The D-cup Burgee¡09’ ..

   I have been thinking recently of writing a blog about strange things which have happened to me while sailing. During this thought process, I remembered something which I still  laugh about which does not really belong in a sailing story, but it did happen when I was sailing.  So, here is the story of the D Cup Burgee. For non sailors, a burgee is the little flag which is flown at the masthead of sailboats which shows the helmsman the direction of the wind relative to  the sail.
   Many years ago, while I was still single,I was on vacation staying in a villa on the Mediterranean coast of Spain with a group of young people, six girls and two guys, a good mix.  We had at the villa a sailboat called a sailskiff, if my memory serves me correctly. This was quite the worst sailboat I have ever sailed. It was rather like a 17 or 18 feet long surfboard except that the hull was not actually a board, but a shallow plywood box  about 6 inches deep at the center and 36 inches wide. It had a large sail area and a tiny plywood keel. The deck was a flat board. The helmsman sat at the stern with legs facing forward along the deck and feet tucked under canvas straps running fore and aft along the outsides of the deck. The passenger sat back to the mast with legs trailing rearward along the deck and feet tucked under the same straps.
   This boat was top heavy in the extreme and, in a calm sea with very little wind was virtually unmaneuverable. This was the condition on the day in question. It was the first morning of the vacationing days n and we all went to the beach and took the boat with us.  I carried the boat down to the waters edge with Jim, the other guy, and we figured out how to rig the boat.  Then I found out that none of the others had  ever sailed before. So, I asked who  wanted to come on the maiden voyage. Sally, a little blonde, volunteered. Brave girl, I thought to myself.
   Sally was a cute little girl from the country, definitely not a city girl. She was quite shy and reserved and, I am sure, very easily shocked by many things. One thing you could not miss about Sally was that she was extremely well endowed, and this fact plays a part in the story. So, this morning, I got Sally installed aft the mast, pushed the boat out, jumped on and off we went. One thing that is extremely important on this boat is balance. Both crew must lean in the same direction at the same time to maintain balance, particularly during turns. Things went fine initially but I noticed that Sally was very nervous and tended not to lean at all whatever the boat was doing, she just hung on without moving. We went through a few turns between tacks and all was fine. Then a bit of wind got up and we were hit with a few mild puffs. During one turn, we got hit by a slightly bigger puff and, I am not sure what happened to Sally but one of her feet came out from under the straps and, while still turning, she slid into the water. The sudden change in balance  caused the next wind gust to capsize us. The boat was lying on the starboard side with the sail well in the water. I was by the rudder and Sally was about 20 feet away to starboard. So, once I had established she was OK, I asked her to go to the masthead and lift the mast slightly out of the water to empty some of the water .out of the sail. Then, I would tread on the keel to right the boat. I told Sally to hold the masthead with both hands and keep it above the water and then, when I said "go", to let it go but be careful to stay away from it as it went up. I stepped on the keel and said "go" and the boat righted itself. I grabbed the mast as it became vertical to stop the boat rolling the other way. Everything seemed OK so I shouted "well done" to Sally. Just then, I heard a sort of squeal come from her direction, so I looked over at her and she was pointing to the sail. So, I looked up and instead of seeing the white triangle of the burgee above the sail, there was something else up there. It was green and orange and definitely not triangular. Then I realized that flying proudly at the masthead was Sally's bra. She had obviously not withdrawn her endowment before the crash, so to speak.
   So, we had to lay the boat down again to retrieve the bra.  I wanted to lay it down on the starboard side, as before, so I moved to the starboard side. Then Sally shouted " don't you come over here, stay on your  side of the boat!", as she tried to cover herself. Anyway, she got her bra back and proceeded to try and put it back on. Then, she discovered the attachment hardware was damaged. So, I applied for and received permission to aproach her sternwise to see if I could make repairs. The lower hook had been torn completely away from the stitching and the upper hook had been bent so that it would not catch into the hook. With fingers and teeth, I managed to make the hook work, so we were tentatively in business. We both hopped back on the boat and sailed back to the beach without incident.
   When we reached the beach, one of the other girls wanted to go for a sail, so we went straight out again. I did not see where Sally went. More wind had now got up and the boat handled much better and we sailed for about an hour with no problems. When we got back to the others on the beach, I found that Sally had gone home, presumably to get a more servicable bra, but we didn't see her again until we got back to the villa.
   That evening, nothing was mentioned about the incident and Sally was pretty quiet, but then, she always was quiet. Later, a few of us were sitting having a drink at one of the bars along the beach. The conversation had lulled for a moment, so I proposed a toast to Sally for being a very brave girl during her ordeal of the morning, not mentioning what the ordeal was. So, I presumed people would think I was complimenting her on just being the first volunteer to go for  a sail. At the end of the toast, I walked over to Sally to put my arms around her and give her a friendly kiss. As I bent over to kiss her, out of the corner of my eye, I'll swear  I saw her right hand move as if to hit me. Then, I noticed tears in her eyes and she suddenly threw her arms around me and gave me a great big hug. At that point, I wasn't at all sure what I had done, right, wrong or whatever.
   When I went back to my seat, Sally's room mate whispered to me "What the hell  went on, out on that boat this morning?" So I quietly told her and she cracked up with laughter. Sally had apparently not mentioned a word to anyone. "But, that's the way Sally is" she said.

