I Finally Missed One

I write an article a day, every day.

Or at least I had up until Saturday, last.

I was sitting at the laptop, looking at the machine, going through my normal grind and something happened.  I guess I got distracted by some shiny object.

At 9AM, I reviewed what I had written to go onto the blog.  That’s pretty typical for me.  I tend to write off the cuff and get things done at the moment.  Off the top of my head.  For the longest time I was “A Week Ahead”.  That slowed to “A Day Ahead”.  Then I started having writer’s block and ended up dipping into my Day Ahead and setting them off while writing something for tomorrow at a more convenient time.  My cushion was gone.

Weekends were easy, I keep a file on the desktop called “jokes.txt” where I grab jokes that amused me, change the language so that they could be broadcast on TV, then save them onto that file.  I’d post one on Saturday, one on Sunday.  Just copy and paste and then release, announce the post, then done.

But I slipped.  Who knows.  I’m a great multi-tasker, usually doing four or five things at once.  Well we all make a mistake from time to time, I guess that’s why pencils have erasers.

That was the first time since September 10, 2009 that I haven’t posted something and that next day was when I went to go to a daily post.  Coming up on 5 years.

I realized that I had done that when I woke up enough to look in the mirror Sunday morning.  Up at 5AM on the dot.  Stupid o’clock … or so.

Those jokes aren’t the favorite things to read by the people who have liked the blog on Facebook.  Yes, I’m there too.  The number of people who read them tend to be markedly lower than the weekday postings, immediately.  But they do get read by people out in the world.  Believe it or not, there are quite a few people who like to read dumb jokes about Moose and they end up reading my blog for a page or three.

It’s all linked and they show up on your favorite search engine, whichever that one is.   On some searches, I am actually the first link you will find.   I guess I really do understand Search Engine Optimization, or I have an idea of what I’m doing.  Generate enough content and people will actually read it.

When I got back from the morning rituals in the house, the dog walk, and my first mug of coffee, I thought I might just blow it all off for Sunday as well.  Hey I took the weekend off!

Nope.  It’s Sunday afternoon, I’m sitting here with a glass of iced tea, ducking laser beams from the sun reflecting off of two different properties, and listening to a generic dance channel, all the while writing to you folks.

I said it once a while back that I didn’t know how long I will keep this daily article writing up, but I will go back to pre-writing the blog for now.   It makes it easier to Skip A Day.  I did that when I went to Key West.  Got a full two weeks ahead and took dozens of pics, then posted them for weeks after.  I think that happened the same time that they pulled down Old City Hall here.

There is a funny thing about writing a blog.  “Different strokes for different folks” is a great way to describe writing and content.   Some people actually look forward to my stupid jokes.  Others love the dog stories.  My recipes get hit very heavily.  This week there was only one article that I wrote within last week that was in the top five – the one about scrapple.   All the rest were heavy tech about Linux, Job Search Online, and the Biscuit article – in no particular order.

I do watch what gets read here, it’s all about what’s on the top of my head when I sit down to write, but I do try to write on a different topic and discipline each day.  I also try not to be too dry.  In fact, I’m reading this and thinking it’s one of the more dry articles that I have written in a while.

Since it’s going to be a crazy-busy week for me, I will take some more time and try to get ahead a bit.  That includes posting next weekend’s jokes today.  Blogger will release them when I tell it to in the future.  It makes it easier for me if I actually remember to put something out there.

So if you actually do enjoy what I write, tell me and thanks, it helps to know and it helps to keep my brain cleared of the chaff.  Introspection is good for the soul.

If you don’t then why have you read this far down?

0 to 200 in Six Seconds plus A Husband’s Temper

0 to 200 in Six Seconds

Bob was in trouble. He forgot his wedding anniversary. His wife was really angry.
She told him “Tomorrow morning, I expect to find a gift in the driveway that goes from 0 to 200 in 6 seconds AND IT BETTER BE THERE !!”

The next morning he got up early and left for work. When his wife woke up, she looked out the window and sure enough there was a box gift-wrapped in the middle of the driveway.
Confused, the wife put on her robe and ran out to the driveway, brought the box back in the house.

She opened it and found a brand new bathroom scale.

Husband’s Temper

A woman goes to the Doctor, worried about her husband’s temper.
The Doctor asks: “What’s the problem?

The woman says: “Doctor, I don’t know what to do. Every day my husband seems to lose his temper for no reason. It scares me.”
The Doctor says: “I have a cure for that. When it seems that your husband is getting angry, just take a glass of water and start swishing it in your mouth. Just swish and swish but don’t swallow it until he either leaves the room or calms down.”

