Native Origin of Dinner

Original post: August 2011.

Nutritionist tell us eating fish is healthy. Maybe; depends on the native origin of the fish.

Wild caught salmon is expensive, and I waiver between paying the mortgage or buying wild caught.

Farm raised salmon was an alternative until I read the fish are naturally gray, then dyed red to appear more appealing. Aside from questionable cosmetic enhancement, fish that swim up stream in the Pacific ocean have to be in better shape than those that loll around in a tank all day.

A grocery circular featuring a sale on sea scallops prompted a race to the store. My research on sea scallops indicates they are often carved from cod and passed off as sea scallops. I flatten my body against the meat case and peer at the scallops to see if their grain runs vertically and they are not cod in drag.

I try to make myself invisible while other shoppers  look at me as though I escaped from the asylum.

The store demo at the seafood counter was hawking monkfish as “poor man’s lobster.” He assured me it tasted exactly like lobster tail. Sure it does and rattlesnake meat taste exactly like chicken, but who wants to go there?

Shrimp is another matter entirely. If the price is too good to be true, the shrimp are native Indonesian. There’s nothing wrong with being from Indonesia, but shrimp making the journey may have experienced more trauma than I wish to ingest.

Much of the Tilapia at my supermarket comes from China. The possibility I might glow in the dark gives me a reason to eliminate that choice. I give up on the fish and head to the produce section.

Should I flip a coin and get the stuff from the farmer and hope I can get all the pesticide off, or should I get the organic and trust that it’s truly organic?

Too much information about food sources is depressing. I arrive home empty-handed, famished and call the pizza delivery guy.

Pizza is fish and lettuce free.

Oh Hell No!

Recent events, and yes, I’m talking about the shootings, have caused me to re-evaluate my thoughts about being politically correct.

I read an online account of someone who was conflicted about a family member who touted the stereo-typed “one good man with a gun coulda, shoulda, blah, blah, blah” It occurred to me that conflict resolution doesn’t have to be hard. Even the densest among us know not to fool with a southern woman when she says, “oh hell no.”

Heretofore, I’ve tried to be tolerant of the views of those who do not agree with me. But wait a minute; how do I justify being a tolerant host/matriarch/friend/liberal person to those whose views and values are diametrically opposed to mine?

I had an ‘aha moment; I don’t have to.

So here’s the deal; I do not give a continental damn if you have open carry, conceal carry or whatever carry, your second amendment rights expire when you enter my home.

I’ve tried to be polite; hoping my silence, accompanied by eye-rolls, and grimaces would convey my abhorrence of the use of racial slurs. The guilt I have experienced by not speaking out, has finally overcome my reluctance to create a scene.

The Nigerian pharmacist who double checked my prescriptions to make sure I am taking them effectively, deserves better from me.

The Eastern Indian woman, my physical therapist, who I love like family, deserves better from me.

The female African American physical trainer at my gym, who knows stuff about me my family would be surprised to know, deserves better from me.

Our Mexican American neighbor deserves better from me.

In the interest of being politically correct, not wanting to make waves; keep the peace, I have denigrated those who mean a great deal to me.

My granddaughters deserve the example of a strong female role model.

To those who spout hate and racism, I don’t care where it is, or who it is I’m saying “Oh hell no.” If I create a scene so be it.

Enough is enough.

Pool People

Note: originally posted in August of 2011. Not much has changed.

Our homeowner’s pool is visited by a cast of colorful characters.

An impeccably groomed Miss Couture arrives poolside, deposits her accessories in a deck chair and tests the water with her perfectly pedicured toe. She begins her catwalk down the pool stairs and glides into the water. She is going to do nothing more strenuous than take up real estate in the pool.

Next arrives Unkempt Joe, hauling a beer cooler, boom box and a pool float with cubbies for his beverages. He hasn’t shaved in five days. The flies that accompany him indicate an absence of a bath for at least that long. His man boobs compete with the bay window hanging over his swim trunks for space in his raggedy suit. Thank God, he doesn’t own a Speedo. After turning on Leonard Skynard full blast he executes a decibel bursting belly flop and lands on his float. Miss Couture is not amused.

Miss Fitness Freak arrives with barbells, paddles, noodles and weights in tow. Slathered in sunscreen SPF 75 she proceeds to enter the middle of the pool after giving Miss Couture a look of disdain and a warning glare to Unkempt Joe, she begins her exercise routine. All she requires is space and non interference from pool mates.

Last to enter is Miss Socialize. She’s as perky as a poodle and talkative as a parrot. She is poised to greet  her next victim. Miss Couture unavailable to those who don’t meet her standard of fashion, avoids eye contact with Miss Socialize. Unkempt Joe is belly deep in “Sweet Home Alabama” and long-necks. Miss Fitness Freak is a whirling dervish of activity. Miss Socialize chatters away to anyone who hasn’t managed to escape.

Miss Fitness Freak is the first to depart the pool leaving behind an oil spill of sunscreen glaze. She is the picture of efficiency as she gathers up her equipment and makes a hasty retreat. She is followed by Miss Couture,  gives Unkempt Joe a withering, warning glance as she runs for the pool exit.

Miss Socialize who has managed to drown out Skynard has accomplished what no one heretofore has been able to. Unkempt Joe and his redneck accoutrements exit the pool.

Miss Socialize left to her own devices and ring around the pool as a parting gift from Unkempt Joe and SPF 75, notices the absence of fellow swimmers. Fellow poolies, having noted her arrival time, will make sure their paths do not cross again. I think she planned it that way.

Sharing water can be a challenge.

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