Sixty Glorious Years

 It was April 2nd, 1962. I worked for the Sperry Gyroscope Company as a Field Engineer. On this day, I drove to Salisbury to look for a hotel as I was to be working at RAF Boscombe Down for initially a few weeks. This later grew to be 5 years.

So, I went into the White Hart Hotel to get a room. The decidedly cute young receptionist told me they were full. I walked across to the bar and ordered a pint of Worthington E. The best beer in the world! The barmaid, Laurie, I found out later, gave me my pint and I mentioned to her that I was surprised the hotel was full  out of the tourist season. “Who told you that?”she said “that young one in Reception? Wait a few minutes and she will be going to lunch. Then, Miss Smithers will give you a room”. A few minutes later,  is Miss Smithers did exactly that.

A few hours later, I went to check in and the still cute young thing reluctantly gave me my key without a word.. Over the next day or so, I chatted with the cute young thing on every opportunity and we became quite friendly. I asked her if I could take her out for a drink when she finished work. Surprisingly, she said yes. So, when she finished work that evening, off we went to a country pub. She told me we had to be back at the hotel by 10.15 as her boy friend was going to call!!!Oops! 

Next day, she had the afternoon off. So, I lied to the Royal Air Force so that I could take it off also.We drove to Bournemouth and spent the afternoon on the beach. Then we returned to Salisbury and  had a just very nice dinner at the Haunch of Venison. That turned out to be a winning choice. She loved to eat at nice restaurants. So this became a regular habit. Our favorite place was the Pheasant Hotel at Winterslow. There followed many, many dinners out for the next eight months. We were married on January 19th, 1963.

Her name was Joy and she has been that to me for the last sixty glorious years. These Sixty Glorious Years  were terminated at 6.25pm on Monday, January 23rd, 2023 when my beloved wife succumbed to cancer

Now, nothing is the same, nor will it ever be. 

Pandemia Revisited

   Some of you may remember that, just over a year ago, this correspondent wrote a thesis about a recurrent disease which had been identified as Nordstromsalis Meavisitiae, a compulsion based syndrome centered on some form of nervous disorder. What you may not have recognized is that this disease has recently been with us once again, appearing with the same symptoms as in previous years. It is not yet known whether these symptoms have been triggered by the onset of a summer solstice or by some other reason such as the after effects of the Ides of March. What is clear, however, is that the symptoms are fundamentally identical to other years, even though there are some slight deviations in some of them.

  As I mentioned last year, my own daughter has been afflicted by this disease for many years. This year, her 14 year old daughter Megan has apparently become similarly afflicted. It will be interesting to study the effects of this disease on one so young.

   The basic symptom of this disease has always been to collect large amounts of "swag" from all parts of the relevant shrine. This is then taken home and shown to family and friends in the appropriate way by wearing, display on a table, etc. Then, depending on the interest shown by the audience, the swag is sorted into what is to be kept and what is to be returned or exchanged. At this time, the patient also may decide to return to the shrine to seek other objects which are basically similar but may differ in color or in size.
   Interestingly enough, it is in this phase that some changes have been seen in the last year or so. One difference is that there is now a tendency to collect some specific pieces of swag which the patient has absolutely no intention of keeping, even though they may not admit that initially. These pieces are definitely going to be returned.
   So, one may well ask, why were they brought home in the first place? The answer to this question is certainly not obvious to the innocent bystander. Nonetheless, there must be a reason for this and investigation of this phenomenum is ongoing.
  
   There are several theories for this latest behavior pattern. One is an obvious theory, but probably too obvious. That is that the patient could not afford the object in question and therefore wanted to show people that she could have had it if she really wanted it.
    Another theory is that she really did not want the item in question but.."Mary W has one.." so she felt she should show some interest in it since.."Mary W has everything that is fashionable (and expensive!!)".
   Yet another theory is much more devious, (in fact it is so devious that the idea behind the theory has been attributed to Nancy Pelosi). This is based on the fact that .."Sally P bought one of these and I knew she didn't want it, she just wanted to show off. So, I bought one too and I am going to keep it as long as possible before I return it so I may force Sally to  keep hers, that will teach her!!".
   Now, you may well say that this last theory is ridiculous as nobody is that devious. If this is true, how then do  you explain the mindset of the  majority of the approximately 545 most prominent people in Washington DC, and we all know too well who they are!