Two weeks later the woman comes back to the doctor looking fresh and reborn.
The woman says: “Doctor that was a brilliant idea! Every time my husband started losing it, I swished with water. I swished and swished, and he calmed right down! How does a glass of water do that?”
The Doctor says: “The water itself does nothing. It’s keeping your mouth shut that does the trick…”

If A Dog Whistle Doesn’t Work, Try an Impression

What do you do when a neighbor goes away and the dog barks?

I had to train myself to train the dog is what happened.

Since houses in South Florida are really too close for comfort to each other, you end up knowing your neighbor’s habits.  Even in my house in Philadelphia, I never heard neighbors.

We had bad windows there and I have to say that hasn’t changed here.  At least the windows here all work.  I had windows painted shut and painted open in Philly and that was an annoyance that I kept until April 11, 2006 when I pointed my Jeep Wrangler South and never came back.

Too bad.  Great house, crappy windows.

Jalousie windows with four inch tall slats are built to let the air flow through.  Even when closed the house may have drafts.  In the storm a week back it even rained in the house.  I guess that’s more of a measure of the storm than the windows.

But you do hear quite a lot through them.  As a coping mechanism I have music playing almost all the time at a low volume.   Trance music works incredibly well as an upbeat background music, plus I bloody like the stuff.

There are times when you want to go out and explore.  Generally for me that is when I take the dog with me and we do a lap of the Central Business District of Wilton Manors.  Other people don’t have quite as settled a life.

My neighbor is one of those people.   Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy.  He’s been a good neighbor, and when he has a party he invites us over.

Helpful hint, if you ever have a party and expect it to get annoying, invite the neighbors and have plenty of goodies to eat and drink.  Jack knows how to do that well.

He’s moving off in a couple weeks, so we’ll have a new neighbor to break in.  But that does remind me of when he got his puppy Buster. 

Buster is a great dog.   A small to mid sized mixed breed, he looks like he has some German Shepard dog in him.  But like all puppies, they want to be with their pack constantly.  With confidence, that will wane.   Buster grew to be a real friendly neighbor too, and he quieted down.  I may have had something to do with it.

The first time Jack went off for a dinner at one of the restaurants here, Buster started to bark.  Repeatedly.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do.   Since the houses are not that far apart, I walked out to the back window and talked to Buster.   He stopped barking then began to whine.   Poor lonely pup.

That didn’t last long after I closed my windows up and went back to watching the mindless sit-com we had on the TV.

Bark.  Bark.  Barkbarkbark.

*sigh* Lets try that again.

Puppies.   It worked for a little bit.  

But not for long.

Being something of a serious geek, I grabbed the phone and started to search for a dog whistle program, and found it.   It wasn’t all that effective.  At least with that dog and with the way I had my phone configured, the 23,000 Hz tone that it was broadcasting was ignored and Buster kept barking.

I forgot about the software and thought this through.

Jack is a big guy.  He’s my size and build, so I put him at around 6’4″ and probably a little heavier than my own 225 pounds.  He also has a deep voice, about an octave lower than my own.

So I walked out to the back window and said in my own voice “Buster! NO!”.

Sort of worked.  Hmmm…

I wasn’t out of the back bedroom before “Bark!”.

Lets try that again.

This time I tripped over my old shoes I keep next to the weight machine in the bedroom.   But Buster barked.

I summoned my inner “Jack”.   You guessed it, I did a terrible impression of Jack saying “Buster! NO!”.

It worked.   I was able to go back to the front room and finish my sit-com.

Buster was still a kid at that point.  Barely out of being a puppy, he still wanted Dad, so I had to try this again.

“Buster! NO!” in that booming false-Jack tone.

Well, how about that.  Worked again!

I’m onto something.

Since then I found my voice dropped as low as I could manage, booming over the fence worked better than a piece of free software that stopped as soon as the screen went dark.

When I told Jack what was going on, he was surprised, but then he started laughing when I started talking back to him in this send up of his own booming voice.

I guess a Bass trumps a Treble in a Dog’s life.

I do have to watch using that now.  Rack gets scared and can’t figure out what to do.  He either will run off and hide or try to help by herding me out the door.

I don’t herd well.  Moose generally don’t herd well.  But that’s ok, I’m the alpha in his eyes, and Rack will accept that.   My own being loud he doesn’t accept as well so I use it sparingly.

