mapsedge | Mar. 9th, 2009

Mar. 9th, 2009

It was a dark and stormy Saturday night. Both of the kids were apprehensive about the coming weather, and both are scared by thunder, but we got them in bed without too much trouble. Michelle and I turned in as well, laying in the dark, ready to sleep but not dropping off yet.

As the lightning began and the thunder rumbled, Michelle spoke into the darkness, "I wonder which one will be in first to sleep with us?"

Sure enough, a couple more rumbles later and we were no longer two-in-the-bed but three: shivering, breathing hard, and terrified.

It was Schipper, the dog.

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Daylight Savings in March has got to be one of the dumbest ideas ever. Beyond legislative hubris, is there any reason for it? The house is cold, dark, and it isn't yet warm enough outside to make opening the windows onto the sunrise-tinted, birdsong-filled air inviting. It's too cold and the birds aren't singing. I mean, what the hell? I've never wanted to live in Arizona, but not having to fuck with my clocks twice a year is an incentive.

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We visited Powell Gardens on Saturday and bought our yearly membership. They had an interesting exhibit with flowers and plants arranged by scent group, with little explanatory cards and sample jars. Michelle enticed me to go with the lure of a carrion flower - I've never smelled one and always been curious - but there was none in evidence. It was a fun trip anyway.

On the way, we stopped at the Cockrell General Store. As you drive Hwy 50 toward Warrensburg, several miles out of Lee's Summit you'll see a sign for it. I never realized what a destination they've tried to make it - not one but four buildings, each offering a themed selection of merchandise: general kitchen; baking; Fiesta ware. I just about lost Michelle in the baking store.

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Katie gets her tonsils out in the morning. She has chosen Bass Pro's restaurant as her "last meal", which means that Jami gets the alligator appetizer he's totally ga-ga over. Not looking forward to the rest of the week: Aspergers + various sensitivities + throat pain + surgery + + +. We'll get through it, we always do.

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The office air conditioner got left on over the weekend, so it's very cold in here today. I turned on the furnace when I came in, but the warmup is very slow. Door's closed, hoping to trap in some of the heat from my PC and various lamps. The cold is good for computers, not so good for fingers. Brr, I say.

Dear Islamorada Fish Company customer service,

There was a time not so long ago when I would recommend your restaurant without hesitation, and have several times. No more. For the meal and service we got tonight - a special night, it should be noted - we could just as easily have eaten at Red Lobster. Or Cracker Barrel.

You listening? I'm comparing you to fucking Cracker Barrel.

Do you have children? Say, just for the sake of argument, four and eight years old? Toss in a dose of autism just for spice. With me? Cool: imagine sitting at a table designed for twelve people, four adults and the two aforementioned children, waiting a long, long time for notice from the server, then drinks, then our meals, then our check. Imagine doing all this as the server's only table.

Frustrating, huh? The only occupied table in the whole damn restaurant, and we can't get prompt service.

The server was courteous, to be sure. And chatty. Jesus, was she chatty. I can now write her biography and a couple of tell-all books. I'll have to get releases from her ex-husband, her childrens' step-father, her boyfriend, and several relatives, but that's okay. I know all of their names and contact information. And their birthdays. I was tempted to ask her to leave and let me enjoy my meal in peace, but I have no desire to raise the saliva content of my Diet Coke. (Not saying she would, mind you. Anything's possible, though.)

Last I checked, medium-rare on a steak calls for a pink center. By that criteria, my steak was overcooked. Hell, by ANY criteria, my steak was overcooked. To his credit, the manager brought me another steak - claiming to have cooked it himself - but by the time that arrived, everyone else was mostly through their meals. We'll let this one go: I eat fast. God forbid I should take the time to enjoy my meal.

The wahoo dip and mashed potatoes both tasted off, somehow. I can't put my finger on it, but I'm guessing neither was fresh. Both hit my "hey, that's spoiled" gag-reflex. As you might wonder, that's never a good sign.

I'm kind of a foodie. Like Anton Ego from Rattatouille, "I don't like food, I LOVE food: if I don't love it, I don't swallow." Frozen fries - some nasty, pre-cooked garbage from some new vendor which, thank God, the manager assures me you're replacing - frozen mash, several day old fish dip...God, are you trying to disappoint me to death?

It's not hard to cut fresh potatoes for fries. It's not hard to make fresh mashed. And it's cheaper.

These are uncertain times. As consumers, we want the familiar and we want good value for our money. Now is not the time to cut back, now is not the time to experiment. I'm thinking there's more than just the economy to explain your empty dining room.

If you want to discuss, I'll be Cracker Barrel just down the street. It's not as good as you used to be, but it's consistent...and that goes a long way.

- Bill