Let it Rain

 

On some days all that there is to do is sit at the window and watch the rain fall to the earth, its mentally taxing, exhausting even. Your fingers restlessly tapping on the window sill, as you watch cars rolling down the avenue, coming to and fro, there in front of you, the ebb and flow of life in the city. Honking horns, cars filled with impatient people just trying to get on with it, red light, green light, stop and go, people walking, some shuffling, down a crowded sidewalk, some with umbrella’s, and still others without, getting soaked to the bone before they even get halfway to where they are going. And there you are at the window watching scene after unique scene, as each unfolds as if it were on a stage. The play of life, there are no second or third takes here, all you get is one shot at it. And then you see the black car slowly roll to a stop, and she gets out and slams the door behind her.

She is angry, animated even, she’s shouting at the unseen driver of the vehicle, and even though she’s standing in the middle of a down pouring rainstorm she doesn’t even seem to notice it. All of her anger, all of her rage, focused on the black car that quickly pulls away, sending sprays of rainwater into the air in its wake. She is now soaked, and for the first time since her arrival the look of anger is replaced by surprise. And for the first time, you begin to notice how beautiful she is. Her long black hair soaking wet falls to her shoulders, rain soaked fabric clings to her perfect figure as she turns away, fumbling with her keys as she unlocks the door and swings it open, disappearing from view. And for a brief moment in time you try to return your attention to the street below, but she won’t leave your mind to wander for long, as you see the curtains in the window directly across from you slowly open, and there she is in all of her glory, scene one, act two.

There are no lights behind her as she steps back into the shadows of her darkened living room, and with almost a sense of childlike curiosity, you wonder to yourself what she’s doing in there. Briefly you manage to pull your eyes away, slowly returning your attention to the street below, the scene is much the same as it was before, people coming, people going, light slowly drifting away into dark, slowly your eyes move back up to the window across the street and there she is again, standing at the window, wearing a bath robe, smoking a cigarette, silently watching as the life scene below plays itself out. She presses her body closer to the rain soaked window pane, and when she notices you noticing her, you draw a deep breath as if you were caught doing something wrong, but when her beautiful lips purse into a seductive smile, within the confines of a second, everything disappears, all worry, all doubt.

You light your own cigarette and slowly exhale, and you and miss perfection take turns moving your eyes away to look at the street below, only to end up looking back at each other, she presses her hand to the steamy window pane, smiling out at you, with her forefinger, she slowly draws out the form of a heart on the pane, and steps away closing the curtains behind her. You catch your breath, shake it off and light another cigarette. Cars just keep rolling by, people are still impatient, and the red lights just can’t seem to turn green quick enough. Some days can just lock you inside, reducing you to a spectator, and other days there just doesn’t seem to behind enough minutes in a single hour to accomplished all that needs to be done. On days like this is all that there is to do, just sit, catch your breath and watch the rain.

~Scratch. A.B.T. copyright © 2009~

A Matter of Conscience.

Have you ever wondered why it is that some people can go through their whole lives lashing out at the world, and hurting people, without so much as a second thought about doing so? acting without any social or moral conscience as to what their actions are doing to the lives of other human beings around them? they don’t think for a second about the consequences of their actions, they just do whatever they feel like doing and sleep like babies afterwards. And on the completely opposite hand, where does that little voice come from that keeps the rest of us animals in check? Where does our conscience come from? And how can it be that some people can completely ignore it and others live by it? Sometimes I find myself on the threshold of some decision that I’m about to make, and I think that I’m going to do the right thing and this voice that isn’t my own just pop’s into my head and tells me that this is probably going to be a bad idea, and that no good will come of it.

One fellow even went so far as to tell me that our conscience is our one true tie to god, and that some of us learn to listen to it more than others from a very young age. Although I do believe that it comes from upbringing, I’m more likely to think that some people are just more inclined to abuse because they can, and nobody ever challenged them not to. For instance even without someone telling me, I know, for a fact that taking another persons' life, whether chance affords me the opportunity or not, I know, indeed for a fact, that it is wrong. So I simply couldn’t nor would I ever do it. If chance afforded me the opportunity, could I steal from someone? Social stature aside, whether the person(s) in question had a great deal of wealth, could I steal from them simply because they had more than me?

No, probably not, because not only is it wrong to do so, but I have worked for the greater part of my existence on this planet, and I know what it means to have something taken from me, that aside, I was raised to respect the property of other people. So what about God? From my personal perspective, I’m not taking any chances, I cannot prove nor challenge any theories on the existence of God or the devil or Heaven or Hell, nor how any such beliefs may tie into our conscience’s. Here is what I know, when I am out there in the real world, I know that there is a feeling, something intangible, it seems to guide and prod me along in the right direction, and that I when I hear that voice that calls into question every rational or irrational decision that I about to make, I owe it, not only to myself, but to the world around me to stop what I am doing, if only for a second and simply listen. And maybe with a little luck and fate will provide me the opportunity to once again do the right thing.

