Chandra Clarke

Award-winning entrepreneur. Author. Professional Optimist.

I Feel the Knead

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Image Credit: Pixabay

Up until fairly recently in North America, cooking was, for the most part, something people did to put food on the table. Oh sure, you had a few creative types out there, but mostly, you did plain food in large quantities, especially if you were a woman cooking for a large family. Exotic fare was fish caught from a river 30 miles away.

That was before supermarkets. Magazines devoted entirely to food. Fancy time-saving appliances in the kitchen. And that strange Japanese television show, The Iron Chef.

Now both men and women cook, and the kitchen is no longer just a utilitarian room. It’s a creative lab. Potlucks and dinner invitations have this fierce, just-below-the-surface, competitive edge to them. Recipes aren’t traded anymore, they’re slapped down on the table with an “Oh yeah? Can you do THIS one?” attitude.

If you’re like me, it can all be a bit overwhelming. I always knew you had to be a bit of a sadist to cook — after all, you have to beat the eggs and whip the cream — but now cooking is an exercise in masochism as well.

For instance, I recently tried to make eclairs — I thought that for sheer impressive value, they were a choux thing. But the pastry got short with me, they were a disaster, and now the choux is on the other foot.

I gave up on baking and decided to try main courses instead. I tried to make a chicken gougere, but it sprang a leek, and gougered everywhere. I attempted a completely vegetarian dish after that, but it burned, and I got really annoyed and lost my coulis.

You know what they say though: the beet goes on. So, I decided that my problem must be that I was trying the wrong type of cuisine. French food is complicated stuff; Italian food is supposed to be simpler, but just as flavourful.

I don’t know what I did wrong. My lasagna was al dented, my macaroni was penalized for elbowing, and everyone politely, but firmly advised me to dial back the salt a gnocchi or two. I found their comments about the amount of cheese really grating as well. After that, it was pasta la vista.

I thought about Asian food. For my first dish it was a close race between Korean and Vietnamese, but it ended in a Thai. The pad siew, sadly, ended up being pad ewww; and the seua rong hai turned out so wrong eh?

Not even my son can put up with my Far East creations. He’s not talking yet, but I distinctly heard him call yesterday’s meal ‘teriyuki.’ And I’m not sure what the name of the Chinese dish was that I made for him today, but after he got done dumping it on the floor, it was definitely mop suey.

I can’t even curry favour with Indian food. I mistakenly made buttered chicken, which everyone thought was weird. My Bombay curry was a bomb (not a bombe) — my neighbour would have naan of it. The Middle Eastern and Mediterranean fare was no better — the hummus was just falafel; I finally took pita on my family and ordered in pizza.

I’m not sure which is worse, frankly — the fact that everything I tried failed, or the fact that I ended up with a lot of injuries. Apart from the usual burns, cuts and scrapes one gets in the kitchen, I got vinegar in my ear, and now I have pickled hearing.

Oh well. As my husband wisely said, while comforting me, “Sometimes, life’s a bisque.” So, I concede the field in competitive cooking, and instead will get into competitive donating.

After all, there’s a lot of people out there for whom plain food in large quantities would be a big improvement.

Mirror, Mirror…

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Mirror, Mirror
Image credit: Pixabay

They say truth is stranger than fiction, but sometimes truth is created from fiction.

No, no, I do not mean the latest press releases from the US government or Britain’s Royal Family.

I’m referring to a system developed by a French company. It is a “mirror” that reflects the way you *might* look in the future.

The mirror is actually an LCD TV with a camera that projects your image on the screen. The rest of the system consists of a number of other cameras positioned throughout the house which help to record a ‘lifestyle profile.’ Special software will analyze the images and determine what you’ve been doing and then it will reprocess your current image to predict how you’ll look in a few years.

Too much time watching TV? The software will run the Add 20 Pounds Subroutine. Party every night until 3 a.m.? The system will run the Serious Eye Bags Algorithm. Sunbathing again? The image will be reprocessed with the Leather Skin Filter. I’m not sure if they’ve come up with a name for this program yet, but I’d suggest: DorianSoft.