Through the ensuing years, Buster has gone from being a baby to a teen, and on to being an adult.   His barks are much more purposeful and much less annoying.

He has taught me one thing.   I have to get better at impressions.  I could do so many voices and accents that I could easily do voice overs and voice acting, but speaking “Dog”?  That’s a different language altogether.

Oh Scrapple, Why Do You Taunt Me?

They say that South Florida is the Sixth Borough of New York City.

I think that’s a bit inaccurate.

A better title would be “Little New Jersey”.

It’s chock full of refugees from NYC, of course.  I can even find a good Brooklyn Bagel here, and I know of a decent Jewish Deli if I choose to drive a bit.

Lox, Bagels, and Cream Cheese… Yum!

But I can also find Philadelphians by the Septa Train Load, People from the “Pennsylvania Dutch” areas out by Lancaster and Reading, and folks from Connecticut by the Fishing Boat full.

We’re all here.  I personally think Broward County is “Little Long Beach Island” because it’s mixed pretty thoroughly of New Yorkers and Philadelphians.

That Philly Pretzel place nearby even has a Drexel University flag inside it.

So I wasn’t completely shocked when I went to the Big Publix in downtown Fort Lauderdale and found some Habersett’s Scrapple.  The one near me in Wilton Manors has packets of Taylor Ham, which was a treat too.

If you know either of those products, you are from an area that is roughly 150 miles from around the Liberty Bell in Center City Philadelphia, know someone from there, or just got curious when you saw them in a random shop.

Both of those are what are loosely called “Breakfast Meats”.  Fry them up like you would bacon.  Serve with your eggs in the morning.

In this case, I served my Scrapple with a 2 egg onion omelette on top of a home made rye bagel with some extra sharp cheddar.  Not a light breakfast, but I finished it off with my coffee and that was it until lunch that day.

Scrapple is vaguely like sausage.  It’s sold in a brick, frozen.  Like sausage you don’t really want to know what’s in the stuff.   Other than corn meal, spices, and perhaps some thickeners, it is a Pork Product.  Everything but the oink, as we say in Philly.

There are two schools of thought, either thick and creamy or thin and crispy.  You slice the stuff off the brick, toss it in a skillet, and fry it up.


But in my case, I’m being taunted.

I prefer mine creamy in the middle, crisp on the outside. 

First things first, that slicing bit.

I remember my father on a weekend morning.  Only on the weekends.  Saturday or Sunday, and you will like it.  Get the picture?

He’d fry up the slab of Scrapple in the skillet, getting it good and crispy on the outside, hot and creamy inside.  Served just as I like it.  Yeah, Dad taught me how to eat the stuff, I’m sure your parents broke you like that too.

Except there’s the rub.  That slicing of a slab.  Doesn’t go so well.

I have a habit of making things in “prepared serving sizes” like they’re listed on the package.  Two ounces of the stuff is one serving, 120 calories.  Not terrible.  Except that that is an eighth of a brick.

How do you slice an eighth of a brick of frozen sausagey-like goodness into a skillet? 

You don’t.  You thaw it when you get it home from the Big Publix that you park on top of, or the Acme in Roxborough in Philly, or even the Shop Rite in Cherry Hill.   Put it in the refrigerator on Friday Morning.  Saturday Morning it will have thawed enough to be sliced.


Now you have a roughly 37 degree Fahrenheit, 2 degree Celsius block of grey gritty gooey block of Pork and Pork By Products with Spices.  Cut open that Red and White package.  Some undefinable liquid leaks out.  The package is briefly looked at and then you realize that the Quixotic desire to be thrifty is pointless and you reach under the counter for a plastic container to place the remnants in. 

Lay the Scrapple block lovingly on a “Cutting Plate”.   You want an eighth of the block for your serving, right?  Go to the knife drawer and select the sharpest blade you have.  You will need it.  Walk over to the cupboard and grab a ceramic coffee mug and sharpen it on the bottom, or just use your sharpening stone.

No, really, you need deadly sharp here.  The dog will now be curious, this would not be a good time to step on his feet.  Be careful there.

Look at that block of Scrapple lenghtwise.  Lovingly draw your blade on the top to mark but not cut it in half.  Cut each half in half, then each in half again.  You have just approximated eight pieces.

Yeah you could just toss the damn thing in the skillet and make a monster scrapple but where’s the fun in that?

Now look at your eight even pieces.  The outermost one needs to be cut off the block. 