Scratchworks.. © 2022

Welcome To My Mess.

 Hello world… Welcome to my mess… Some may choose to call their mess a life, but not I, I call it what it is on most occasions… A mess. most people would deny they have one, or worse yet, try to avoid the confrontation of their mess altogether. They do this I find, in a variety of ways, one of the most popular ways is usually by critiquing other people. They can do this better than you, or they can do that better than you. They have less character flaws than you, and their blond hair doesn’t have dark roots. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it, you’re perfect, right? Not that I would ever doubt your word, but I believe the proper terminology for this affliction would be “You’re In denial.” but don’t look at me. I am not perfect and have never been known to make such outlandish claims. In fact, I am quite happy with my mess.

Okay, Let me be the first to start. Hello world. My name is Rant, or Anthony if you prefer… And I’m a happy mess. Ok, I’ve admitted it, now let's examine some of the symptoms. I can’t balance a check book, hell I’m lucky if I can keep track of how much change I have in my pocket let alone how much I have in the bank. But with the help of some very patient tellers at U.S. Bank, I can keep track of my funds without ever really keeping track. Ok, I’ll admit it, I am bad with money, But even with that being said, there is much, much more to my mess. Here’s a good one, Food, (Usually Fattening food) talks to me. If it's bad for you, It seems to gravitate towards me, Country biscuits and Gravy, steak and eggs, Fruit pies, Donuts, Ok, ok, let's not talk about food. Here are a few other particles of my mess. Sometimes…

I talk too much and listen too little… But still manage to hear what is being said.

On Occasion, I lose my temper, Blow my top, flip my lid, and blow things out of proportion… But I always find a way to admit when I’m wrong and am never too big to say I’m sorry.

I have a tendency, usually when I am lost in my thoughts, to be aloof to the point of rudeness. I sometimes think with my heart instead of my brain. And sometimes it bites me on the ass…

I wear my emotions on my sleeve, and am loyal to my friends to a fault. I am bad with names, but can remember every smile that I have ever met. I am at most times overprotective of children, even with those that I don’t know. I drink way too much coffee, watch way too much T.V. I Hate the word Hate, but absolutely hate Mondays.

I don’t know about anyone else. But I don’t do a lot of things right, yet I find a way to get things done. I am a reformed drinker, an ex smoker, two difficult addictions in my life that I overcame for a time… I have high hopes that neither will resurface in my life, but know that resistance can be a fragile thing. Yet still I resist.

I have no delusions of grandeur, I am just a guy, a human being, doing… Living. Breathing… Loving life, just hanging around, for better or worse, just a man… Content with his imperfections and his mess. 

 

The Sad Slow Death of Childhood.

I was approaching eleven years old when I had gotten my first taste of technology. It was in the fall of 1969, at the very beginning of the rainy season in central California, when I had bought my very first transistor radio. I don’t recall much about it except that I bought it at a store called Western Auto, and it was red. And out in the country where we lived, it picked up about three or maybe four tops different am radio stations. Remember am radio? My step-brother (Who was 1 year older than me) and I had been planning our big weekend out in back of the farm.

We had gotten some old bedsheets from my closet and were in the process of constructing the biggest, bad ass tent in our backyard that either of us had ever seen. We were just two kids with a plan, and a whole weekend to execute it. We slept out under that raggedy old tent most of the night listening to the radio, and outlining “the plan.” There was a wide ditch full of water that ran between our side of the property line and the tomato field that was next to us. The plan was simple, we were going to “Borrow” a couple- (Or five or six ) double-sided pallets that were laying out in the barn we would then drag them into one of the many wood sheds out back. We were going to construct a couple of Rafts that we would sail down the ditch with, stopping at various points to catch us a few Crawdads. (crawfish)

The next morning on a Saturday as I recall, we took the Radio out in the shed with us, we copped a few of the old man's tools and drug the pallets from out of the barn and took them to the shed and began to plug all of the holes that were in them, with boards and nails. See, what we figured was, “Hey… It's wood, and wood floats, Right?” uhh, yeah sure. We cleverly concealed the entire operation from my mother and stepfather and upon completion of both Rafts drug them to the ditch full of water one at a time and prepared our selves for “The Launch.” we managed to drag both rafts to the edge of the water line just in time for it to start raining.

Our young minds were filled with excitement and joy as we each took turns pushing our creations into the water filled ditch, My step-brother pushed his in first, as I prepared my own pirate raft for its maiden voyage, and when the moment of truth came, with transistor radio in my coat pocket, I launched. Well they did actually float as I recall, Long enough to get us both out into the middle of the ditch, to where both rafts promptly sank like a couple of rocks. Mine, of course, managing to somehow take my new transistor radio with it. Well we both made it through the ordeal and safely back to shore alive, soaking wet but alive. And there was Mom, standing on the back porch watching us drag our eleven-year-old know it all asses out of the water , shaking her head to and fro with complete disgust for what she was witnessing.

