A Quokka Dreeds its Weird

Unless you count the time I found a woman giving birth in a bathroom stall in the Kuwait airport at 3:00 am when I was nine.

I had to wake up at 5:30 AM to make sure I got there in time with plenty to spare. Only there wasn't plenty to spare, because a car burst into flames.

Not mine. But it did cause a 6:00 AM traffic jam.

The second issue occurred at the airport where I discovered that my boarding pass was printed with Rachel Brown (name on credit card) instead of Manija Brown (name on passport and also name I booked my ticket for, which is provable because that's what Orbitz sent me in receipt, etc.)

They said 1) I cannot get on plane with that pass, 2) they cannot change the name on the pass, 3) I cannot cancel flight and rebook the same one in the correct name.

"But how did you get through security in Lexington?" she asked.

"Lexington?!" I said.

"I didn't come through Lexington," I said. "I just walked in now, from LA."

We argued about this for several minutes.

You are probably thinking I grabbed the wrong boarding pass, but it did say Rachel Brown and it's what the kiosk spit out when I inserted my credit card.

"And you're going to Detroit, right?"

"Detroit?!" I said. "No! I'm going to Minneapolis!"

At that point it became clear that something was disastrously wrong. She told me it wasn't her problem and to call Orbitz. I madly waved my email confirmation at her and pointed out that by now, I had only thirty minutes to boarding.

She then ran my passport through the system and produced the correct boarding pass in the correct name. I'm still not sure exactly what happened. The most plausible answer seems to be that when I inserted my credit card, it read only the name on the card, not the number, and gave me another Rachel Brown's boarding pass.

However. The flight itinerary for that Rachel Brown was to leave Lexington, Kentucky, fly to Los Angeles, and then go to Detroit all on the same day. If you look at a map of the US, you'll see why this is an unlikely itinerary to say the least.

Whatever happened, I was then rushed through security...

...until I got randomly selected to be searched.

When they were done searching me, they put my bag through the X-Ray, then decided to search my bag. I had a small case of DVDs for a TV show, and it got flagged as suspicious. The TSA guy demanded that I open the case and prove they were DVDs.

The case jammed. I struggled and struggled to open it and finally just handed it to him and asked him to try. Then he struggled and struggled and finally got it open.

It contained DVDs.

He then got suspicious of a bag of cocoa powder I use to disguise the taste of some gross powdered meds I take. It was in the original packaging, but it had come open so there was brown powder inside the ziplock bag I'd put it in.

"It's cocoa powder!" I said, on the verge of losing my mind. "I CAN PROVE IT! IF YOU WANT I WILL EAT SOME RIGHT NOW WHILE YOU WATCH!!!

He decided not to make me eat it.

I barely made it onto the plane, where none of crew and v few of passengers are masked.

But! I made it to Minneapolis, I met my friend, and we went to a cafe where I had pancakes, coffee, and a cocktail.

So my blackberry bush just forced me to take off my shirt AND BRA within full view of my neighbor's house.

I was working away at the tangle, and finally decided to do something I've been previously avoiding, which was to cut down a really big cane when I couldn't see what was on the other end. It was blocking basically everything. I crossed my fingers I wasn't murdering half the patch, and snipped. But when I attempted to tie up the part of it I'd left, I got yanked backwards.

This isn't that unusual as the thorns are huge. I twisted around to untangle myself, and found that I'd been caught, not by a thorn, but by one of the trellis wires. It had somehow tied itself around part of my shirt and bra, and was so taut I couldn't even tell exactly how it was doing it, let alone untangle it. I couldn't cut the wire as it was supporting multiple brambles.

I finally had to take off my shirt and bra and untangle myself in broad daylight, easily visible from both the road and the neighbor's backyard which he commonly frequents, naked from the waist up.

I don't think any human saw me, but I swear that blackberry was laughing.

If I'd opened The Dogs without seeing the cover or title, I would have assumed it was a mainstream novel about a college professor who experiences ennui and has an affair with a student. Here are a few typical quotes from the beginning.

Farrell's wife Hilary had pursued Bauer with the enthusiasm of a sportful porpoise.

He looked at her ass.

Sit on my face, Miss Lippman, and know the enamel reality of my teeth.

Then some dogs appear, thank God... or so I thought, until I was promptly flung into an extremely graphic dog sex scene which began with extremely graphic DOG WATERSPORTS. I have no idea where it ended, as I crammed the book into my airplane stuff holder and abandoned it there, hopefully to intrigue and then traumatize some curious flight attendant.

The Dogs



Of course this is disappointing to me that all four of the ridiculous books I found proved unreadable. Perhaps it is disappointing to you too. And so I am giving you all a very special offer!

