Column: Quirky Snow Friends a Fast Track to Fun

This is the space where I would ordinarily post my column. Unfortunately, the "copy/paste" function of this blog seems to have gone down the tubes. And two days before Christmas means there is no time to re-copy 800 words...

Hopefully this is a temporary glitch. However, if you would like to keep up with the latest, just click here: http://www.morganhilltimes.com/lifestyles/261534-quirky-snow-friends-a-fast-track-to-fun.

Column: Waffling at Breakfast is no laughing matter

If you managed to survive Thanksgiving dinner with your elastic waistband intact, congratulations. And just because you stuffed yourself silly with turkey and all those trimmings doesn't mean that you aren't popping out of bed these chilly mornings ready for a hearty breakfast - which brings me to some tragic news.

This just in: perhaps you were hoping those rumors you heard were all a cruel hoax, but alas. Today I am here on a mission of humanitarianism, putting your worst fears to rest. Yes, friends, there is an Eggo Waffle shortage.
Now I hate being the bearer of bad news so soon after Thanksgiving when we, a grateful nation, were appreciating our good fortunes, our abundant blessings, our toaster waffles. And what, exactly, are we supposed to do about breakfast now? Break out our actual waffle irons and - egad - mix up our own batter? I hardly think so. But there they are: our toasters, lying cold and empty on our counter tops, cruel reminders that a day without an Eggo is just another, well ... day.

Kellogg's, the makers of Eggo Waffles, is taking drastic action. With two of their plants closed down they are threatening to - yes - ration our waffles. Do you hear that, South County shoppers? I mean, what's next? Black Market Eggos? Greedy Eggo hoarders positioning their frozen stockpiles of Eggos on eBay?

But rest assured that Kellogg's is making this appalling shortage a "top priority." What's more, the "Eggo team" (Eggo has a "team?") is "working around the clock to bring everyone's favorite waffles back to store shelves as quickly as possible." Well. I don't know about you, but I feel A LOT better now.

So what brought about this alarming shortage, you are probably wondering. Because there's nothing like a stoppage of waffle making to bring a country down. If you, like myself, thought nothing short of a terrorist attack could crush a Kellogg's waffle manufacturing plant, think again. It was all a matter of a little flood damage. I mean, really, people. What kind of country of wimps are we becoming here? Good thing our forefathers didn't mind a little water damage. They'd never have made it across the Atlantic with such feeble moral fiber.

So, friends, it looks like we will have to "leggo" of our Eggos for a few months, which means there are going to be an awful lot of broken-hearted waffle eaters out there. But for heaven's sake, let's not panic, people. There are still, of course, many ways to combat this Eggo Waffle shortage and find "comfort food" when we need it.

Take for example, movie popcorn. Now there's some real comfort in a tub if there ever was any. With the approaching holiday season comes the latest blockbuster movies at your local theater, and what better way to enjoy a new release than by bellying-up to the snack bar for your favorite mega barrel of buttered popcorn? Except, um ... no.

That's right; a recent food police buzz kill concludes that you might just as well shoot yourself as consume that staple of the movie theater, popcorn. The madcap funsters at The Center for Science in the Public Interest released a study saying that consuming movie popcorn assures you an imminent engagement with the triple bypass professionals. Even before adorning your popcorn with "butter" - that runny, orange-ish, not-found-in-nature stuff that comes out of the little spigot at the snack counter - your medium-sized movie popcorn at some theaters comes accessorized with more than 1,600 calories and 60 grams of saturated fat.

Now that's fine providing you intend to share your popcorn with all the moviegoers in your row, which would be a little, well ... weird. But this is a major bummer because I don't know about you, but movies just aren't the same without a stop at the snack bar for a bit of heart-attack-in-a-tub. Yet you might as well make it easier on yourself and simply consume a couple of sticks of butter. I'm just saying.

So if all this dire news about the foods you love makes you want to curl up in a fetal position, we might just as well throw in the towel and haul out the old Häagen-Dazs, right? Well, no, I don't think so. Listed as "Extreme Ice Cream" by the CSPI, half a cup of strawberry cheesecake, for example, slams half a day's saturated fat and a third of a day's cholesterol into your arteries with nary a look back.

