M

It’s not everyday that your casserole is intelligent enough to speak to you. It’s only once in a blue moon that something like this happens:

(see in the Middle of the picture?)
If that small bit of sauce conglomerated on the side of the glass pan in the shape of an M is not communication, I don’t know what is. Granted, I don’t actually know what my casserole was saying to me. Perhaps it meant the first letter of my dad's name. Perhaps it meant M, in reference to Judi Dench’s character in James Bond. Perhaps it just meant M, as in the 13th letter of the alphabet. Perhaps it meant M, as in, “Mmmmm… I taste good”. Or maybe the casserole just didn’t get a chance to finish the word. Or the sentence. Or the Monologue. Maybe the casserole wanted to warn me of something, wanted to send me a Message. A Message that the world is Manic, full of Murderers, Make-up, Marauders, Mammograms, Mistakes, Misplaced affection (not to Mention Misplaced keys), Manipulation, false Masculinity, Manga, Mid-sized sedans, Monsters, Manners, and Mix-ups. A Message that it’s a Mad, Mad world and that I should Make My way to the nearest exit. To which message, dear casserole, I Must agree. But I think I must also give the casserole the benefit of the doubt. It could have been trying to say something nice. After all, the world also has Marvelous things, such as Mothers, Mud, Mansions, Mountains, Disneyland, Measuring cups, Malmö, Mayday, and Maps. If my casserole was trying to say something, it Must be something important. Which is why I am going to say that the casserole did mean, M, as in Judi Dench’s character in James Bond. As a good friend, I am going to listen to my casserole. And so now it is time to watch Quantum of Solace. Magnificent!

The Prodigal Power Bars

This is a story of the power bars. Around two years ago, my brother, Ben, was in leadership, in high school. He was also in cross-country. He did some event or thing, something for one of the mentioned extracurricular activities and, anyways, he brought home these power bars from school. They tasted disgusting, but they were supposed to be full of energy. Ben kept these things in his room. I don't know whether he thought he would eat them or whether he just wanted to have them around or what, but he did keep them. When he shipped off for college, the power bars got put in his closet. And there they have sat, so docilely, for two years, until a few weeks ago. We had to get into Ben's closet and they got taken out. So just imagine: a box of twenty-something power bars. They lived the high life in the high school, were surrounded by hungry teenagers. They were full of energy, what is more appealing. Wow. They were the bomb. Then. Then they got taken to a house. They sat in a box, all day, every day. Their numbers did not diminish. There was no hope for them. They just sat there. Then they get shoved in the closet, in the dark, for a year and a half. Ben comes home on vacation, probably doesn't eat any. Probably doesn't give them a second thought. (And who can blame him?) They suffer tremendous disappointment. No one cares about them. Even if anyone knew about their sorry existence, no one would care about them. That hurts them. Finally, they get taken out of the closet. Okay? That's intense. Now back to the present. I'm in a video class, at school, and my group is making a video about a magical power bar. So, when we started filming (if you want to call it that) we needed a power bar prop. I passed by Ben's room after school and there it is: A giant box of power bars. So I take, like, 5 to school. And there it is! The power bars finally came home to their first home: high school. Oh, the glory days. Now, they don't taste good at all, but, some things just don't change. They expired a year ago. But someone in my class still ate a part of one. And then spit it out into the garbage. And whenever we have to open up a power bar, it smells like an antique. I don't think the power bars notice the revulsion with which they are looked upon. To them, its being back amongst teenagers that really makes them happy. I guess the Power Bars give us a hope that really, you are never too old, or expired to return to the good times.
Note: These power bars aren't really prodigal, because, at no point in their lives have they actually been prodigal, but their story is somewhat similar to the story of the Prodigal son, from the Bible, you know. The power bars leave their home, have a rough time, then come home, like the son. So that's why I call them prodigal, even if they aren't.

Apple and His Hair

This apple slice has peanut butter hair. He's full of attitude and his leaning stance is highly masculine. He probably rides a motorcycle and, if he had hands, they would most likely be oily from 1. fixing up cars in the garage or, 2. fixing up his greasy hair. His name is James because he looks like a mixture of Jimmy Neutron and James Dean.

Anyways, I just thought the apple looked cool. It must be the hair.

This other apple slice is tough to figure out. I would leave it out of this post but I think it would feel neglected and sad, so I think I had better include it with James.

A Craisin Mistake

So. One day back in springtime, I was making this recipe called Cranberry Macadamia Bars, with my friend. There was an inset in the cookbook and it looked spectacular. So we decided to make it, of course. And the first problem was that I didn't have any macadamias. I actually don't know what exactly macadamias are, really. I know they put them in those cookies at the store... that statement was so nondescript. Anyways, the book told me that we could use hazelnuts or pecans instead so we used pecans. Problem solved. Only now they were going to be Cranberry Pecan Bars. Then I saw it the recipe asked for finely chopped cranberries. But all I had were craisins. And you know, craisins are just a smidgeon hard to finely chop, so we just left them whole. So now it was Craisin Pecan Bars. We kept making them and we finished and they turned out not at all like the book photograph. The caption to the inset in the book said that these bars were "Like tiny slices of a special tart." And the picture showed moist, lush, happy triangular bars. But what we recieved from the oven were not moist nor lush. The bars fell to pieces in my hands and they were difficult to eat. It was tragic. So my friend took them to church to pawn them off on the malnourished members of the college group there. That photo is an intense close-up of the mix. There are no faces in this picture but I'm sure if you stared at it long enough, you would see something. Ok. The End.