If you mail me a ridiculous pulp novel, I will at least attempt to read it and report back on my attempt, IF you follow the rules:

1. It must be or at least promise to be entertaining. I think you know what I mean by that. Terrible improving books also qualify (i.e., books purporting to warn about the dangers of Advanced D&D, etc).

2. You must provide a bonus/incentive with the book, i.e., jerky, unusual candy, a pretty card, art, coffee, another book, etc.

3. I have a short attention span so you must do this quickly, before I lose interest or get caught up in something else.

4. Email me at Rphoenix2@gmail.com and I'll give you a mailing address.

...the winner, by which I mean the next thing that burst into flames in my vicinity, was "the salmon I plan to have for dinner."

I think maybe next I'll do a poll on "What is the next wonderful thing that will happen to me?"

I have no idea how I obtained this book. This is not that uncommon for me, as I often grab books from used bookshops, garage sales, library sales and giveaway shelves, etc, and then don’t get around to reading them for years. And years.

I do remember why I obtained it, which is that I thought it was exactly what it said it was: a compendium of historical American recipes and cooking practices.

HA HA HA HA OH BOY WAS I WRONG. And wrong in the most serendipitous way. This book is so much more awesome than that, in the sense of the xkcd comic (“It’s like a sword, but awesomer.”) Had I known the wonders that awaited within its peculiarly metallic cover, I would have opened it way sooner.

While waiting for my bread to rise, I idly pulled it from the shelf, opened it at random, and read this:

Johannes Kepler was a well-known German astrologer. He was born in 1571 and died in 1630. His work on astronomy has long since been forgotten but his creating liverwurst will never be forgotten.

Um, WHAT?

Instantly riveted, I began flipping through. I found…

Spinach Mother of Christ

The Virgin Mary, Mother of Christ was very fond of spinach. This is as well known a fact in Nazareth today as it was 19 centuries ago. Her favorite music was that of the crude bagpipes of that time, and this also is a well-known fact.

Her recipe for preparing spinach spread with Christianity throughout Europe. On the eve of Christ’s birth in the cave that was called a stable, Her only meal was spinach.

And…

The person who named the muskrat should forever be ashamed of himself. If he had given it a nice name such as water opossum, water rabbit, or something of this nature, their carcasses would be worth more than their pelts are today. The name muskrat is simply not appealing to most people from an eating standard.

And…

Pate De Foie Gras was first made for Joan of Arc by one of her army cooks, Jean Baptiste Patrie who was from the goose rearing region of France. Herter then launches into a history of Joan of Arc which begins, Never underestimate the strength and courage of a woman who is really mad at you.

At this point, still trying to figure out whether this was a very elaborate parody or a batshit work of outsider art, I turned to the beginning. Best book opening ever, y/n?

In the lumber camp days and pioneer days the cooks learned from each other and the old world cooks. Each taught the other his country's cooking secrets. Out of the mixing came fine food, prepared as nowhere else in the world. I am putting down some of these recipes that you will not find in cookbooks plus many other historical recipes. Each recipe here is a real cooking secret. I am also publishing for the first time authentic historical recipes of great importance.

For your convenience I will start with meats, fish, eggs, soups and sauces, sandwiches, vegetables, the art of French frying, desserts, how to dress game, how to properly sharpen a knife, how to make wines and beer, how to make French soap and also what to do in case of hydrogen or cobalt bomb attacks, keeping as much in alphabetical order as possible.

Still perplexed and also cracking up, I looked up the author. Batshit work of outsider art it is!

I also enjoyed its Goodreads reviews, such as Holy god was this an AMAZING find at the used bookstore. While a little tough due to a disregard for commas, it's an amazing book to read out loud. With the Myan prediction of the world ending in 2012, I found the sections on what to do if a nuclear winter should occur particularly helpful.

I'd be a miss not to also give the virgin mother a shout out for her spinach recipe.

Also, it's golden. Literally.

And

One of my favorite things about Herter's books is that so many of them feature pictures of toddlers holding shotguns posing by dead animals.

I’ve flipped through this rather than reading cover to cover, but did spot praise for various Confederate figures, who in addition to being very fine men also invented chicken. There’s also a rant about the evil of women’s magazine editors who destroy the natural urge of women to bake by providing them with fake recipes that don’t work. So, general offensive opinions warning as I’m sure there’s plenty more like that, though I have to say that the plot to destroy womanhood via fake recipes for souffles that don’t rise provided me with more hilarity than offense.

In conclusion, the word "madrilene" used in cooking is strictly a phony.