Assuming this system is ever sold on a retail basis, there are three possible outcomes:

1. People will make more of an effort to stay fit and be good to themselves. (Hey, this is a humour column, right?)
2. The police will get a lot of calls from concerned neighbours. “Yes officer, he’s been shouting at a spot on the wall all morning. I swear he’s saying, ‘Oh yeah! Watch me eat this cupcake anyway!'”
3. The manufacturer of the system will get a lot of product returns; most of the cameras will have mysterious paint stains on the lenses or bullet holes through the casing.

Why won’t this work? Well for a number of reasons. First, if you want to consult something that remembers every instance of bad behaviour in your past and makes dire predictions about how you’re going to turn out, you can call your mother. Indeed, another good name for the software would be I Told You If You Kept Doing That Your Face Was Going To Freeze In That Position v2.0.

Second, you can’t help but be discouraged by the predicted image of yourself. For even if you avoid the sun, work out religiously, and sip water instead of scotch, you are still going to look, well, older. In fact, if this system becomes popular, I expect that after the initial sales rush, we’ll see a concurrent spike in the sale of those t-shirts that say: Eat Right, Exercise, Die Anyway.

The main problem, however, is that humans have a more powerful software application already installed called: Denial v409.7. We already know certain foods are bad for us, but we eat them anyway. We know we should exercise more often, but somehow we just never find the time. We play music too loud, and even though television programming reaches new lows every year, we still watch.

How do we break the Denial program? Well, one answer might be to turn over maintenance of it to a certain large software company famous for making operating systems. In no time, it would be full of spyware, Trojans, and security holes and would crash so many times people would stop bothering to reboot it.

Another way would be to design a system that uses positive reinforcement. Instead of watching for couch potatoism, it should make note of how many times you climbed the stairs in a day. Then it should project an image that predicts how you’d look if you climbed the stairs just a few more times a day. Accompanying the picture of the slimmer, svelter you could be a notice: Upgrade now, and all this could be yours!

Of course another way to improve yourself — and I say this hoping my children will one day read through my column archive — would be to just listen to your mom.

The Cheque is In The Mail

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Economists would have you believe that they can tell when an economy is hurting by looking at important indicators like unemployment, inflation and GDP. I’m here to tell you that you don’t need all of that. All you have to use is my patented Creative Excuses Coefficient Meter (TM).

When I’m not writing this column, you see, I run a business. One of the joys of self-employment is discovering — and I know you’ll find this as shocking as I did at first — that sometimes people don’t pay their bills on time. This means that occasionally, I have to morph, just like Jekyll and Hyde, from Thoughtful Funny Columnist to Big Mean Bill Collector.

I don’t like being called a BMBC. And I certainly don’t like the other names I’m called when I have to be a BMBC. But it has allowed me to determine that, the worse the economy, the more creative the excuses are for why someone hasn’t paid their bill. Just in case you have collection agencies at your door (and if you DO, make sure you pay me first!), here are some of the best I’ve heard so far:

Rubber Czech: “Oh, three hundred and fifty dollars? I thought you charged in koruny, so I figured my last payment covered everything.”

Proof Positive: “I’ve only received four invoices, six overdue statements, and three warnings. Please provide proof of my debt.”

Currency, Schmurrency: “I bought this when there were still German Deutschemarks around, and since the European Union eliminated that currency, I didn’t think I had to pay any more.”

Dissed and Dismissed: “Oh, my secretary placed that order, using my name and my information, and the work I wanted done. I’ve since fired her and don’t know where she is. You’ll have to get the money from her.”

Sure, I’m Sure: “I paid that. I don’t keep any receipts though. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

Hacked Off: “I don’t owe you anything. You stole all my personal information off my computer, and this is all a lie.”

Hold The Phone: “Why are you calling me? Is this something for a reality TV show? Am I on one of those hidden cameras?”

Memories, Oh Sweet Memories: “Oh yeah, I think that’s because I didn’t like the work you did, but I didn’t remember to complain about it, and then forgot to pay too.”

What A Rush: “Yes, I ordered the rush service, but decided afterward that I didn’t need it that fast, so that’s why I only paid half my bill.”