Well. I don't know about you, but all this food talk has left me with a hunger for something "simply delicioso" for breakfast. Let's see, what's it going to be ... Aha! I'm going to pull out all the stops and gorge myself on this mouthwatering ... celery. See? Tastes just like crunchy green roof shingles. Yum.

Column: Give me just a few more days in Fantasyland

We've come to that time of year that is my personal favorite. After leaving the screams and howls of Halloween behind but before making the Thanksgiving commitment of baking the dressing outside of the turkey or stuffed inside, we can kick back, put up our feet and catch some reruns of "Dancing with the Stars."Hahaha - just kidding about the reruns. That's because there are, seriously, gazillions of first-run episodes left of this season's reality show featuring "Stars" you haven't heard of in approximately 50 years. But I digress.

The reason I love this time of year is because it allows me to shine. At least inside my own head. Christmas preparation is in its infancy, and the freight train of holiday derailment hasn't yet entered my consciousness. Because as surely as I know my own name, I know that THIS VERY YEAR my holiday celebration will be perfect. That's right, Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.

First I will grab up and pore over the obligatory holiday magazines, all promising that this very issue guarantees "Your Best Holiday Season Ever" and "Christmas in Connecticut is OK but Wait 'til the Folks Back Home Take a Gander at your Goose."

But I won't stop there. I'll make gingerbread likenesses of the White House; whip up a fabulously towering croque-en-bouche for open house on Christmas Eve; perhaps I will even order snow-making equipment to sprinkle the outside of our home with flurries of frozen flakes, ensuring a perfect White Christmas. ANYTHING is possible.

It is only mid-November and right now I can go shopping and park in the same zip code as the mall. This is vital because next month parking becomes life threatening. One year was so hazardous that if they suspected you were going to beat them out of a parking place, drivers employed the use of harpoons. I know because it happened to me. That's right; I was harpooned. Or possibly I drove my vehicle too near a bicycle rack thoughtlessly placed there by people who should be designing parking lots in Siberia.

If you're lucky enough to find a parking space in December, wannabe Christmas shoppers stalk you as you exit the store, their large SUVs nipping your heels. But I have a fail-proof payback to those rude drivers. Carrying my mountain of shopping bags, I purposely walk right past my car. Don't be fooled, people; I will carry 50 pounds of bags for miles. I don't care if those bags weigh me down to the point of needing reconstructive surgery. If I don't like the attitude of the driver following me, I might just walk all the way home.

Another great thing about this time of year is that you know you'll find the perfect gift for everyone on your list because you have scads of time to shop selectively. You'll leisurely wrap your offerings in beautiful paper while featuring perfectly folded corners on every box. And you'll tie your gifts in the most fetching manner with yards of lovely ribbon artfully draped around each one.Of course reality hits Christmas Eve when you realize every gift you purchased is so bulky that wrapping it requires assistance from the tent and awning people. I mean, let's see YOU wrap a large tricycle. And speaking of tricycles ...

This year I found a pink tricycle. Not just any pink tricycle, mind you. The ad says this tricycle will make my little princess feel like royalty and is a "true classic!" Designed after a 1930s model trike, the "Sky Princess Tricycle in Pink" is the ultimate in style replete with handlebar tassels and fenders - that's right: fenders - on all three wheels.

Now the Martha in me thinks this is the perfect Christmas gift for Granddaughter #1, Gracie Elizabeth. I can visualize her now, hair flying in the wind as she pedals down the sidewalk on her adjustable coil spring seat, her functional headlight dazzling in the gathering twilight. The smooth ride from the solid rubber tires and sealed ball bearings will make her feel like a princess for sure. Not to mention the long-lasting lead-free powder coat paint that will bring out the apple pink of her cheeks. The Sky Princess Tricycle will look stunning beneath the Christmas tree!

And OK, her mother thinks the tricycle is atrocious. Plus Gracie is only 2; her feet wouldn't reach the pedals. And unless it comes standard with a detailing person, a few mornings of lawn sprinklers drowning the "long-lasting lead-free powder coat paint" with gallons of hard water, that trike will be thrashed before you can say "Holy-cow-what-was-I-thinking-this-thing-cost-more-than-my-first car!!!"