As you draw back that deadly sharp knife through the slightly gelatinous gritty block of savory goodness, you realize this won’t go well.   It begins to break apart like a meteor hitting the atmosphere.  Instead of getting a thick slab of grey goodness to toss in the skillet, you have three “large” pieces, and a pile of grit.

Cursing at your luck, you walk across the kitchen to the preheated skillet.   I can’t heat it up too high because the skillet has a non stick surface and if you have a parrot, that will kill them if it scorches.  You had better have greased the thing up because if you hadn’t you’re going to make scrapple crumbles.  Even now, you have a pile of grit to toss to the flames.

Here’s where I got creative. 

I had saved a couple ceramic tiles.  They’re nothing special being from my old kitchen in Philadelphia.  Some day I will incorporate them into this house here.  For now, they’re wrapped in aluminium foil and used to press things down to flatten them in my skillet.  They’re my very own “Fryer Blocks”.

I take my Scrapple crumbles, and edge them together.  Pressing down with the Fryer Block, I am able to roughly reshape the crumbles into a solid mass.

Now, patience is a virtue.  Cook them until the bottom crisps up.  I can’t tell you how long that is.  I went out into the next room, found some wire and needle-nosed pliers for a project, made two copper loops, finished cleaning the counter, and started roasting a batch of coffee in the time it took to get that brown scrapple look that I wanted.  Five Minutes a side?  Six?  Ten?  I just don’t know!

With a plastic spatula, I tease the scrapple up from the bottom of the skillet.   It wants to stick, but this stuff has a sheen of grease, a gift of the Pork goodness inside.  Flip it over and hope that it won’t fall apart.

It did, push it back together, and use that Fryer Block to re-form the thing roughly back into a square.

Walk away.  More patience.  More time.

The dog is getting curious, the parrot is begging by saying “Hello!” and blowing kisses.   They both want some of your scrapple-y goodness.  But no, Dad was right.  This was a special thing.  This is Scrapple.

Not for dogs!
Not for parrots!

Has it been long enough?  Worry the edge up.  Did it stick?  No!  Tease the now thin Scrapple cookie up off the skillet.   Place on the cheese to warm and melt it into the bagel.

The egg you scrambled will get poured onto the onions that are now translucent with sweetness, your weekend breakfast commune with Dad will come soon.   Reaching through the years, you taste the savory goodness and smile.  I think of the Stoltzfus and Yoders in the Pennsylvania Dutch areas and thank them mentally for passing this recipe on through this day.

This was a good breakfast.  But it just doesn’t stick together, no matter how tasty it is.  Not to worry, I’ll try again tomorrow.  I have another slice to make.   Maybe I’ll get Dad’s old Cast Iron skillet out.  Really go Old School on this Scrapple thing.  Serve it with some pancakes and real Vermont Maple Syrup.

A slab of crumbly creamy crispy crusty heaven on a plate.

Training Rack to go Off Leash at 5AM

This isn’t the kind of thing I’m going to do later in the day.   It is a special treat at this point.   I think it’s going to go well, but we have some learning to do.

When I get up early, at Stupid O’Clock, that means that my dog does as well. 

This particular morning, the clock was glowing a teal blue “5:00 AM” from the window well across the room.   I growled at it and grabbed my socks to start the day.

We did manage to get out for a lap around town early.  Earlier than most.  There is always someone out and about here, it’s one of the things about living in a semi-urban Wilton Manors.  You’re never quite alone.

While there are some very set times people will walk their dogs, my own timing floats around depending on how late I had that last glass of water or whether dinner was to large or small.

I got Rack prepared for a wander and we left the door.  Soon we were at Wilton Drive.  He had watered a couple Yard Rocks, a palm tree or three, and some lizards that weren’t quite fast enough to get out of his way. 

Silly wet lizard, I don’t want you climbing me either.

Having actually done all of his business we walked into the parking lot and South on the Drive.  This is the part that Rack hates. 

I mean HATES.

You see, my fearful dog jumps out of his skin when he hears loud noises.  I broke him of snooping the trash can and climbing on furniture by leaving small metal bowls out.  Knock a small metal bowl off of a trash can in the kitchen and it hits the Ecru Colored Florida Tiles with a crash.   That’s followed by the sound of four paws “ripping tire” as fast as they can trying to get a purchase in order to propel 45 pounds of Mc Nab Dog forward as quickly as humanly possible.

Or would that be “caninely possible”?

Either way, it’s fast!

