I heard there will be curling in the Olympics, so I told my sister who’s a hairdresser. Boy did I get that one wrong.

So you know “Proofing” your yeast is making sure it actually is alive by adding it to some lukewarm water and a little sugar before adding it all to bread dough.

(watch I’ll get that one a little off)

 

 

A pair of bakers were experiencing a supernatural crisis.
A magical, living snowman had laid a curse on their bakery and they could no longer produce anything.
No pastries, no cookies, no muffins, or cakes. Their proofing oven no longer allowed dough to rise.
Their refrigerator couldn’t keep a chill.
Stovetops were cool to the touch.

Unsure of how to proceed, they called in a specialist in obscure curses to diagnose the issue.
They put some cookie dough on a sheet tray and set it in the oven, but it just would not cook!
The oven felt hot. The dough was made correctly.
It was as if the ability to bake had completely fled the confines of the oven.

“Well,” the old curse expert started, “it seems the functionality of all your appliances are, in fact, still here in the bakery, they have just somehow been displaced to other areas.”
“What do you mean?” a baker asked.

“For example, if we put a lump of bread dough back in the storage racks, it begins to rise as if it is proofing. This must mean that the functionality of your proofing oven still exists, it’s just been relocated. It is all very strange.”
“Is there anything we can do?”

“We will need to break the curse by cancelling it out with some magic of our own. Do you own anything that might be imbued with a hex or charm?”
One of the bakers chimed in that his grandmother had left a silicon baking mat that she purportedly charmed to magically prevent her cookies from burning.
It had been stored away in a dusty old box for years, but surely there was still an ounce of power that remained.

The baker went home to dig up the old mat while his coworker and the curse specialist mapped out where the different functionalities of the appliances had moved to.
The ability to bake, they determined, had been relocated to the bathroom.

It would make a suitable testing ground for their experiment to see if the two conflicting curses would break one another.
When the other baker returned, they lined a cookie sheet with the silicon mat and headed for the toilet.

Years later, the old curse expert was telling the story at a convention for the supernatural.

He got up on stage and recalled, “They crossed he; the snowman. He’s a fairy tale they say. He’s made of snow, but now the bakers know how he ruined their life one day. But there must have been some magic in that old Silpat they found. For when they placed it in the head, the dough began to brown.”

 

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Why did the otter cross the river? To get to the otter side

Okay – I finally understand my life.

On the first day, God created the dog and said, “Sit all day by the door of your house and bark at anyone who comes in or walks past. For this, I will give you a life span of twenty years.”The dog said, “That’s a long time to be barking. How about only ten years and I’ll give you back the other ten?”
So God agreed…… On the second day, God created the monkey and said, “Entertain people, do tricks, and make them laugh. For this, I’ll give you a twenty-year life span.”

The monkey said, “Monkey tricks for twenty years? That’s a pretty long time to perform. How about I give you back ten like the dog did?”
And God agreed……

On the third day, God created the cow and said, “You must go into the field with the farmer all day long and suffer under the sun, have calves and give milk to support the farmer’s family. For this, I will give you a life span of sixty years.”
The cow said, “That’s kind of a tough life you want me to live for sixty years. How about twenty and I’ll give back the other forty?”
And God agreed again……

On the fourth day, God created humans and said, “Eat, sleep, play, marry and enjoy your life. For this, I’ll give you twenty years.”
But the human said, “Only twenty years? Could you possibly give me my twenty, the forty the cow gave back, the ten the monkey gave back, and the ten the dog gave back; that makes eighty, okay?”
“Okay,” said God. “You asked for it.”

So that is why for our first twenty years, we eat, sleep, play and enjoy ourselves.
For the next forty years, we slave in the sun to support our family.
For the next ten years, we do monkey tricks to entertain the grandchildren.
And for the last ten years, we sit on the front porch and bark at everyone.

Life has now been explained to you.

Two tomatoes were crossing a road when one of them suddenly got run over by a truck. Then the other tomato said: come on ketchup, lets go.

As I write this, I’m passing on breakfast to go out to lunch later with a very good friend, indeed. I guess I’m hungry, so here’s a food related joke.

 

 

Three chefs had operated a successful restaurant for many years thanks to the deeply popular specialty dishes that each of the chefs were known for.

The first chef was a master of searing beef and her exceptional skills landed her the nickname “T-Bone.”

Her sister preferred a lighter approach and was better known for working with flakey, white-fleshed fish: tilapia, cod, haddock. But her specialty, the pickerel, landed her a nickname of her own: Walleye, another name for the fish that had driven so many sales, especially during Lent.