So yeah, no. I'll dream on. Today I'll believe that this Christmas will be a wondrous marvel of miracles and joy. Seriously. Denial is a beautiful thing.

Halloween custom reveals a mixed bag of treats

Call me crazy but there is a definite flair for Halloween trick-or-treating that comes to us straight out of the gene pool. Nope, our mamas didn't raise no dummies.

Back when I was a little trick-or-treater, we knew which homes on our block insured a good haul, and we beat feet to those houses straight out of the chute. And then there were the homes we stayed away from at all costs regardless of how great the candy might be. These were the homes of the neighborhood legends.

Yes, every neighborhood had a legend or two. In my day this included the old spinster at the end of the block, Edna Greebhauser. Even in the middle of summer she dressed in crinkly black dresses and black lace-up-old-maid-school-teacher shoes. It was rumored that she ate her cats. Poor old Edna was the neighborhood's resident witch and WAY too scary to approach on Halloween.

Then there was crazy Mr. Calhoun. Rumor had it that one year he flung open the door to trick-or-treaters wearing only his wife's Sunday-Going-to-Church hat secured in a, um ... strategic location. It was reported that everybody bolted when he hollered, "Say, kids, what do you think of that?!!!" It was also rumored that it was his wife's good hat. The opulent one with lots of feathers and beading.

But the Holy Grail of Halloween night is the candy. So when I bought this year's stash of Halloween "fun-size" treats and found a small tear in the bottom of the bag, I decided to do some research. Pulling out three or four candy bars I noted that, yes indeed, these bars resembled in miniature their full-sized counterparts. Research over, I proceeded to document ... oh, all right. I ate the research.

Now this was not a bad thing because I had purchased Gobbledygook Bars - the "healthy" alternative candy bar. A little less fat and calories. But will the kids that come to the door know I am helping their health needs, and if they do, will they hold that against me? Which brings me to the actual size of these "fun" bars.

Who said anything about "fun?" These bars are TEENY. In my day we'd have thrown them back because they are clearly too small to have been considered a proper catch because we carried mega bags such as pillowcases. These came with our mothers' admonishment that we dare not "drag it in the mud and get it dirty." Or perhaps we scored an actual paper bag from the grocery store. And that left us with lots of empty real estate to fill with candy, my friend.

So if we were savvy trick-or-treaters back in those days of yore, imagine the mindset of the kids you encounter nowadays. Halloween night brings trick-or-treaters to your door these days with their critical thinking skills on full major alert. And as you deliver precisely one healthy "fun" bar to their waiting containers, they may just counter back with a searing critique of your contribution. So make sure you're doling out the good stuff - and lots of it - because the older the kid, the more risk of a run-in due to the candy quality control factor.

Now the first kids to appear on your porch are easy because they are the babies. Charming little cuties, whose mom or dad bring them around the second it gets dark because with any luck parents can be through with the doorbell ringing and back home where little Fifi or Dweezil are hustled out of their costumes and into their footy p.j.'s by 7 p.m. That's right; the first round of little ones are so caught up with the novelty of trick-or-treating, you can pretty much throw an old gym sock into their containers and they'll go away happy.

But the hypercritical thinkers come late, and you'll recognize them immediately. No good ever comes from the late arrival trick-or-treaters:

8:27 p.m.: Doorbell rings. You open the door. Standing before you are two 37-year-old males who could stand a shave wearing "costumes" that can only be described as Dog the Bounty Hunter and Borat at the Beach.

Trick-or-Treaters: "Trick-or-Treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!!"

Me: "What? What kind of thing is that to say? And aren't you a little OLD to be trick-or-treating? Oh, well, here you go," (plunking a requisite fun-size bar into their, um ... backpacks??). "This is your lucky day, boys, because I'm giving you a Gobbledygook Bar - do you realize they are the HEALTHIEST candy bar out there?"

Trick-or-Treaters: "Who are you, the Surgeon General?"

Me: "You'd better show some respect, young man, or I'll call my friend the Attorney General and sue your smelly socks off!"