   Since my report of last year, there has been some research into the behavior of the patients on their return from visits to the shrine. As I stated, they usually  drive up to their house and then back the car up to the garage. What is the reason for this maneuver?  Everybody knows that women don't like reversing cars, so why do it?  Because it captures the attention of neighbors so they will keep watching. The next part of the act is to leave the trunk open when they take the loads of swag into the house. To reverse the car up to the house and then leave the trunk open might indicate a desire to hide something. Exactly the opposite, it ensures that all the surrounding hidden eyes will stay watching to observe and count the number of loads carried in. Another observation of this part of the process is that, almost invariably, the women do not take the shortest route from the car into the house, i.e. via the garage. No, they take the scenic route via the front door, thus increasing the visibility time by at least 500%. All of these symptoms demonstrate the mental effect this disease is having on the patients.
  
   After each of the shrines returns to its normal practices for therapy, the activity at the shrine drops drastically and the lives of the patients returns to near normal. But,  it has been suggested by some observers that, at this time, many patients may be overcome by some form of inner guilt or remorse. This  is demonstrated by the fact that many of them may not be seen anywhere near the shrines until the next germinating period a year hence.

   This last year, the medical fraternity has announced that is observing the effects of another somewhat similar affliction. This has been identified as Costcosis Extremus. This is similar in that the primary symptom is the desire to visit certain places on a regular basis but with no obvious goal in mind. The places in question are not the carpeted shrines identified with the previous affliction. They are instead like huge silos where one can restock ones house, garage or pantry. No carpet. Instead, concrete floors and shelves seemingly reaching to the stratosphere. One pushes huge metal carts around and fills them with swag. As you leave the silo, your swag is not placed in silver bags with the name of the shrine emblazened on them. You are offered large cardboard boxes with the previous shippers name on them and, in these, they will readily pack your swag.  

   The silos are frequently bursting with people of all creeds and color who come, whole families at a time, to clog the aisles by standing around chatting and staring into space. Probably one of each family has the job of assembling the swag, the remainder are human flotsam. On a typical day, it may take an hour and a half to proceed from the entrance to the exit, traversing all the aisles. Most of the time is spent avoiding the aforesaid flotsam.
  
  The shelves in the silo are packed by people who drive fork lifts. Thus, there is, of necessity,  no rhyme or reason or, in fact, any logic behind how things are categorized. As an example, if you are looking for a new queen size mattress and you want it soft, try looking next to something else which is soft, like ice cream.
   It is also a necessity in these silos to buy things in bulk. Unknowingly, this leads to one becoming extremely agile mentally in planning family life  in order to effectively utilize 347 pairs of extra long black bootlaces. In another example, one will quickly realize how much more effective it is to buy two ultrasonic coffee laser perculators rather than leave a large box half empty if you only wanted one.

   Bearing the foregoing in mind, it is relatively easy, with practice, to fill the large cart they so thoughtfully provide for your use. Once you have filled the cart, it is now time to check out. This involves making the choice of which check out line to use.
   The choice of check out line involves several disciplines. One has to count the number of carts in each line. It is no good counting the number of people unless you want to apply the flotsam factor. Then you must look at the number and size of the contents of each cart. Lastly, you need to assess the mental capacity of the checker and try to hear if he or she is speaking English. All in all, you now should have an estimate of how long it will take to reach the far end of the line chosen.
 
  
   The silos each have a single entry door and a single exit door, each guarded to assure one way traffic. At the exit point, there are two ladies who measure the length of your receipt. If the receipt reaches the obligatory length of two and a half hands, one of them will draw a line through the receipt from south to north with a red felt tip pen. This then indicates that you are free to take it home and display it on the garage wall, probably next to the red or blue ribbons with gold letters which show how you fared at the local dog or horse show.
   When you get home, you will be forced by the threat of sheer logistic mayhem into unpacking the cardboard boxes and making fresh piles in the garage. The entire family and possibly the dog are then recruited into stuffing the contents of the boxes into every conceivable nook and cranny in all available cupboards, shelves, etc as well as under the beds. Some of these items may indeed not be seen for years, if then.
   Once the boxes are unpacked, before you can get the car in the garage, you have to break down and fold the cardboard boxes ready for the garbage pick up. This, of course, is after you have studied the intricate design of each box to  see how the incredibly inventive designer had intended it to be folded.
 