The youngest chef was a bit more wild and experimental. He loved habaneros, Carolina reapers, anchos. If it was full of capsaichin, it ended up in his dish. He especially loved to add this young peoples’ gambit as a twist to classically “old people” foods, resulting in strange menu listings such as the Ghost Pepper Liver & Onions, the Habanero Bread Pudding, or the Chipotle Green Bean Casserole. Only the bravest diners found themselves ordering these spicy plates, but it added a challenging dimension to an otherwise standard-fare menu. His love for the heat earned him his simple nickname: Chili.

But there was a problem. A smarmy new French restaurant had opened down the street and they were recieving quite a bit of hype over their menu: duck breast with blueberry demi-glaze.
Slow-roasted pheasant. Smoked goose. These were fatty, rich delicassies that delighted the tastebuds and the three chefs had to do something lest they continue bleeding out sales.

So, they decided to add a new spin to the menu: black-throated loon that had been cooked long and slow in a slurry of red wine, vinegars, brines, and lemon juice.
Unfortunately, the new menu item did not go over well. Perhaps it was because the loon was not considered a food-animal by the general population or perhaps the flavors were just off.

To find answers, the young chefs sent out surveys to their customers. They got only one very short, straight-forward response from an old regular:

T-Bone, Walleye, & Chili: Don’t go braising waterfowls. Please stick to the livers and the steaks that you’re used to.

My parents told me ANYONE could become president. I didn’t know it was a warning.

A man who’d just died is delivered to a local mortuary and he’s wearing an expensive, expertly tailored black suit.

The mortician asks the deceased’s wife how she would like the body dressed, pointing out that the man does look good in the black suit he is already wearing.
The widow, however, says that she always thought her husband looked his best in blue, and that she wants him in a blue suit. She gives the mortician a blank check and says, ‘I don’t care what it costs, but please have my husband in a blue suit for the viewing.’

The woman returns the next day and to her delight, she finds her husband dressed in a gorgeous blue suit with a subtle chalk stripe; the suit fits him perfectly.

She says to the mortician, ‘Whatever this cost, I’m very satisfied.. You did an excellent job and I’m very grateful. How much did you spend?’
To her astonishment, the mortician presents her with the blank check, ‘There’s no charge.’

‘No, really, I must compensate you for the cost of that exquisite blue suit,’ she says.
‘Honestly, ma’am,’ the mortician says, ‘it cost nothing. You see, a deceased gentleman of about your husband’s size was brought in shortly after you left yesterday, and he was wearing an attractive blue suit. I asked his wife if she minded him going to his grave wearing a black suit instead, and she said it made no difference as long as he looked nice.’

‘So I just switched the heads.’

Peanut and Banana Sandwich by Squirrel

To quote a wise man from San Juan, Costa Rica:

We live in the tropics.  If you drop a seed on the ground, it will grow.

I noticed that here years ago when I moved in.  People have plants dripping with plants dripping with more plants.

If you don’t want a giant mess in your yard, if you’re looking for something a bit groomed, don’t blink.  That “clean” look takes a lot of work here in Florida.

I could go a while before weeding my backyard in Philadelphia.  The soil was somewhat fertile, but things took their time to grow.  Sun angle up there is 14 degrees lower at any given moment than it is here so it will be proportionally less effective, proportionally less bright.

I have a yard inspection every morning, on a clear morning, at 7:30.  I have to inspect the irrigation systems, clear out the palm fronds, remove any debris that falls from the trees into the pools, and basically police the perimeters of the yard.

I have help with me.  Mr Dog, my one and only Dingus, Rack the SuperDog (TM)  will follow me around the yard, and go into places that my own nearly two meter height will not fit.

I found out that he will answer to Dingus because when someone does something a bit wrong, a bit silly, and a bit dumb, I have a habit of calling them a Dingus for doing it.

I am not exactly sure that it is even officially a Word according to the O.E.D., or Webster, or anyone else, but I use it.

Frequently.

 

So much so that my Dog adopted it as one of his names.   He figured out that he is Mr Dog early on, so why should I be surprised?

Stepping outside, we hear chattering and rustling in the Utility Easement behind the property.  It is, predictably, very thick with plantings, even though Rack goes back there for relaxation.  Yes, we shall call it Relaxation.  As in Rest Stop at mile marker 108.

I see something grey flash in my right eye and go on about my own business.  Spray the Milkweed for Aphids.  Wiggle the drip-feed water bubblers to clear them from any debris inside that blocks the flow.  Inspecting the pots in the backyard is a daily occurrence.