So you see what we're up against these days. And yes, folks, it can get ugly.

Column: Warnng: Breakfast may be risky business

Oct 13, 2009 By Gale Hammond

Breakfast: It's the most important meal of the day according to some experts. So if you are reading this column while enjoying your morning meal, let me apologize in advance for any sudden urges to heave your breakfast burrito.

That's because an alarming food announcement was issued recently by a group in charge of scaring the bejabbers out of anyone who believes food consumption is pretty important in the Staying Alive Department. And you know who I mean; those food authority types who point out to us on a regular basis that the food we are about to consume is a festering, moldering mass of deadly microbes.

That's right, just when you thought it was safe to consume a leafy green, we're told - again - that serving up a big old dinner salad is about as dicey as taking a spin on the Indy 500.

"The Center for Science in the Public Interest" compiled the study, and if that doesn't sound like a suspicious outfit, I don't know what does. Heed the warnings and you will find yourself tiptoeing around the Public Interest folks' list of top 10 risky foods (in descending order): leafy greens, eggs, tuna, oysters, potatoes, cheese, ice cream (ICE CREAM??? Risky to WHAT? Our thighs?), tomatoes, sprouts and berries.

So what are we home cooks to do? Stop serving up staples like eggs, cheese or tomatoes since they are apparently teeming with bacteria? Well, it seems that we should, so my crack research department went to work finding a solution to this crisis. And in case you're wondering, my crack research department consists of me lying on our sofa the other night.

You'll be delighted to know that in doing this selfless research, I've uncovered some exciting new foods to tempt your palate. Furthermore, I'd speculate that the folks over at The Center for Science have never attempted to dissect these foods in the Public Interest. Nope. They wouldn't touch these babies with a 10 foot pole. Therefore, I suggest you do what I did and take a gander at an episode of the Food Network's "Next Iron Chef" because featured there was a whole plethora of victuals you've probably never thought of. If, for example, you thought lamb kidneys were exotic, you don't know what you've been missing. Take, for example, duck's tongue.



Now I don't know what circles you run in, but chances are you haven't encountered this delicacy as you've browsed your local meat counter. But bowls brimming with ducks' tongues, chicken feet and eel were only a few of the featured treats the prospective Iron Chefs were slicing and dicing over at the Food Network. Yes, I know these, um ... foods ... sound mildly yucky, but don't forget in our neck of the woods we eat garlic ice cream.

While I consider myself a fairly fearless cook at home, I admit to shuddering at the idea of whipping up dishes with such exotic ingredients. I mean, there on national television were professional chefs each about to dissolve into tears of frustration in their missions to create dishes using their assigned ingredients. What, for example, can one do with grasshoppers? Or "stinky tofu?" Or chicken feet? Or - egads! Cock's comb?

Now I'm not up on my reading of animal rights literature as it pertains to poultry, but there were an awful lot of rooster parts being bandied about in those Food Network kitchens. It made me wonder where on earth those various poultry appendages came from. I mean, somewhere there may be serious cases of chicken-rustling going on. And are there areas where large lakes are missing their ducks? Perhaps clandestine cults are springing up showing signs of chicken genocidal inclinations. It could happen, people!

So pity the poor aspiring (and perspiring) Iron Chef who draws - and I'm not making this up - un-laid bird eggs as his secret ingredient. I don't know about you, but a plate of fallopian tube pasta just doesn't, um ... tempt me somehow.

Imagine being a judge sitting on a panel tasting and weighing in on dishes containing grasshoppers, eel, or chicken feet. "I'm finding the cock's comb in your dish a little chewy," reprimands one judge looking down her nose at the platter of jaunty little topknots that previously adorned the barnyard's alarm clock. Well, HELLO?!!! It's a COCK'S COMB for Pete's sake. If you want tender, you might try a fillet.

Even if experts agree that ducks' tongues are "the other white meat" and have never seen the likes of a risky microbe, I can hear the naysayers now. But before you vow to never eat anything that came out of a duck's mouth, you might wish to reconsider. Where do you think those scrambled eggs you're having for breakfast came from? I rest my case.