   An interesting part of this affliction now shows itself. On garbage collection day, if one drives around any particular neighborhood, a quick look at the recycling bins of each house will tell you immediately who is smitten with this affliction. Those with all the large folded boxes are the carriers of this disease.
   At this point, another interesting part of the affliction is also revealed. People have a habit of reading the labels on large boxes and also looking at the illustrations thereon. This brings on the feeling of a personal desire to have what John next door has. Without a word being uttered, this now produces instant contagion. From this moment on, the amount of flotsam in each silo can only increase. This may explain the extremely rapid spread of this disease.
  
   As I said in the text, this is a relatively new disease and it will obviously change as it develops over the years. We shall all have to do our best to " go with the flow" and try not to exacerbate the symptoms as they now exist.

Do You Remember Christmas?

  Having just been through the Christmas season, I am reminded of what Christmas was like as a child in my native England. Do you remember Christmas as a child? I remember it well. Christmas Day in England was an all day ritual which never changed from year to year. It was great fun and we looked forward to it all year. For many of the years I was a child, there was a war on, so everything was in short supply. My parents were very conservative people so, on Christmas morning, my sister and I would only get one main present and then, maybe, one smaller one. Beyond the age of seven, we were also allowed to choose a book as a present.
  The food at Christmas was really good. At lunch, with the huge turkey, we had little sausages called chipolatas, then there were roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, Brussel sprouts, parsnips, bread sauce, and the most fabulous gravy. After that came the dessert, Christmas pudding with brandy butter. The pudding had silver coins hidden in it. Then, to finish, we had mince pies. Slight digression......A couple of days ago, I went into the British shop in Gig Harbor and the very nice lady in there asked if she could find something for me. So I said " I need some bangers". She replied  "Would you like chipolatas or proper bangers?" I don't think I have heard the word chipolata in over 40 years. This is what set me me thinking about Christmas as a kid. End of digression.
   All the family, uncles, aunts, cousins, etc. came for lunch at Grandma and Grandpa's house. In the years after Grandpa died, Christmas lunch sometimes revolved around the other family houses. After lunch. one crew did the washing up, while the other crew went for a walk. At 3pm, we all had to listen to the King's speech. This speech was given every year and, since the death of the King, the Queen has carried on the tradition. The only change has been that nowadays the speech is given on television as well as radio. The speech always began .... "Today...................................the Queen and I........."  After the speech, all the family presents would be given out. As a side note here, I should point out that Grandpa was the eternal Patriarch. He thought he ruled everything and everyone. When he carved the turkey, you would have thought he was feeding the five thousand with the ceremony he put into it. He wasn't just present when the presents were given out, he presided over the occasion. He wasn't shy about pointing out which of us had behaved well or not during the year. Each of us knew where we stood in the level of possible annointment. I could write many blogs about Grandpa and his weird beliefs and strange behavior. One thing that I do remember does give a slightly twisted insight into his lofty attitude. In their house, there was only one bathroom, large though the house was. In the bathroom was a huge toilet, I've never seen one so big. It had a massive solid mahogany seat about two inches thick. I remember, when I sat on it, there was still room to play a hand of cards on either side. The toilet did not have a tank behind it, that was somewhere up in heaven. The handle to flush the toilet hung on a chain which, maybe eight feet above floor level became a thick wire which went up through an unadorned hole in the ceiling and on to who knows where. When you pulled the handle, nothing happened initially and then there was an enormous clap of thunder and about forty gallons of water cascaded through the toilet. When I heard this the first time, I was terrified. But then, I got an insight into where the wire could have gone to. This must be Grandpa's direct connection with the Almighty. I was always certain that he had one somewhere.
  Next came tea, with all kinds of sandwiches, cakes, fruit, etc. However, at Grandma's house, rules were applied to what we ate at tea. Before we could eat a sandwich, we had to eat at least one slice of plain bread and butter. Before we could eat a cake, we had to eat two sandwiches. These were usually cucumber or watercress with the crusts cut off and each slice cut into four diagonally. Very dainty. Grandma also always served canned pears with the sandwiches. It was probably the done thing to do. Another strange ritual was that she served pickled ginger at the same time. I love ginger at any time but I could not see rhyme or reason for serving it at tea.
  After tea at Grandma's house, we played games unless you managed to escape this phase of the proceedings. I could never make out why they made even teenagers succumb to games which must have been invented for pre-natal exercise.
  Then came even more food. It was now suppertime. We had, of course, cold turkey carved by Grandpa with dexterous grandeur. It was accompanied by ham, carved by Uncle Bert, and there were salads with salad cream ( no salad dressing in those days), potato salad and various pickles and relishes. This was all followed by all kinds of creamy desserts and jellies and the Queen of all desserts, English trifle with loads of sherry. The trifle was the highlight of the whole day for me.
