Granny CG's Good News For Today:
Well, friends and neighbors, if you happened to be passing by my open kitchen window around lunchtime today, you might have heard a loud "POP!" and then a splattering sound - and if you were real lucky you moved along before the cussing started (I'm just kidding, folks - we all know Granny CG doesn't really cuss, it just sounds like it sometimes.)
The pop! was the sound of the lid coming off an out-of-date jar of pickles which I had hoped might still be good; and you can guess about the splashing. My goodness - I'm still washing pickle juice off my refrigerator magnets. I'm afraid my grandchildrens' paintings got a little extra creative touch, as well - and one that smells rather picklish.
This little report is by way of a reminder: if your pickles (or any other jarred or canned goods) explode, do not eat them. Don't even think about it. If you have a compost pile, then you can let the worms take care of them as I do. And since, except for my exploding pickles, things have been quiet in Inner Springs - (the Portobello children's magic show last Saturday, by all accounts, was fabulous. This reporter, however, was en route to a surprise funeral, so readers will have to rely on word-of-mouth reviews of the show - the magic show, not the funeral) - it must be time for Granny CG's annual compost pile poetry pick. I'm sure my readers have been breathlessly awaiting this event! Certainly, those who have submitted compost poetry (compoems) over the last several days have been. Now for the winner, young Josh Canoodle, who will receive a gift certificate for a free lunch for two at the Holy Grill Cafe. Congratulations, Josh! Josh is the son of Officer Hiram Canoodle and first-grade teacher Hilda Grace Brown-Canoodle.
RECIPE FOR A FERTILITY RITE by Josh Canoodle, age 15 1/2
Watching my Dad shovel cow manure he's gathered from Farmer Dan's Dairy
Makes me hold my nose, makes me embarrassed -
Watching my Dad sweat while he's using that pitchfork to build the manure
and weeds and hay and vegetable scraps and eggshells and stuff
into the compost pile
makes me wonder about my family - how weird my friends must think we are -
But then we pick the tomatoes and the corn and the other stuff Dad grows,
and we eat them,
and - dang - we're not getting all poisoned stuff like some of my buds do,
and this food that started with cow manure - can you believe it? cow stuff--
this food is really fine.
Watching my Dad in his gardening clothes bragging about how big his tomatoes are,
and putting some vegetables from his garden into a box
to take by the nursing home when he goes to work tomorrow, or take to some poor family -
well then I don't mind that I'm a policeman's kid so much, sort of.
I mean, think about it:
other people give my Dad the dirty work to do, like stopping fights
and picking up drunks and stuff -
and it's kind of like the cow manure in the compost pile:
it's dirty, but it all goes into a recipe that turns out to be good for everyone in the end.