We hear the roar of a tricked out Japanese import firing up through the three gears with a wheeze and a fart.  Nothing like taking a $5,000 car and making it worth less by adding another $1,000 worth of useless crap to make it louder than the diesel roar that comes out of the E-16 Fire Truck that it just passed going too fast.

Rack didn’t like that.  He flattened against the walkway until it left.   From that point on, my arm was stretched until we got off that Drive.

He has a similar reaction to the 50 Bus whether Northbound or Southbound, the Entenmann’s truck heading downtown, Kirby’s F250 Diesel, and just about any other loud noise.

I don’t blame him about that Entenmann’s truck, that bloody thing is LOUD.

Rounding the corner, we’re off drive.  I’d had enough of being towed.  I’m 225 pounds of Moose that wants a leisurely stroll at Stupid O’clock :30 and not to be in the Southernmost Iditarod.

So what do I do?  I drop the leash.

He walks about 20 feet and stops.  Nobody is around.  If it weren’t for the air conditioning compressors, we’d hear crickets.

“Rack.”  I say at a normal conversational volume.

Rack turns around, smiles, wags his tail and trots back to me.  I’m glued to the side of a dog as he resumes normal walk position.  Reaching down, I get his purple leash, and we begin to walk.

I let him walk until he’s got my arm pulled forward stiffly.  Then I drop the leash again.

We repeat the ritual.  After about 20 feet, I see a smiling face with nut brown eyes looking at me.  This time I didn’t have to call him until after he stopped.

“Hey, I’m back here.”

He trots back and glues himself to my calf.  I think he likes this, the goofy guy wandering off but not too far.

We go deeper into the neighborhood, still nobody is around us. 

Walking past the house with the two badly trained barky dogs, I am thinking it’s time for another try.  He actually walks with me for a bit but slowly pulls ahead.   I’m not awake, haven’t had breakfast or coffee, and not into running anyway.


Barky dogs start barking out of control.  I hear the woman inside yelling at the dogs.  It’s still only Stupid O’clock :40.   I smile to myself as Rack glues himself to my right calf.

“Good boy!” as I pet his smiling face.  “Let’s Go.”

Online Maps Are Going To Get Better Detail

I admit it, I’m a map geek.  I guess, I’m just a geek and maps are another symptom.  I’d be that guy sitting around in a dark office with a big screen and big wide eyes, flying around surveillance cameras and satellite feeds looking at things from outer space.

I’m fascinated with things like borders.  That feeling of “Otherness” that exists because someone drew a line somewhere and said “This is mine, that is yours” always fascinated me.  Growing up in South Jersey, state borders were irrelevant except for car number tags.  TV, Radio, and Media came from Philadelphia, and “local” was Cherry Hill which was too small to ever hit the news when I was small.

The view from the 295 near the baseball fields near where I grew up.

[googlemaps https://www.google.com/maps/embed?pb=!1m18!1m12!1m3!1d1812.064176861966!2d-75.01585099999998!3d39.87547699999999!2m3!1f0!2f0!3f0!3m2!1i1024!2i768!4f13.1!3m3!1m2!1s0x0%3A0x0!2zMznCsDUyJzMxLjciTiA3NcKwMDAnNTcuMSJX!5e1!3m2!1sen!2sus!4v1403013032158″ style=”border: 0;” width=”600″>
Franklin Square in Center City Philadelphia.  You never really “went” there.  It’s kind of cut off from the rest of the world in Philly but you can hover over the place.   I don’t remember that fountain from when I was last there, probably in the 90s.


These days, I can endulge my inner Cartographer by playing with either Google Maps, Bing Maps, or perhaps one of the others.  One of the first things I do when I am trying to find a place is to go online, plot the address and zoom in as tight as possible.  In cities and towns in the US, I have found very few places on a street that I can’t stand virtually on the ground and look at the building and spot in question.

Other places, not so much.

When you zoom in on certain areas outside of an Urban zone, the detail gets fuzzy.  After all, from a satellite, one tree pretty much looks like the next.  You can expect a minimum resolution of 15 meters or 50 feet as a default, roughly.  That means that one of the dots on your computer screen will represent an object or area of 50 feet by 50 feet or 15 meters on a side.


Pretty much anywhere I was thinking to look within anything as small as a small town at random had “useable” resolution.  If I wanted to see the downtown of a small midwest farm town, Stanton, Nebraska, it was easy enough to do.

