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Sunday, September 13, 2009
Question (actually it's more of a Demand...):
"For your birthday, your aunt gave you a maple syrup dispenser shaped like a rooster. Please write her a thank-you note." Before I get writing on this, I'd like to note that none of my aunts would give me this. I'd like to think that they each know me well enough to give me something I'd enjoy and not some random item. But, here goes... Dearest (Aunt), Thank you so much for the gift! I know that with your busy life that getting me a gift must have been so out of the way, but I truly and genuinely appreciate the gesture. In reality, when I first got the package in the mail I wasn't sure it was from you because of the packaging; you usually have such impeccable wrapping skills, but I suppose it was dinged up in transit. I also must admit that I had no idea what it was and what it was for when I first opened it, but do forgive me, it's not everyday you get a ceramic rooster in the mail. While it did arrive a few weeks after my birthday, I still love it. You know how I love my pancakes! Surprisingly I only came to the realization of what it was after a friend visited and told me what it was, that's why this is coming in so late. I first thought it was just a pitcher for drinks, but I noticed that it didn't hold too much liquid. I figured then that it was an interestingly shaped pot for flowers and plants, but I learned the hard way that vegetation usually like sunlight to bathe them, rather than peek in through a tiny slit. Call me daft, but you know me! You'll be glad to know that every time I've had pancakes since figuring out its function I have been using it. Although it does become rather tedious to transfer the syrup from the cute Mrs. Butterworth's bottle and into the actual dispenser, it does, admittedly, add a touch of quaint homeyness to my breakfasts (and dinners). Ah! This was so long-winded for just a simple thank-you letter, but I really love the gift. I hope all is well with you over there. I hear the weather is absolutely sublime this time of year, so maybe I'll come visit? Give my regards to everyone there. Your Nephew, Jazz Labels: Jazz
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Question:
"Your people want to make a statue in your honor. What will it be made out of and what victory will it commemorate?" As if I need a bigger ego, right? I suppose this question is more of a reflective one, pulling on the strings of what makes me unique, and what sets me apart from the crowd. I've talked to my mother before about what it takes to get a street named after you, but I never really wanted an entire statue made of me. It just seemed a little excessive, but praise is praise, I suppose. I try to be humble most of the time, but I'm not one to shy away from the lime light, especially if it means something made in my memory. At best, I suppose the only statues that will be made of me will probably just be my tombstone when I die. That counts as a statue right? I expect some marvelous marble slab with a fairly poignant epitaph engraved in a beautiful font, but who knows, I might get something better. However, if the sky's the limit and "my people" care that deeply for me I'd like my statue to be made of the souls of infant children, harvested via a monthly ritual sacrifice. Or is that too extreme? I suppose granite will suffice, or onyx, with jade or emerald embellishments. Yes, that sounds quite pleasing, if you think about it. I'm such a fan of the color green that something as regal as those materials would make for a lovely statue depicting me in some triumphant pose, perhaps with a misconstrued grimace. What I've been stalling to discuss is the reason for this statue's existence. To my knowledge only those of glorious merit are rewarded with a statue in their image, so is it fair to be in the ranks with Abraham Lincoln and a myriad of other influential people? I'd like to say that I'm a wonderful philanthropist. I'd like to say that I'm an entrepreneur for peace and justice, but really, I'm just a writer. So put a pen in my statue's hand and I suppose that will be it. Maybe I'll write some life-altering, time-transcending novel about the tribulations of a teenager, but not even Salinger got a statue. Labels: Jazz
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Question:
"Describe the sound of a moist waffle falling onto a hot griddle." This is a fairly interesting question, to say the least. Now, I've got to be completely honest, I haven't eaten waffles all too often, and whenever I have eaten waffles they were made by one of those nifty, futuristic, chrome waffle makers that take batter and after a few flips yield some perfectly latticed carbohydrate creation. I was never really a fan of those Eggo waffles just because they were already made. In this day and age I try to avoid things that already come pre-packed because I just feel it loses its authenticity sometimes. Now, I understand that not every one is a culinary master, nor do I claim that I am one, and yes, there are times where using a packaged meal is actually the wiser choice, but with the amount of preservatives in it, I try my hardest to avoid these products. But I digress. Whenever I've had the opportunity to eat these Eggo waffles I don't think I ever fried them, but I imagine the sound of a moist waffle against a hot griddle must be some sort of erotic and passionate sound. Some believe that the word moist in and of itself is already a rather controversial word, while a hot griddle only adds more sizzle. I imagine the sound to be risque yet lovely. I can just hear the sweet sizzling as the main melody, but the subtle popping of water pockets to be tantalizing. I feel so perverted for even thinking about it, now that I mention it. To me, I think that it would sound so carnal and savage that it pulls out the beast in any refined epicurean. I can just hear the oozing and splatter almost as if cooking the waffle was some sort of lecherous sexual display. Now, if that hasn't convinced you to go out and buy a package of Eggo waffles, just imagine the soft, luscious embrace of maple syrup slathered against the glimmering skin of the waffle. Right? I think I may have converted myself to eating a fried Eggo waffle; how completely counterintuitive. Eggo should pay me to advertise. Labels: Jazz |