  To finish the day off, all the adults played rummy for money. When each of us became teenagers, we were sometimes allowed to play. But, we had better not win a game!!
  When it came time to go home, while the war was on, we often had to walk the three miles home in the extreme darkness caused by the black out. There were no cars and no petrol, and the busses stopped around 10PM, so walk it was. We all fell into every hole possible on the way, but , it was fun to us kids. Despite the walk home, it had been a fabulous day and we really looked forward to it all year. Christmas will always remain in my mind as a time for children in addition to its religious connotation. I'm sure there are many people in this world who feel the same way.
   With this thought in mind, let me digress for another  minute. What is the mentality behind the movement to ban the use of the expression "Merry Christmas" and replace it with "Happy Holiday"? It seems to me that this achieves nothing except potentially alienating millions of  people in the world besides showing the ignorance of those who promote this idea. The fact that Christmas is a time for children is accepted worlwide to the extent that it does not need to be stated. Don't these people know this? And, don't they also know that a holiday is what happens when the family goes to the beach in the summer? I think the real problem is that these people have become totally engulfed in politics in their self centered frame of mind and they force themselves to believe that anything with a religious connotation must be packaged in a politically correct manner regardless of what this packaging does to the original  intent. End of second digression.
   The family that met at Christmas and various other times throughout the year was actually my mother's side of the family. They all lived within 20 miles of one another and were very gregarious by nature. Seventeen of us sat down to lunch at Christmas. There was the Patriarch and his Lady. Grandma was the sweetest soul who ever walked the face of this earth. She lived to be 103. I could write a whole blog about her. They had two sons and two daughters. Uncle Bert did not marry until quite late in life. The other three children married and had eight grandchildren between them. I am number four in the pecking order of the grandkids. Six of the grandchildren are still living. Numbers three and six have unfortunately both passed away in the last year.
   Digression number three. I do not mention my father's side of the family in this story. His family had become somewhat depleted in both world wars and were more scattered across the country, and thus came together less often. There is a strange difference in the two sides of the family. Each side has a good sense of humour (yes, I have put the "u" in because I am talking about Brits!). But the sense of humour of each side is entirely different from the other. My father's family mostly have an outrageous sense of humour, whereas my mother's side have a more reserved and more directed  equivalent. I am not going to explain this as it would probably "urinate off" too many family members. My sister and I tend to lean toward my father's side in the respect of humour. It has become a habit over the years to describe some of us as "being a real Smith" which defines the sense of humour. Here endeth the third digression.
   Getting back to Christmas, it is amazing to compare what I remember about Christmas as a kid with what we have today. The difference is enormous. There are so many more presents today, presumably because there is more money around and our values have also changed. For the better????? Who knows? The food is equally plentiful today, but there were more different types of food served when we were kids. I don't remember the adults drinking wine in those days. Grandpa would probably not have approved. Yet, he kept a barrel of hard cider in the cellar and had a glass with every meal.
   Nowadays, the children seem to ask for what they want for Christmas and, in many cases, they get it. As a child, nobody ever asked us what we wanted for Christmas but, if you asked for something, that seemed to be an absolute cast iron guarantee that you would not receive it. I remember year after year wanting an HO gauge train set for Christmas and, year after year, I never got one. My father did allow us to choose the book we wanted. During the war years, a book called "Aircraft of the Fighting Powers" was published every December and I always received it. I still have all seven volumes in near mint condition. My sister used to get the "Bookano" series books I believe.
   The kids today receive Lego sets and they put them together very well and soon, they take them apart again and that's the last you see of them. By comparison, we got model airplane kits, either flying or non flying. They were generally harder to put together and tended to stay in one piece, until they crashed. The girls still get their dolls, which seem to be much more refined these days.
   I suppose I have now rambled long enough on this subject. But, I must admit, I have enjoyed reminiscing about Christmas as we used to know it. Has it got better or worse?  Neither, its just a bit different, a big bit.
 
 
 

Jambalaya

  It may seem strange for a recipe for this great southern dish to be created by an expatriate Englishman. The recipe came about largely out of frustration. Many years ago, I could not seem to find a cookbook recipe which sounded as if it would taste like the dishes I had enjoyed when working in the Carolinas. So, I set out to try and build a recipe using the ingredients I had detected when eating a dish of Jambalaya. Along the way, I got a little help from watching Justin Wilson on TV.
 MEAT BASE
  It seems best to use three or more meat or fish ingredients as a base, although I see no reason why this could not also be made into a vegetarian recipe. For this version, I chose chicken, sausage and bacon.