In cities it can get better.   The Czech Republic can go as high as 1/10th of a meter on a side which is 3.9 inches.   That’s pretty respectable resolution all things considered.   It gives you the excuse to explore Prague from the comfort of your own easy chair.  A beautiful city, well worth poking around.


The view of the Prague Castle in central Prague is the above view, and that is without dropping that little man on the street.

The thing is that these graphics are getting much better.   Barring some self-important fool having their property fuzzed out, for the most part you can see just about anywhere from the air to some detail.

Viewing street level things are a different story.  Germany recently said “nein” to street view, and I seem to remember that they turned it off in Google Earth and Maps.

On the other hand, now I’ll have to dust off my older computer that I have Google Earth installed on.  There’s an inherent creepiness about Google’s software that I don’t care for.   You have to basically tell them what you want to look at on the map.  Part of the game.  I’m just not completely sure that all that information is something I’d prefer to share with them. 

While the software and use are free, there is one thing to consider: 

You aren’t the paying customer. 
If you aren’t the customer, you are the product.

So if you are comfortable being a product, your map playground has just gotten a bit more interesting.   You can always do things like walk along the Quays in Port of Spain, Trinidad for no reason at all.

Now They Want Us To Stop Washing Chicken Since It Spreads Infection

You always did it.
Mom taught you to do it.
Dad taught you to do it.
Maybe Home-Ec or a professional cooking school taught you to do it.

You pull the chicken out of the fridge, wash it well, then prepare it for cooking, right?

Nope.  The Food Standards Agency in the UK has found that you shouldn’t.

Here’s the back story.

The places that chicken is prepared, a slaughterhouse, are a pretty nasty environment.

Chickens are raised in cramped quarters so that you can have that drumstick at $.89 a pound. 

Yes, I blame you.  If you wanted “clean food” you will need to have a farm, and I don’t see a back to nature movement taking hold.  Plus farming is a difficult job, I certainly wouldn’t want to do it.

The chickens are in cages, and they tend to do what chickens do. 

Eat.  Sleep.  Poo.  Lay eggs.

You know, like normal, right?

All that poo gets on their feathers and on everything in the environment.

Once the chicken is killed to make that roaster you had on Sunday Dinner, the transformation to “meat” begins.  They remove the insides and are drained of blood.

Pretty grisly right?

Some of that poo is bound to get out.  Even if you were in a perfect environment, they still have to get the feathers off the bird, remove the legs, prepare the neck for soup.

Mmm chicken soup!

All the “innards” are packed up.  What can be salvaged will be used.   The intestines and other organs will be discarded.

Hopefully they can do all that in a perfect environment, but you know they don’t.

More poo on your chicken, even if it is invisible.

So you get it home to prepare it.

I know, let’s wash it, I’m sure there are icky things all over it. 

Well, you’re right there are, but what you just did was to contaminate your work surfaces.  There will be a mist of water that collected those nasties, the poo, and spray all over your counters.  How is your immune system anyway?  Got some good kitchen gloves?

What’s the solution?

If you don’t actually SEE anything on the bird, prepare it without washing.  You are apparently just wasting water anyway and you know nobody suggested you use soap and water to wash out food!

Make sure you cook it fully, 165F is the usual temperature.  Get an “instant read thermometer” and cook your roaster until the meat is at 165F in the thickest part of the bird, usually the breast. 

165F is the temperature that the USDA recommends.   It will kill “all” bacteria.  Even if you have a weakened immune system, you’re not going to get sick from that “dirty bird”.

Dirty bird served with stuffing, cranberry, mashed potato, and a slab of cake for dessert, I hope.

You could convince yourself that Vegetarian or Vegan foods are the answer, but this is not a very good reason for you to go Veg.  There are some other reasons and some are quite valid like lower cholesterol and so forth.  But cleanliness?  Nope.

After all, those “bad spots” Mom would cut out of that tomato that had been sitting there “too long” got bad because of, you guessed it, Bacteria.  How did that get on the tomato?  Handling or “fertilizer” from the chicken that went onto your neighbor’s table.  While you are at it, how about those pesticides?

Mmmm Chemicals!

So cook your food well – whatever food you choose to eat.  165F is best.  Get a good instant read thermometer and learn how to use it.

That’s your helpful hint for the day. 

Oh, and if you do have a roaster, a good set of kitchen shears will help you “portion pack” it in short order.  Just cut along the breast bone and the spine and it splits easily without using a dangerous knife.  Make sure when all is said and done, the counters get wiped down with a strong disinfectant. 

Clean that kitchen, folks, you don’t know where that chicken has been!