Mystery of the missing forks

After coming home from church, I was happy with the prospect of eating. I was going to reheat the pasta I brought home last night from a local Italian restaurant. And, I successfully reheated it, and even offered some to my brother. However, when we sat down to eat it, we realized something horrifically disturbing had occurred. We had only one fork. 

I checked the sink for dirty dishes. There were only 2, and no fork. I checked the drying rack. There were only spoons and knives. I checked the silverware drawer. Again, only spoons and knives. I checked the random kitchen utensil drawer. No forks. We had no forks. 

No hope. 

So, I ate my meal with a spoon (begrudgingly might I add). Oh, and to make things worse, the fork we were left with was a midget-sized one. Yeah, a shrimp fork. My brother used it, with tears pouring down his face.

I honestly do not know what happened to our forks, but I should have seen this coming. About a month ago we lost all but one of our big forks, and just today we lost all but one of the shrimp forks. But, I do have some theories as to how this has happened:

1. First and foremost I will blame the trash collectors, who have not only refused to take our trash, but now have absconded with our forks (Probably so they can do some weird trashman mystic rituals).

2. We have a clever criminal who has a moderately refined taste for IKEA silverware, and particularly forks. He could be Swedish, given that IKEA is a Swedish company, or he could be Chinese, because all of IKEA's stuff is made there.

3. Our forks left us. They just could not tolerate our cooking any longer. They probably ran off to Italy so their could skewer sausages for the rest of their lives.

4. Ashton Kutcher has devised his most carefully orchestrated PUNK'd episode ever. The filming is over the course of several months. He is starting to mess with us by stealing our forks, then he'll move on to where it hurts: our house plants and pillow cases. Bastard.

5. There are gnomes that live in our house, and they are plotting to take over by creating super-powered fork thrower that they will connect to the back of their pet fox. Their leader David will ride out gloriously in the midst of a charming Christmas dinner party and all hell will break loose.

PS - If you have any ideas as to the whereabouts of our forks please contact us immediately. This is a picture of Fred the fork, last seen with this pasta dish:

Catcher in the Pumpernickel

I like bread. I like sandwiches. But, there are a lot of fakers out there. And, there are people who are innocent of the intricacies and nuances of the delicatessen. Being very familiar with what makes a good sandwich, I want to prevent the fakers from deceiving the innocents. I want the innocents to know of the goodness of the sandwich without having to ruin their unsoiled palate on garbage. I am therefore, the Catcher in the Pumpernickel.Holden Caufield wanted to protect innocence. As do I. But his was more broad. Mine is more bread. Pumpernickel is a derivative of rye and rye berries from Germany. Rye is therefore the larger issue of innocence, and pumpernickel then stands to represent the smaller (albeit critical) issue of delicatessen innocence.Subway, Quizno's, and D'Angelo's are trying to rape your palate (Please excuse my overly zealous metaphor, I'm making a point). They are homogenized and run by only moderately qualified people who are just trying to make a buck. They may have good sandwiches, but they are not delis.Delis came to being in this country in the Jewish boroughs of New York City. It is there that rye bread, pastrami, sauerkraut, sausage, cheddar, and everything good about sandwiches came to be. The reason that these particular ingredients were used is due to the often indigent circumstances of European Jews prior to their sustained immigration from the turn of the century leading up until after WWII. But they brought these great tastes, and fabulous culture with them. They are the root of good American sandwiches.
So, before you deliver your soul to the corporate franchises, get back to the root. Make a trip to NYC, or find a Mom and Pop store near you, where they have chutzpah, flavor, and a love of life and sandwiches. Don't settle for mundane homogenization. Go to where it's real, it's passionate, it's pumpernickel.

Breakfast in Bed

Breakfast in bed.

It frightens me. Is that what you really want in your bed? I would generally prefer not to have bacon, sausage, pancakes or eggs anywhere near my bed. I overheat with just me in my bed, so thinking about hot food under the sheets with me just seems like a bad idea.

Not only that, but it's a messy idea. Here someone is, thinking they're being considerate, or even helpful, and you wake up with a burning gooey sensation on your calf, and your hair is full of oatmeal.

Furthermore, it encourages laziness. If I can't get up enough energy to pour a bowl of cereal and peal a banana, I'm on the verge of being declared completely incompetent.

So there you have it. If I want you breakfast, I'll get you. Don't even think about coming to me.