FRIDAY FUNNIES

Some times the political scene in the United States becomes so bizarre that the only way to handle it is to drink.

So . . .

Now I have heard that there are people who don't consume alcohol.

At all.

If there are any of you lurking among my Gentle Readers, I offer an alternative method to defeat your stress.

Riot!

All right, my friends, that's it for this week.

I hope you all have an extremely pleasant weekend and that you'll all remember to keep laughing at all times.

If others think you've lost your mind, just laugh at them.

Here, kitty-kitty . . . (uh-oh)

THROWBACK THURSDAY

Back in the day a young man grew up on a homestead in the German-speaking town of Strasburg, North Dakota.

The youngster left school during the fourth grade to work on the family farm.

But he loved music and he persuaded his father to buy him a mail-order accordion for $400, with the promise that the boy would work on the farm until he was 21 to pay off the debt.

On his 21st birthday, he left the farm to pursue a career in music.

That was in  1924.

Forty years later, Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Music, shown every Saturday night on television, were as familiar on the American landscape as apple pie and just as wholesome.

In 1964 or 1965, Welk made a triumphant return to his home state for a visit and was greeted at the airport in Bismarck like a conquering hero.

I was working for a television station there at that time and went to the airport to film the arrival.

I took along my wife and two small children and they were standing along a ropeline as Welk came through and shook everyone's hand.

But my youngest son was only two or three years old then and, as he was just a little tyke, Welk passed right over him without seeing him.

I noticed Scott crying and my wife told me what had happened.

So I picked Scott up and took him over to the maestro.

The next moment was captured by a still photographer.

Lawrence Welk was a millionaire many times over, thanks to his savvy investments in Southern California real estate, but he remained just a nice guy from North Dakota.

(Cue the bubble machine)

AN ORIENTAL TRIM

SWMBO had grown tired of the small Red Tip Photinia bushes in our back yard.

She said they just look like blobs.

But she said they have a good bone structure and with her artistic ways something could be made of them.

So she got busy with her clippers and attacked.

The first result looked pretty good though some lower branches needed to be sawed off.

You can see the difference by comparing with the two smaller bushes behind it.

Another evening and they were also given their first trim.

The three now look pretty darned good, I think.

It's amazing what one can find under all that overgrown shrubbery if one knows how to look.

Meantime, the Rocketman Russian Sage continues it's explosive blooming nearby, much to the joy of the bees and the finches.

And the Gato azul (blue cat) entertains an occasional guest.

Just one big happy family.

TUESDAY TRAVELS

Guadalajara is the second most populous metropolitan area in Mexico with a population of nearly 4 and a half million people.

One of the municipalities surrounding the city proper is Tlaquepaque, a name which may strike a note of familiarity to those of you Gentle Readers who may have visited Sedona, Arizona.

A shopping area there is modeled after the architecture of the Mexican city.

When we lived in Guadalajara in the 1980's and 1990's, one of the favorite places to take visitors was Tlaquepaque, which was a center of pottery and the arts.

There are the usual street vendors in abundance, especially around El Parián and El Jardín Hidalgo, two plazas that are the heart of the city.

But there are also tony shops with high art, like the gallery of the sculptor and artist Sergio Bustamante.

(That one is for the ladies.)

I believe these were some of the works in Bustamante's gallery.

SWMBO posed with this lovely sculpture.

And I posed with this brass chacmool, a replica of a pre-Columbian Mesoamerican sculpture that first appeared around the 9th Century.

I'd have loved to have taken him home but my appreciation far outstripped my income.

Then there was this svelte young miss.

After a morning spent browsing the shops with our visitors, we would usually repair to the indoor patio of El Fuerte restaurant for beer, food and a visit from the resident macaw, who would gladly perch on your arm for a photograph.

We always enjoyed Tlaquepaque as much as our visitors did.

And, unlike them, we could return again the next week.

ROCK ON!

Monday morning Catalyst . . .

. . . with attitude!

PETER COTTONTAIL

With the onset of rain the bunnies are back.

I know they've just been lurking down in the Savannah but the rain really brings them out of hiding.

A couple of weeks ago, I stepped out onto my front porch just before 8 in the evening and saw a couple of white puffy tails bounding through the yards and into the Savannah.

Then to my amazement I also spotted a mangy coyote standing in the middle of the street watching them go, and then me.

He just stood there, fearless, staring at me until I clapped my hands and shouted a "hey!" at him.

Then he turned and casually loped after the bunnies, perhaps planning his evening meal.

Several cats have disappeared in our development in the past few months and one of my neighbors and I have agreed that they probably became "coyote candy".

This bunny in my backyard has been slightly color-enhanced by my computer but you can see how they can stand without the slighest move and be virtually invisible to the human eye.

But perhaps not to the eye of the wily coyote.

BAKING DAY

Yesterday I decided to try a recipe I had read recently for a Russian Black Bread, a sort of pumpernickel with caraway seeds, fennel, cider vinegar, espresso powder, chocolate, molasses and butter, as well as three different kinds of flour and wheat germ.

Never mind that it was one of the hottest days of the summer.

In the kitchen, my ambition is sometimes frequently exceeded by my foolhardiness.

SWMBO could and would tell you.

And so it began.

I had two jars of instant bread yeast in the fridge, one nearly empty, one new.

I combined all of the old with some of the new to get the amount I needed.

It didn't bloom well and I showed it to Judy and said I didn't think it was right.

It wasn't foamy, it was lumpy, but she said it smelled all right and to go ahead.

"Our" mistake.

Once all of the 20 or so ingredients had been combined and the bread rested for a couple of hours, it had risen barely at all. 

So we gave it another couple of hours.

Then a call to the West Coast, hoping to find some help from some regular bread makers there.

It pretty much sounded like a loss.

But eventually it was divided into two loaf pans and allowed to rise for another hour or so and it seemed to have come up some so I baked it.

An hour later and about 7 hours after starting, I had bread.

It seemed pretty heavy but "the knock" sounded right and so we set them on a rack to cool.

A little while later we tried a loaf and you know what?

It was pretty darned good with a decided caraway aroma.

Rich and flavorful, I thought.

SWMBO grudgingly agreed but told me to never use old yeast again and to never combine it with new yeast.

The real test comes today when a slice gets toasted.