SEASONINGS:

1Tbsp Worcester Sauce, 1Tbsp Parsley-chopped, 1Tbsp Cilantro- chopped, 1/2 Tsp Cayenne Pepper, 1Tsp Creole File, 1/2Tsp Ground Cumin, 1Tsp White Pepper, 1Tsp Salt, 1/2 Tsp Red Pepper Flks, Juice of 1 lime, Black Pepper and Louisiana Hot Sauce to taste.

 INGREDIENTS :                                                                 

2 Tbsp Olive Oil                                         
2 Tbsp Butter                                            
4 Half Breasts of Chicken                         
4 Andouille Sausages                                 
1/2 Lb Thick Cut Bacon                            
2 Large Onions - chopped                         
6 Green Onions - chopped                         
10 Cloves Garlic - chopped                       
1 Green Bell Pepper - chopped                  
2 Sticks Celery (with leaves) - chopped     
1/2 Lb Mushrooms - sliced                         
2 Cups Dry White Wine                             
2 Cups Chicken or Beef Stock                   
2 1/2 Cups Long Grain Rice - cooked
1 14 Oz Can Stewed Tomatoes - not drained
1 Small Can Sliced Black Olives - drained
1 Can Black Eyed Peas - drained
1 Small Can Lima Beans - drained
1 Small Can Red Kidney Beans - drained
1 Can Okra - drained, or use fresh okra

DIRECTIONS:
Heat a large pot and add olive oil. Cut the sausages into 1/4 inch slices and brown on both sides in the pot. Then remove and set aside in a dish. Add the chicken and lightly brown on all sides. Remove from pot, cut into bite sized pieces, and add to sausage in the dish to collect the accumulated juices. Cut bacon into bite sized pieces and add to pot. When bacon is crisp, remove to dry on a paper towel. Add butter to pot, then add chopped onion and garlic. Cook, stirring occasionally. When onions turn transparent, add green pepper and celery and continue to cook for 5 minutes, stirring. Add wine and deglaze pot. Add stock, tomatoes, mushrooms, black eyed peas, olives, lima and kidney beans and okra. Add chicken and sausage and accumulated juices to pot, bring to a boil, then simmer for about 20 to 30 minutes, covered. Add rice and all the seasonings except the hot sauce and adjust the taste. Add bacon and green onions. At this point, if the mixture is becoming too firm, add water or, better still, more wine. Also at this point, maybe add some more wine anyway!
Note:- If using seafood, it should be added at this point., and continue when seafood is cooked.
  Finally, add the Louisian hot sauce to set the ATF (Appropriate Thermalitude Factor).
  It is best to let the Jambalaya sit, covered, for up to an hour at this point. This allows the rice to soak up all the flavors and gives you time for a drink before dinner.
Now......Enjoy!!

NOTE:-When I was updating this recipe recently, it occurred to me that, when setting the ATF, the accuracy achieved is, in itself, also partially dependent on  the current setting of the RVR ( Relevant Vocabularitude Ratiometer). It is important to keep this in mind.

Tuscan Soup

  Have you ever been to the Olive Garden Restaurant and had their Zuppa Toscana?. This is one of our favorite soups, basically a potato soup with Italian sausage. We asked for the recipe and were told that it may be on their website, but we could not find it. So, I set about trying to create my version of it. After several  tries and a couple of different versions, this is what I came up with and we think this version is pretty close to the original. 
  INGREDIENTS
2 Tbs Olive Oil
1/2 Large Onion, chopped small
1 lb Italian Sausage, skin removed, cut into small bite size
1/2 lb Bacon, cut into 1/2 inch pieces
8 Medium Potatoes, skin on, cut into 1/8 inch thick, bite size
1/2 Tsp Crushed Red Pepper
1/2 Head of Kale, chopped
2 Qts Chicken Stock
1/2 Pint Heavy Cream
1/2 Tsp Thyme Leaves
1/2 Tsp Herbes de Provence
1 Tsp Worcester Sauce
1 Tsp Garlic Powder
1 Tsp Salt
1 Tsp Black Pepper
1/2 Tsp White Pepper

  DIRECTIONS
   In a large saucepan, add olive oil and bring to medium heat. Add sausages and brown all over. Remove with a slotted spoon and reserve in a bowl. Add bacon to pan and cook, stirring. Add onions and crushed red pepper and stir to avoid burning.When onions are translucent, add chicken stock and bring to a boil. Add half the potatoes and bring to a simmer. Add all the seasoning items and continue to simmer for 20 minutes or until potatoes begin to crumble. Add the sausages and the remaining potatoes and simmer for barely 20 minutes. Add kale after about 10 minutes. Add cream and stir. Adjust seasoning and serve.

