes from being there.”
I hope you're taking notes, Durwood Oak Jones. Because I guarantee if NASA ever spots a big rock spinning down the lane for that blue and green bowling pin called Earth, the first call they'll make is to Third Chance Enterprises.
Deflecting an Asteroid Before It Hits Earth May Take Multiple Bumps
nyti.ms
After years of shooting meteorites with a special gun owned by NASA, researchers highlighted challenges for a preferred method of planetary defense.
This one's my favorite from the Memorial Day parade in Elk Garden today. I believe this fella's running for the state house, didn't have a convertible Cadillac or some such car.
I like to bring Sue-Ann to these. She's got a sweet tooth and will get her old bones moving if somebody throws a Werther's Original. But it was 92 out so I left her home. She was panting on my screen porch, and would've struggled on that hot downtown asphalt.
Crole’s mad at the local sports talk radio host. The guy criticized Elk Garden High for always playing varsity softball games on Thursdays and baseball on Fridays. Said it was sexist.
“Aw, he went woke on us same as the rest,” Crole said. “I’m done with K-FAN. Done.”
He jerked his line through the water. It was eight a.m. and we were fishing. Normally K-FAN would be playing from his old antennaed Magnavox.
Now I don’t mind silence myself. I much prefer it with Quaid Rafferty on a stakeout, or waiting to be interrogated by a supervillain.
Crole’s better than Rafferty, but we’d been listening to K-FAN in the morning for six years. He got cranky. The crows cawing irritated him. Sue-Ann irritated him, that slurp-suck noise she makes sleeping.
“Damn dog can’t sleep with her mouth closed?” he said.
I told him Sue only had three teeth, which messed up her bite.
My son Luke happened to call that night. He lives in New York City and works for Goldman Sacs. He asked what was shaking “down in the sticks.”
I told him about Crole’s beef with K-FAN.
“You guys should just stream,” Luke said. “There’s a dozen idiots talking sports online. Mike and the Mad Dog. Fox Sports.”
He said as long as I had a smartphone, which I do for missions, I could play one of those other radio shows.
I asked how much that cost.
“Nothin’,” he said. “Maybe you have to give them an email address so they can spam you.”
I get plenty of spam already so that didn’t bother me.
I told Crole and he said that sounded pretty good. He only owned a flip phone himself.
“There’s a whole world of modern marvels out there,” he said, looking over the river. “You gotta start someplace, right?”
The next morning, Sue and I headed to the river at seven sharp. I’d signed us up for FoxSports so we’d be all set to stream their morning show. It was called Two Pros and a Cup of Joe.
Whatever that means.
Crole got to the spot about when Sue and I did. He had his jug and fishing gear.
“Whaddaya think they’ll be talking about?” he said. “Basketball? The NFL draft? You think they’ll mention our linebacker?”
He was talking about the WVU linebacker who had a chance to get picked.
I said I doubted it. The kid was supposed to be a second- or third-rounder.
Crole baited his hook and cast. “As long as they aren’t talking woke, I’ll listen.”
As he got a head start with the fish, it fell to me to start the stream. I found Two Pros and a Cup of Joe on the internet. It took me a few tries to tap the right place. My fingers work well on a trigger, less so on a screen.
The radio program didn’t start. Something called iHeartRadio popped up.
Crole said, “We listening to this show or what?”
The phone wanted me to install a new app, this iHeartRadio. I couldn’t tell if it was some dating app, or that spam Luke talked about.
I read the screen. Crole caught and strung a bluegill.
I decided to install the app. I’ve found with technology, you just keep clicking. *I agree* … *I confirm* … *I acknowledge* … eventually, something happens.
I’m sure the hackers from Take-your-money-i-stan count on this.
What do you know, five minutes later, my phone started making noise.
“*Welcome to iHeartRadio, your go-to spot for the HOTTEST internet radio…*”
Crole looked over and nodded. Sue-Ann started up, then whimpered back down on the moist banks.