We were kids, because we were allowed to be kids. We didn’t have middle schools, our mothers didn’t have to schedule play dates, nobody ever got shot at in school, in fact nobody ever even thought to bring any guns to school. Childhood lasted until you hit thirteen or so as I recall, and then you became a teenager, and slowly began to develop more adult oriented habits, like becoming interested in the opposite sex, thinking about your first set of wheels and such things as that. As an adult, I think back to when I was a child, and then I bring myself back to the here and now. I think that what disturbs me most is how little is left to a child’s imagination, If you can think about something, you can either go online to find it, or just buy the video game. I don't know if it's some twisted side effect of evolution or if some people are trying to kill it intentionally, they over sexualize children, they teach them things that a kid shouldn't have to even think about, How sad it is for me personally, to witness what seems to be the slow death of childhood, how sad indeed.

Wrong For Every Right.

 

Imagine living in a hundred years of peace, quiet and tranquility, no war, no internal or external strife, a nation, a world, without turmoil or struggle. Lofty idealism at its finest.  A world where only good exists, where the hero would be waiting in the wings in the slight chance that even the smallest of problems should arise, they could swoop in at a moment's notice and crush the problem before it started. 

Well, you can imagine it, but it will never happen. Call me a realist, but the world will always have as many bad guys as it has good ones. But see, here’s where it gets tricky, bad guys can serve a useful purpose too, try to follow my logic here, they keep us on our toes, they keep our guards up, and without at the very least, the threat of danger, we could easily become complacent, and complacent people make easy targets, so in that regard perhaps, they do serve a healthy purpose. 

We do tend to let our guards down too much, we become too trusting of others with veiled intentions, and we end up with a lot of Pearl Harbor and 911 type of scenarios, simply because we want to see the good in people, and our fearless leaders, through ignorance or arrogance, (Or both) choose to ignore the warning signs that not everyone on this planet has our best interests in mind. News flash, there is no perfect world.

There are bad people here that will always want to do us harm, they have been here just as long as us, and in many cases, even longer. There will always be bad for every good, wrong for every right, evil has been here for centuries, and it doesn’t appear to be going anywhere, anytime soon. So I guess for the time being, don’t let down your guard just yet, keep the faith, and don’t ever forget about the past. For me at least, it seems that the biggest difference between good and bad is knowing the difference between the two, and choosing the right path.

I'm Going to make some Homemade Chicken Soup. this weekend.

 

I'm going to make some of this this weekend, man I love me some homemade Chicken soup and this sounds like a great recipe, although I may swap out the chicken breasts for thighs. I like the dark meat better. but over all, I can't wait to try this recipe. Shout out to Half Baked Harvest .com they have some great stuff on there if you like to cook. anyway, I think I may try some crusty sourdough garlic bread on the side as well, here's the skinny.

• Ingredients.
• 6 cups low sodium chicken stock
• 2 tablespoons butter
• 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
• 2 onions, chopped
• 4 carrots, chopped
• 2 parsnips, chopped
• 2 ribs celery, chopped
• 2 leeks, chopped
• 8 peppercorns
• 1 bay leaf
• 4 sprigs fresh thyme
• 2 sprigs fresh rosemary
• 2-3 pounds bone-in chicken breasts or thighs
• kosher salt and black pepper
• juice + zest of 1 lemon
• 3/4 cup dry farro
• 1/2 cup fresh cilantro and or mixed herbs

Instructions

• 1. In the bowl of your crockpot, combine the chicken stock, butter, olive oil, onions, carrots, parsnips, celery, leeks, peppercorns, bay leaf, thyme, rosemary, and a pinch each of salt and pepper. Add the chicken. Cover and cook on low for 5-6 hours or high for 4-5 hours.

  2. About 45 minutes before serving, remove the chicken from the soup. Remove the herbs and discard. Stir in the lemon juice and zest, plus the farro. Shred the chicken and stir it back into the soup and cook until the farro is tender.

  3. Divide the soup among bowls and top with herbs. Serve with a hunk of bread. 

Notes

Stove-Top

 Heat the butter and olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onions and cook until softened, about 8 minutes. Add the carrots, parsnips, celery, leeks, peppercorns, bay leaf, thyme, rosemary, chicken stock, and chicken. Cover and bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to low and simmer uncovered for 2 hours. Shred the chicken. Stir in the lemon juice and zest, add the Farro and cook 25-30 minutes. Serve as directed. 

Instant Pot

Follow the slow cooker directions. Cover and cook on high pressure for 15 minutes and then use the quick release to release the steam. Shred the chicken, add the lemon and farro and cook on sauté until the farro are soft, about 15 minutes. Serve as directed. 

 *Adapted from Share Cookbook. 

Here we go again.

It took me awhile, but I finally got it through my head (I think) Facebook really does suck as much as twitter.  I need to start blogging again, I need to start writing again even if no one is reading it, at least I'm putting it out there again, I've tried several times to kickstart this blog again I think it's time to do it for real.