Those Bloody Kids!

   A few evenings ago, I was watching TV on the history channel and they mentioned the fact that, during World War 2 around 1941, British commandos used to raid German installations on the coast of France armed with crossbows. These were used until the enemy started firing at them. Since the gunfire ruined the previous silence of the operation, the commandos then switched to using their Sten sub-machine guns. But the crossbows intrigued me, and still do. 
   During World War 2, we lived in the country about 20 miles west of London. Most of the large country houses around us had been taken over by the government and had become army camps. We were always in and out of these camps. During one visit, I asked about the crossbows and was shown one, and became even more intrigued. I had a pretty good workshop with all the woodworking tools and even a small metal working lathe. So, I thought I would have a go at making one. After several days of designing and building, I had a prototype. But , it took a very long time to get a working model and it did not work too well.  Winter was upon us, and we had quite a bit of snow, so I set about building a half scale crossbow, mostly out of wood,  for shooting high velocity, super accurate snowballs. This was a great success. We  practiced shooting and, pretty soon, we could hit anything at up to 20 yards or so. One day,  we were out in the lane outside my parents house and we saw the vicar cycling down the lane on his tall bicycle on his way to the church. He always wore a very tall black hat, rather like an opera hat with rounded corners. I have never seen another hat like it. I loaded a 2 inch snowball and, as the vicar came abeam our position, I fired...... and his hat flew off his head. That amazed me!  We threw ourselves down in the deep snow to hide and silence our laughter until he retrieved his hat and cycled on. We were absolutely soaked when we got up. But, it was worth it.
   We also had a lot of fun with the mini crossbow on the local golf course. This was a long course on a large area of land between two villages. There were very few houses around it so we could walk all over the golf course away from the fairways without being seen by many people. There was one section where the fairway ran uphill and the green was just over the crest of the rise. To the left of the fairway was an large area of tall grass and gorse bushes which rose above the fairway and had a small bowl at its highest point. We could lie in the bowl and see the whole fairway and the green to our left, without being seen. We had found that the crossbow was excellent for firing golf balls and had a pretty good range. When we saw a foursome shooting up the hill, we started firing balls at the green on a low trajectory. There were no golf carts in those days, so it took the foursome a while to walk the length of  the fairway. You could not see the green itself from the fairway, only the flag. When they got to the crest, instead of seeing their four balls on the green, there were probably a dozen or more. We had plenty of ammunition.  We heard murmerings like "those bloody kids must be around here somewhere" Yes, indeed! 
   Thinking about this made me chuckle to myself and got me thinking about other pranks we used to pull at that age. Another weapon we used was a slingshot or catapult as we called them in England. They were easy to make and fitted in your pocket . We became very proficient in using them and spent hours at target practice.
   One Sunday, we were in the field adjacent to Clock House Farm, about half a mile from my house. This was a very imposing red brick building with a small clock tower above the front door. The farmer himself seemed to be a miserable old devil who never smiled and certainly did not like small boys. I often used to wonder if he had ever been one himself. Adjacent to the hedge running along the edge of the field was a large barn and we noticed this day that the barn door was open and the farmer was loading a small four wheeled, rubber tired wagon to which his little horse was harnessed. This was a nice friendly little horse and we quite often made a fuss of him when he was loose in the field. Little boys tend to notice strange things and we had commented before that this horse was extremely well endowed for his size and his penis always seemed to be " in the down position". It was on this day and we were discussing the idea that, if we fired a small rock  and hit him in the apendage, what would it do apart from make his eyes water?  The horse was fairly close to the hedge so, we took aim through the hedge and both fired at the same time. One or both of us must have hit him because he let out a loud whinnie and reared up on his hind legs then accelerated to a gallop down the hill towards the farm gate. He roared out into the road, oblivious of any traffic and galloped up the hill toward the next village. The tailgate of the wagon was down, so things were flying all over the place. The farmer came out of the barn looking totally perplexed and went running after him. The horse and wagon were now out of sight but we could hear car horns in the distance so he was probably causing some problems somewhere. A few minutes later, we heard the clopping of hooves and back came the little guy, still on full throttle, down the hill. The farmer tried to stop him but he was having none of that and roared through the gate and up the hill to the farm.  He came to a halt at the water trough where he proceeded to drink water by the gallon. We never did notice if his eyes were watering,  but we had our question answered. There would be no use in reloading the wagon, the little chap was done for the day.