I get to the banana tree that I have been babying and think “What on earth is going on back there” when I spot that the tree had been planted itself.

 

There was a peanut.  Wedged deeply enough that it would have to be removed or else I’d have a Peanut and Banana sandwich there about chest height.

Then I woke up.  I realized what was going on.  The chattering got more insistent, so I walked to the corner of the yard.  Deep Jungle, or what passes for it here in Florida.

I had Squirrels.  Arguing.  Loudly.  For dominance.  Who knew?  I thought they were a peaceful species.

Squirrels arguing was like a pillow fight with Marshmallows.  Nobody really was going to get hurt but they were really going at it full blast.  It looked like a Cartoon.

I threw that errant peanut into the corner hoping the squirrels would break it up and move on, but it wasn’t enough.  I was within a yard of them as they’re running up and down the telephone pole and the palms and the bamboo back there.

Realizing that I am taller than my banana tree without the peanut, I had to back up.  They were running on the outside of the plants back there instead of back in the brush, and I was concerned that they’d mistake my own self for a tree.

Luckily I was dressed in Blue, not Green.  Squirrels are not terribly smart.

Shrugging, I thought to get involved.   I clapped my hands loudly.

They stopped for a second.  Then I got cursed out in whatever Rodential Squirrelish Language that they use here that I am not aware of.

Back to it they went.  Running up and down the pole when one of them, the smaller of the two, ran back to the other side of the yard, up my banana tree, looked around then ran off into the distance.

Argument was over.  It was now about time for the drip-feed irrigation to stop for the day.  Today’s Squirrel War had ended.  Who knows who was victorious, whether it was about a Peanut and Banana Sandwich, or whether anyone really cared.

Peace was once again supreme in my strange little yard full of constrained banana trees, Bonsai, and cultivated plants.  Rack got to my side, leaned into my right leg, and looked up.

“Yes, boy, it’s time to go inside.  Coffee is calling.”

Don’t live backwards. It’s evil.

Men Will Try Anything!

 

A salesman checked into a futuristic hotel in Tokyo Japan.

Realizing he needed a haircut before the next day’s meeting he called down to the desk clerk to ask if there was a barber on the premises. ‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ the clerk told him apologetically, ‘but down the hall from your room is a vending machine that should serve your purposes.’

Skeptical but intrigued, the salesman located the machine, inserted $15.00, and stuck his head into the opening, at which time the machine started to buzz and whirl. Fifteen seconds later the salesman pulled out his head and surveyed his reflection, which reflected the best haircut of his life.

Two feet away was another machine with a sign that read, ‘Manicures, $20.00’. ‘Why not?’ thought the salesman.

He paid the money, inserted his hands into the slot, and the machine started to buzz and whirl. Fifteen seconds later he pulled out his hands and they were perfectly manicured.

The next machine had a sign that read, ‘This Machine Provides a Service Men Need When Away from Their Wives, 50 Cents.’

The salesman looked both ways, put fifty cents in the machine, unzipped his fly, and with some anticipation, stuck his manhood into the opening. When the machine started buzzing, the guy let out a shriek of agony and almost passed out. Fifteen seconds later it shut off.

With trembling hands, the salesman was able to withdraw his tender unit….. which now had a button sewn neatly on the end!

Roses are gray, violets are gray, everything is gray. I’m a dog.

From my friend John H. on FB

Sounds like a RamblingMoose story …..

As a bagpiper, I play many gigs. Recently I was asked by a funeral director to play at a graveside service for a homeless man. He had no family or friends, so the service was to be at a pauper’s cemetery in the Nova Scotia back country.

As I was not familiar with the backwoods, I got lost and, being a typical man, I didn’t stop for directions.

I finally arrived an hour late and saw the funeral guy had evidently gone and the hearse was nowhere in sight.

There were only the diggers and crew left and they were eating lunch. I felt badly and apologized to the men for being late.

I went to the side of the grave and looked down and the vault lid was already in place. I didn’t know what else to do, so I started to play.

The workers put down their lunches and began to gather around. I played out my heart and soul for this man with no family and friends. I played like I’ve never played before for this homeless man.

And as I played “Amazing Grace”, the workers began to weep. They wept, I wept, we all wept together. When I finished, I packed up my bagpipes and started for my car. Though my head was hung low, my heart was full.

As I opened the door to my car, I heard one of the workers say, “I never seen anything like that before, and I’ve been putting in septic tanks for twenty years.”