Random musings on a writer's life & times, with occasional input from acquaintances


Saturday, October 23, 2004

So this contractor-type guy who did some work for us a while back calls up and wants my wife, Cookie Jean, to bake a pecan pie. She runs a dessert-catering business, My Friend Jean's, out of our kitchen. The contractor-type says he and his wife have been fantasizing about pecan pie for weeks. He's decided to spring for one. Okay, says Cookie Jean. It'll cost 20 bucks. No problem, says the guy. Just telephone his home when it's ready and he'll pick it up.

Cookie Jean spends half a day whomping up a pecan pie. She calls, but no one picks up and she leaves a message on an answering machine, including a reminder of the price.

A few hours later, our telephone rings. Cookie Jean answers.

"Hello?" says a woman. "I'm calling for someone named Jean? She left a message about a pie? She made a pie for my husband? And she wants 20 dollars!"

Well, yeah, Cookie Jean admits. She is the mystery baker. And she'd like to be paid when the pie is picked up.

"My husband ASKED you to make a pie?" demands the woman.

Yes, replies Cookie Jean. Called right up and asked.

"Well, I could make a pie!" says the woman. "If I wanted a pecan pie so bad, I could bake one myself!"

Maybe so, answers Cookie Jean. But your husband asked to buy one from me. Said he wanted to surprise you.

"A pecan pie? I mean, pecan pie is okay, but -- 20 dollars! I could make a bunch of pies for 20 dollars!"

No you couldn't, thinks Cookie Jean. But she says: You don't have to buy it. I'll keep it if you don't want it.

"A surprise?" says the woman. "Why should he want to surprise me? For twenty dollars!"

I wouldn't know, responds Cookie Jean, a hint of winter sneaking into her voice. Maybe he likes you. She does not express the rest of her thought: I can't imagine why.

"Yes, but -- pecan pie! Twenty dollars!"

I'll keep the pie, Cookie Jean says, voice now icy as January in Juneau.

"No, no," sighs the woman. "He ordered it. He'll pick it up. I'll give him the message."

Cookie Jean puts the phone down, turns to me and says through gritted teeth: "Those people need to communicate."

I'm thinking she's right. After they communicate about pies and surprises and catering prices, I may eat pecan pie for dessert tonight.

Friday, October 22, 2004

Hello? Hello? Is this thing on? (Tap, tap, tap.) It's been so long, I thought mebbe Writeright didn't work any more. It does work, apparently, although in the many moons since I last posted Blogger has completly changed its system, so I am struggling to figure out how to write and upload this screed. It's a test, of sorts.

Let's see, where was I? Did I tell you I am dancing on the grave of the New York Yankees? Did I tell you I am writing in Jerry "Governor Moonbeam" Brown for president? Did I say the U of O still plays crappy football? Did I say the OSU Beavers look even worse? I can't remember all things I haven't told you. I can't write, either, as that last sentence fully attests. Well, here's a random update or three:

--The LA Dodgers made the National League playoffs, so peasants were dancing in the streets of Peoria Dave's magnificent estate. The Dodgers lost in the first round of the playoffs, though, so peasants now are hunkering down for the long, baseball-less Oregon winter.

--My 16-year-old son, Andy, is driving a 1996 Volvo stationwagon to and from Central Catholic High School in Portland. If you value your life (or at least your bumper), stay out of his way.

--Since my last post I have traveled to Philadelphia, Saratoga Springs, Pocatello, London (that's in Britain, bub) and Diamond Bar (that's in California, sis). Like the Beachboys, I get around. Round, round.

--In July I rode my bicycle 400-odd (very odd) miles up and down mountains in Idaho, Wyoming and Utah. I even visited the town where "Napoleon Dynamite" was filmed.

--Since then I have gotten fat(ter) and out of shape. I blame my aching back. My wife, Cookie Jean, blames my lazy ways.

--Wanna buy a pie? Cookie Jean caters desserts these days. She even has a business name: My Friend Jean's. Her astute husband suggested the name, because most of her business originates via word of mouth among friends and neighbors. E-mail her at biscotta@aol.com and order up a creampuff.

--I am hungry, so I am going to tiptoe upstairs and sneak into my wife's Halloween candy stash. She's got a packing box full of Costco candy hidden (ha!) in the guest room. I hope some is left to hand out to kids next week, but odds are against it.

TTFN (Ta Ta For Now, to quote ever-eloquent Tigger the Tiger)

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