Bull Cook and Authentic Historical Recipes and Practices

I spent today registering and pre-registering high school students to vote during their walkout and lunch period. In California and some other states, you can pre-register at 16 and be automatically registered when you turn 18. You can do it online here. Please spread the word to eligible teenagers or parents of eligible teenagers you know.

We registered or pre-registered about 40 students, and then ran out of registration forms and their lunch period, pretty much simultaneously. However, I spoke to the principal and intend to return. This is something you might be able to do at high schools in your area. It's worth asking.

In between the walkout and lunch, I lurked in the library as it was pretty cold and windy outside. When I sat down in a convenient chair, I spotted my novel Stranger in the spinner right in front of me. It was such a funny coincidence that since I'd had to explain to the librarian what I was doing there, I mentioned it to her. She opened it, saying I should autograph it, and said, "This is the wrong book."

I looked inside. The book had the cover of my book, and the contents of Maggie Stiefvater's Blue Lily, Lily Blue, which is book three in a series in a different genre from mine. The librarian grabbed the book with that cover from the shelf, and found mine inside. She had accidentally switched the covers. Despite this, both books had been checked out several times. I am still wondering what in the world the hapless readers thought if they began to read without checking the title page. (I personally am not typically in the habit of ascertaining that I'm reading the correct book before I begin to read.)

While I was sitting peacefully in my kitchen, I heard a loud bang, immediately followed by a clatter. I turned around and saw a sight which I am now sorry I did not photograph. It consisted of the trash bag into which I had chucked a large unopened can of Pillsbury buttermilk biscuits upon cleaning out my refrigerator and discovering that they had expired months ago, the open and empty can standing upright all the way across the kitchen from the trash bag, and three uncooked buttermilk biscuits scattered across the kitchen, like pale cow pattys.

This is not the first time I've had something explode in my kitchen, but it was possibly the most spectacular.

The instructor of my Human Sexuality class has been replaced with a different instructor. I may be getting an entirely new syllabus. I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. Perhaps all of the above!

I spent the weekend attending coraa and jmpava's wedding, which was lovely and moving, and was the first wedding I have ever been to which featured a jaguar and an owl. (It was at the Seattle zoo.) I also got to meet faithhopetricks and her husband T and their cats, which was wonderful - I think she is the LJ friend I have up till now known longest and best without actually meeting.

However, I am here to tell you about dangerous jam.

As a wedding present, I carefully put together and gift-wrapped a box of local, artisinal Los Angeles foods, including a jar of golden raspberry jam. At LAX, I was pulled from the line due to jam. Over my protests, the box was unwrapped and searched.

"Can't you just check it for explosives?" I asked. "It's jam!"

"I know it's jam," said the unruffled security guy. "It already passed the explosive test. But you're not allowed to bring more than three ounces of gels onboard, and that's five ounces." (Or something.)

I am going to try to keep the security ranting to a minimum in this post, but I just want to highlight the utter Orwellian idiocy of knowing that a substance is harmless, but refusing to let it onboard due to security theatre - regulations which everyone involved knows are pointless and have nothing to do with safety, but are just there because once a rule is enacted, it becomes impossible to ever roll back. And therefore jam is forever banned from airlines - but only medium to large jars! Small jars of the same jam are totally okay!

Fuming, I re-wrapped the box and was sent back to check my suitcase. The airline charged me $20 to check my one piece of checked luggage, containing my deadly jam.

When I arrived in Seattle, I opened my suitcase. A paper fluttered out, informing me that my suitcase had been selected for more searching. The wrapping paper had once again been ripped off my box of terrifying jam, and my underwear had been stolen.

I should note that these were not fancy, fetishy, or even expensive panties. They were boring, basic, cotton, totally unsexy panties purchased at Target. Fuming again, I borrowed wrapping paper, wrapped the box for the third time, and got a friend of the bride to drive me to Target to buy more underwear. I am convinced that some creepy security guy has a Criminal Minds-esque room completely wallpapered with stolen underwear.

It was then that I opened my purse to get out my wallet to buy my replacement underwear. In the side pocket in which I keep my wallet, there were two items which I had forgotten were there and which I had been allowed to carry aboard the plane: a miniature pry bar (a banned tool, not obviously dangerous but which I could certainly use to hurt someone in a pinch) and a straight edge - a long razor blade set into a folding handle, only differing from the box-cutters of 9/11 infamy in that my razor blade was about twice as long as the standard box-cutter.

But hey! At least they managed to prevent me from getting anyone's hair sticky with jam.

This happened a while back, but I was recently reminded of it and I seem to have never told this story on LJ, or if I did I neglected to tag it.

Kate, do not read! Contains skittering.

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