   The field on the other side of Clock House Farm had a stream running through the center of it. The stream was only a little over a foot wide and a few inches deep but was fairly fast flowing. We often used to play in this stream and would sometimes narrow it down with mud to increase the rate of flow or we would create a waterfall. One Sunday afternoon, we had diverted the stream slightly while we built a waterfall in the main stream. Then, we let the stream flow over the waterfall and we were very pleased with the result. So, we built the waterfall up, using sticks to hold back the mud. Now, we had a dam about 2 feet tall. We built a sluiceway to one side of the dam to  limit the level of the water.  It was now beginning to get dark, so  we left it and went home. The following weekend, we went back to the stream and found the dam to be intact and the sluiceway still working. We were really excited by our engineering feat. Behind the dam, the stream had now become a small lake running the whole length of the field and about 20 feet wide in places. As we were congratuating ourselves, we were suddenly joined by Stan, the village bully and his elder brother, commonly known as the village idiot. We learned a lot of new words and found out that the stream flows past the back of their house, one of about a dozen council houses about half a mile away. Apparently, the swollen stream had flooded the kitchens of these houses. While still cursing,  Stan and his brother quickly demolished the dam. We decided to take off before they found another use for their plentiful muscles. As they cleared the dam, the sudden rush of all the entrapped water poured over the banks of the stream and formed a temporary lake in the farmyard across the road.
  We never could make out why a dozen or so families had allowed their houses to become partially flooded without investigating the cause.
   Another item we found which made an excellent plaything were the little rubber tubes filled with gasoline which were used for filling cigaret lighters. These were about 2 inches long and a little over half an inch in diameter. They had a small nipple at one end and you were supposed to poke a pin through the nipple to make a hole. Then you could squeeze the liquid into the lighter. We found that when you made a hole in the nipple, you could light the gasoline with a match. Then, if you squeezed the tube, a long flame would shoot out. We thought that if you lit the tube and then fired the tube with a catapult or crossbow, you would have a sort of Molotov cocktail. The only problem was that it didn't work. When it hit the target, the flame went out. We were playing with one of these one day when standing at the crossroads near my house. I accidentally dropped the burning tube and it fell in the road and the whole tube caught fire. When the gasoline had burned off, it had caused about a four inch circle of the tar to burn. So, there was a little fire in the crossroads. We were thinking that, if we left this, it would burn for hours. So we did, and we went and hid in the hedge to see how drivers would handle it. Some car drivers drove over it without even noticing it. We just hoped their cars did not blow up a few minutes later. Most drivers squeezed between the fire and the verge. Nobody bothered to get out to investigate what the fire was. They could easily have stamped on it to put it out. I guess they were too busy. Then a double deck bus came up the road. He was too big to get between the fire and the verge, so he drove the bus right up on the verge to avoid the little fire. Then, along came the village policeman riding  his tall bicycle and wearing his tall helmet. He stopped and dismounted and studied the situation. He rubbed his chin for a bit, then removed his helmet, scratched his head and put his helmet back on. Then he got back on his bike and pedalled off towards his house. He was probably going home for lunch or going to call a fire engine. After about half an hour, we figured we had seen enough. So we walked over, stamped on the flames to put them out, and also went to lunch.
   Talking of buses, another silly story comes to mind. One day, after school, Stephen and I were sitting upstairs on a No 442 bus at the railway station waiting for it to take us home. We were sharing a bag of cherries and they were good. Normally, we would flick the pips  at people between ouur forefinger and thumb. But, we decided against that this day. Sitting in front of us was a very nice elderly gentleman who was always very polite and nicely mannered. He was wearing a very nice gray bowler hat with a hard, turned up brim. This brim looked just the place for our cherry pips. So, I gently sneaked one into the back of the brim, and he didn't seem to notice. Then, Stephen tried the same and it worked fine. By the time we had finished all the cherries, there must have been 30 pips in his brim. The other people sitting around could see what was going on. Some were smiling, some gave disapproving looks.When we got to Granville Avenue, he got up and went downstairs to  get off. We were looking down out of the window and we saw him get off. He met a well dressed elderly lady who was waiting to get on the bus. In typical polite fashion, he greeted her and tipped his hat to her, and showered her with cherry pips. There was a lot of confusion and embarassment and, as the bus pulled away, he glared up at  our smiling faces in the window.... and then smiled. As I said, he was a nice gentleman.
   Well, I think that's enough trivia  for now. For some reason, if something makes me think of one of these stories, it usually leads to an avalanche of others. This had better be the end of this one.