Column: Clever Canine No Match for this Dog Whisperer

Oct 2, 2009 By Gale Hammond

The other day I let our small dog, Puddin', outside to do his 'business' when he came upon an interesting aroma out on the driveway. This could have been his own calling card or perhaps another wilder critter had passed this way. In either case, my stubborn Lhasa Apso was examining this find with great gusto and taking his sweet time about it.

"Puddin'," I called - and yes, I know it's a wacky name for a dog. I tried again because he hadn't budged. "Come here, Puddin'. Puuuuudddin' - Come on now, Puddin'...." Mind you, I was using my softest, most enticing voice because - let's face it - a woman standing on the front porch in her bathrobe yelling "Puddin'" at the top of her lungs is either crazy or having one ferocious snack attack. It's just not the best way to call attention to oneself.

I pulled out the big guns. "GOOD BOY, Puddin'! Come inside and get your COOKIE now! Puddin'? Come ON, Puddin'!!!"

"You should get a job with 'The Dog Whisperer,'" my spouse noted, watching our four-legged child mosey about on the driveway. "You have such command over the dog."

Ok, so Cesar Millan is not going to lose any sleep over this. But I am not bragging when I say that Cesar would be impressed with my dog grooming skills.

For the record, grooming my longhaired dog never made it to my bucket list because it is way harder than it looks. And it isn't masochistic tendencies making me subject myself to this torment. Nope. Puddin' has issues. Lots of issues but mainly with his eyes. Therefore, the loop that goes about the neck of a dog at a grooming salon is out. Puddin' can't even tolerate a leash - too risky for the glaucoma that plagues him following a rash of eye surgeries. So I inherited the task of tidying up the dog.

Now any fool knows that simply bathing a dog is easy. I mean, once you capture the dog that races to the far corners of the earth whenever he hears water running, the rest is a snap. Right? So what if the little scrapper pancakes on the floor and digs the nails of all four paws into the carpeting when you try to pick him up? I mean, who has the bigger brain here?

But I was uneasy at the thought of trimming those flowing locks that make Lhasas resemble living dust mops. Those buzzy little clipper things are unnerving. Besides, I haven't had the best luck with dogs and automated devices. Take for example the time I attempted to clean the teeth of our former Lhasa, Freddie.

The vet suggested I purchase one of those "water pick" type gizmos to reduce the plaque build-up on Freddie's teeth. Well. This sounds good in theory. In reality, all I can say is YOU try holding a small thrashing dog exerting roughly 97,000 pounds of force with one hand and with the other a fully loaded water pick as it gushes forth with the equivalent psi of a fire hose able to extinguish blazing infernos on the top floor of the Empire State Building. Yeah. Let's see how YOU do!

Freddie was beyond furious. No way was I getting anywhere near his pearly whites with that spewing volcano of water, which was by now shooting its contents wildly over the entire bathroom. Yes, after the Yellowstone-Geyser-Monsoon-in-the-Bathroom incident, I was reluctant to get into another battle of wills with a dog. That's when our friends, Bud and Susan, offered to give me a grooming lesson.

Bud grooms all their Lhasa Apsos, and he's darned good at it. So one sunny afternoon we headed over to Bud and Susan's home down in Newport Beach for a hands-on demo.

And it would've been helpful, too, except that Susan and I rapidly retired to the patio with glasses of wine to discuss important world issues such as our granddaughters. As a result, I didn't glean too much understanding of dog grooming, although I now know that Susan's granddaughter's next birthday party theme will definitely be 'Pink Princesses.'

"That's not how Bud does it," my spouse advised approximately 673 times when I'd finally launched out on my maiden dog-grooming voyage. "Listen, buster," I warned, brandishing my clippers at the man. "If you say that one more time I'm going to take these things to YOUR hair and believe me - it won't be pretty!"

And the results of my first do-it-yourself grooming adventure? Well, a racing stripe now runs along Puddin's right flank, a gift resulting from running the close-cutting clipper head a little too high on that side. But let's just remember hair DOES grow back - and besides. It gives Puddin' that rakish, STREAMLINED look that I find quite eye-catching.

Yep. Works for me!