The welcome message played for more than a minute. They were pushing some premium subscription — no ads, unlimited skips.
“Christ a’mighty,” Crole muttered.
While the ad was finishing, I shaped a finger of stink bait around my hook and cast. I barely heard the water’s *plunk* with all the noise.
Another voice replaced the iHeartRadio ad.
“*Enjoy FoxSports and FS1, exclusively available … and now FoxBet Live, bringing you the latest scoop on all things gambling …*”
Crole reeled in after a nibble and found his bait gone. He swore colorfully.
I said, “Another ad.”
Crole looked at the phone, sitting on the rock between us. “You sure you did this right?”
“No,” I said.
It seemed like this second ad ran longer, but that could’ve been my imagination.
There was a pause when it ended. I tilted my phone and saw a spinning-circle symbol. I reported to Crole it was loading.
“Sure thing,” he said.
Finally, a couple voices that sounded like sportstalk came on. Opinionated, shouting and laughing.
“—worst move in the *history* of the draft!” they said. “Complete do-do bird, hundred percent, don’t even talk to me about it.”
Then a catchy jingle played, and the guy said they’d return after a word from their sponsors.
The next ad was about office information software. The voice asked what kind of boss you were, one who made decisions based on up-to-the-second data, or one who fired blind?
I tilted the phone to see what the display showed and accidentally closed the app.
*Dang.*
I started the app again.
“*Welcome to iHeartRadio, your go-to spot for the HOTTEST internet radio…*”
I looked to Crole, and he looked at the rock between us with the moonshine jug and my phone.
I switched off the radio. He raised the jug and lightened its contents considerably down his throat.
“If I’m gonna listen to their woke BS,” he said, “I guess I’d better prepare.”
If you're looking for a wild ride, give ANARCHY OF THE MICE a try. Free today on Kindle.
www.amazon.com/gp/product/B084VTWNDZ/
Anarchy of the Mice (Third Chance Enterprises)
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Anarchy of the Mice (Third Chance Enterprises)“Hide your beer, hide your clear from the man upstairs /
Crank it loud, hold it down 'til I get there”
#countrySong
My neighbor Crole has a similar idea about Heaven. He believes they’ll let him keep his jug in the afterlife.
“I bet that’ll be the sweetest shine you ever did taste. Licorice and hog brains and crusties from God’s pit smoker, fermented for all eternity.” Grinning, flashing his rotten teeth. “Can’t hardly wait.”
I expect they both have it wrong, Crole and the fella who wrote the song. That’s alright. They’ll surely drink their fill down here before He calls.
I’m not big on resolutions. Every day a person wakes up, they ought to take stock of the work ahead, make a plan, and go.
Fixing up a list on January 1 never did anybody a single push-up, nor pulled one clump of johnsongrass from a farmer’s field.
My neighbor #Crole, though, lives for them.
“This year, I’m giving up pork rinds.”
The wind was howling off the river dividing our properties, but still we were fishing.
Crole continued, “Once it thaws, I’ll rip out them scraggly buckthorn like Ethel” — his third wife — “always wanted me to.”
I reeled in a twist, and felt enough drag to believe the line still had bait.
“Won’t that be nice,” I said.
Crole’s misshapen eye trembled, and he kept on. “I’m calling Uncle Sam and getting on that do-not-call list. After that, every last jerk who calls asking for money I’m reporting.”
“Even the sheriffs’ union?”
“*Especially* the sheriffs. What’d they ever do for me?”
He was going to clean his gutters. He was going to call up his kids and grandkids, those that hadn’t disowned him.
He pulled two perch and a skipjack shad during his fervor, as though Heaven above were encouraging him.
Sue-Ann lay curled against my boot. With each catch, she roused and cocked an eye at me.
I nodded at Crole’s jug on a rock between us. “You could lay off the shine while you’re at it. Give your nose a break.”
Crole gets bad nosebleeds when he drinks.
He drew up sharply and said, “Quit being a crank.”
We kept fishing, and he made plans clear into the afternoon.