Curses, Foiled Again: “What &^%@^!! bill? I don’t know nothing about any &^!!@^!! bill! Get the @#$%^&! outta here!” [Okay so this one isn’t creative. But it is really, really common.]

Win Some, Lose Some: “Right, yeah, um, I lost what it was that I bought from you, so didn’t think I still owed you the money.”

Sign Here: “The person who’s authorized to sign cheques around here was, uh, shot last night. We don’t know how long it will be before he recovers.”

This Costs Money?: “I’m sorry, I thought this was a free trial sample. Yes, I know I ordered six different times.”

This Costs Money II?: “I thought everything on the Internet was free?”

Divine Intervention: “I’m waiting for a sign from God as to whether I should pay you.”

Vital Signs: “You know what? I got really sick last week and I’m still contagious so I don’t want to send you anything, especially, you know, if I have to lick an envelope or something.”

So folks, if you ever want to know how the economy is going, never mind looking at the Dow Jones Average and don’t bother consulting your broker. Just call me. Especially if you owe me money.

Too Tired To Sleep

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Too Tired

It is often said that the Inuit have something like 500 different words for snow. I have no idea if this is true or not; personally I have only one word for snow and it’s: pththththb!

As a business owner, homeowner, and parent, however, I can tell you that there are probably at least 1000 types of “tired.” Here’s just a few:

Toy Box Fatigue: Every night you pick up the 204 toys scattered around the house and put them in the toy box. Every morning, approximately five minutes after breakfast, it looks like you never touched the place.

Just the FAQs Ma’am: Answering the same customer question 300 times a day can produce a special kind of resignation and tiredness. It’s especially soul-draining when the answer to that question is printed in at least six different places in company literature.

Dish Wear: My all time record for keeping the kitchen clean is 5 minutes, 38 seconds. My family has this annoying habit of wanting to eat three meals a day, plus snacks and drinks.

Once More Unto the Voicemail: Trying to get in touch with contacts in other companies can be an exhausting, all-day exercise, as you: Press ‘1’ for accounts, ‘3’ for account representatives on the east coast, ‘2’ for account representatives on the east coast with names beginning with G…

Laundry Lethargy: My mother always maintained that dirty laundry bred in dark places. My hamper is always full, so I think she was on to something.

Repetitive Junk Mail Injury: If you think you get a lot of junk mail now, try running a business. In a single day, you’ll get 25 computer technology offers, 58 cheap long distance flyers, 17 office supplies catalogues, and 398 trade magazines.

Grassoline: In a typical summer, you have to mow your lawn once a week. If you have 1000 things that need doing this summer, you’ll have a hot, wet one, which means you’ll have to mow your lawn twice a day just so the mailman can find your front door. This means you won’t rid yourself of that peculiar odour blend of grass and gasoline until Christmas.

52 Pickup: There is a special kind of backache that develops after a day of bending over to pick up the items your child has pitched out of the stroller, or shopping cart. These include: the soother, a shoe, socks, sunglasses, hat, juice bottle, your shopping list, your purse, the glass jar of pickles, and the open bag of onions.

My Name Is Not Sally!! Paying your bills and making standard store purchases should be simple, right? After all, we’ve been doing this sort of thing for hundreds of years now. But no, at least once a month, someone, somewhere does something stupid to your account. The cheque you wrote for $400 is processed as being for $4000. Or your last payment date is reset to August 10, 1927, and suddenly they think you owe $45,998 in interest. Or their computer insists that the occupant at your address is one Sally Smithers, not you, even if you built your house and have been the only occupant it’s ever had. And all of it requires several days of calling, emailing, shouting, and a lot of fighting to get it fixed.

Whine Hangover: Sometimes, there is just no pleasing a child, and they spend the entire day crying, whining and fussing. By bedtime, your ears will be ringing, and nothing short of large glass of merlot will make the headache go away.

Shovelitis: Right about the time the smell of grassoline dissipates, it’s time to start shovelling snow. On the days when you absolutely have to be somewhere in a hurry, there will be a sudden flurry that dumps six inches on your driveway. If you were organized enough to shovel it out first thing in the morning, the flurry will dump twelve inches.

And that explains why I have just one word for snow.