Why I Hate Black Friday

My most comfortable pair of Reeboks bound my feet like some Geisha ritual, and my tongue was a piece of tattered felt; I could kill for a G & T but day's end would be but a leg of the journey. Was I at war, in the trenches, ready for another shelling to spray my comrades? No, I was just trying to find a working clock in the 3rd section of the market place in an IKEA store in Round Rock, Texas.

Very clever of the Swedes: there's no clock to be found--so if you've been cavalier and forgotten your wristwatch, you're dead meat. Still it's "the most wonderful time of the year," so one must do one's part. Truth be told, if we don't break at least five of the seven deadly sins, it just ain't Christmas.

"Sir, do you have the time?" I mumble raggedly to a man staring at kitchen gadgets.

"Ten of," he replied wearily.

"Uh-ten of what, if you don't mind."

"Ten of five, Ma'am. Long day?" He chuckles.

"Yeah, thanks. Long season." I'm turning away when he remarked,

"Well next time you're in this store, wear a watch-their most ingenious marketing plan is the lack of working clocks within sight of customers! You're gonna spend the day here."

"Oh Lord." I laughed too at this point. "No wonder we seem to camp out at IKEA. Well, Merry Christmas to you," I called cheerily, immediately catching my non-PC greeting.

"Thanks but I'm Jewish." He laughed. Wouldn't you know the one time I don't say "Happy Holidays," it's a nice Jewish man?

"God love ya." I said. We both laughed.

"Yeah," he added, "biggest mistake we Jews ever made--no Christmas--beats hell outta Hanukkah for retail."

We went our separate ways, both searching for the check-out lanes, miles from where we were.

IKEA is popular in many countries, but it's easy to see why Americans are wild for the place. It offers cheap, colorful and well organized STUFF, has something for everyone and even though you aren't always sure what you've bought, or how to assemble the neatly packaged gizmos, you're delighted with the prices

In America we're obsessed with cheap crap, and seconds-stores or overbuy outlets are more popular than ever. Entire malls are dedicated to outlets from the major design establishments, although it's hard to imagine why. . . do we need a rack of pink Polar Fleece vests in sizes 2 and 3? How do we justify taking home bags and bags of slightly dented picture frames or cute tins of tea with bruised cellophane wrappers? How? Because it's there. All over the place, it's just there.

Tuesday Morning is an establishment so crammed with department store overbuys they close early on Mondays in many locations, in order to make room for new shipments on Tuesdays. The store is incredible and chock-full of household items such as printed napkins in cow-hide designs. It's so crowded near the holidays it takes hours to get in and out, and by the time we check out we're so drained we contemplate the meaning of life. And not in a zen way.

We're dying of thirst, so we must, absolutely have to try that new holiday diet cranberry limeade freezy super drink at Sonic, but once we pull into the parking place, neatly supplied with reading materials announcing in neon colors the latest ice cream drink, we're also starved, so we order Tater Tots with Frito Pie Wraps, consisting of Fritos, chili and cheese neatly folded into a large flour tortilla.

Home again, deluged with tangles of plastic bags, we've ruined our appetites for a normal dinner, hopping instead into the shower, outfitted with automatic cleaning attachments and chrome dispensers of seven types of cleansing products. Hitting the sack, we think how great are these sheets: 375-thread count Egyptian cotton in peach and sage, luxurious to the max. But we got them at Ross for 1/5 the retail price. Drifting off, we murmur with our last breath, "God bless America."

Politics Again

It's always occurred to me that wherever two are gathered, there is politics. Often a sore subject for myriad reasons, politics is always with us. Like the poor, you say? Well it depends on how one reads that text, the phenomenon itself representing an aspect of politics. Politics of the word; how to interpret; how to restate; how to "bend it, shape it, any way you want it."

People may say, "Keep your politics to yourself. Write to your senator; don't talk to me." That works until the social security check does not arrive. Until the veteran's benefits run out. Until the Medicare check fails to arrive. Until that college loan is denied. Until the mortgage is foreclosed upon. Politics affects the way the world rolls. And THAT affects every person in every country at every hour of every day. And there's nothing to be done about that.

It would behoove us to look at the huge picture more often than not. To look at the facts as closely as they can be gleaned and reported to us. To vary our news sources. Whoa, that's a big one. For we're as devoted to our news sources as we are to our religious sects or our NBA teams. . . which can often become confused, as can our political-party affiliations with our fondness for labels. Pepsi or Coca-Cola; Ford or Chevrolet; Elvis or the Beatles. And on and on and on.

Politics has become nasty this year--calls for the president's demise. How sad is that? I couldn't abide even hearing Bush's voice. . . but I wish the fellow well. So the current vicious calls for vengeance (which is supposed to belong to God, isn't it?) baffle and disturb me.

We knew, all of us, that these Mid-term elections would be quite the tussle. We knew people would throw epithets and hurl insults, start rumors, sling mud and wrestle one another's ideas to the ground.

(What startled me was when three of the present senator's "crowd control" workers wrestled a protester to the ground.) One threw her to the concrete, another slammed her head on a curb and one of them stomped on her head, giving her a concussion--tiny little thing, brave as can be--and the bodyguards were like linebackers. That is just not right. In fact that is hard even to think about. The girl didn't even hurl insults or curse words, did she? Did she deserve even to be escorted out in a gentlemanly fashion? I don't think so.

I got this news from Reuters (which has displeased me greatly of late), NPR and CNN. . . later I read some additional reporting from Huffington, Keith Olbermann, MoveOn and other shared links via Facebook. I didn't watch or read FOX because I never have and never will--I know their agenda and don't agree with it; this is America and that is that. I must respect the source of my news, or why read it at all?

I know we're all different. That some adhere to their party as viciously as they adhere to their church's tenets. And it's clear that some people despise the opposite party on principle. Really, some haven't been out of the country or even listened to the stories of people of other ideologies very carefully at all. There are millions of traditions out there. Some function well; others struggle even to keep clean water. The political party in power can make great headway using its resources, or it can just bow to the money every time.

But we're talking about the very diverse United States. The place were Mickey Mouse was born. The place where Coca-Cola and Pepsi were invented (for better or worse). Where jazz came from. We're all over the place, and it's always meant to be that way. Try driving down the highway without running into some sign of diversity. Can't be done.

We have two parties for a reason. Tell you what: I'll help make mine the best advised and most scrutinized, cleanest and hardest working damned party on earth. . . and all I would ask of members of the other parties is to stop and think: is vilifying the opposition getting the job done? I mean really?

If we're snide and mean enough, does that signify the mark of great nations? If we attack the woman holding the sign, what does that mean? How close to criminals are we willing to get, in order to have our own way?

We can't get anywhere, or conserve our safety without a good automobile and a balanced driver. But we're skidding into oncoming traffic this very minute.

With Apologies to Will Rogers

I never met a mango I didn't like.

Mangoes.

They're impossible to describe. The color alone is blindingly sunny. Drippy, syrupy sweet/tart sexy fruit!

Think jungle fever overdosed with rum. Pulpy lemony angelica. Peaches on crack.

From the first time a Brazilian fruit platter swung near me, heavy on the mangoes nose-high, I've been hexed and have wanted only more. In Brazil they grow large, almost like footballs, and the varieties are yellow-skinned or coral blushed (as far as I remember).

Mexican mangoes are plentiful in the south year round, and in the central or north, they start showing up in the markets in late spring (I am in the central highlands, so their arrival may vary according to other regions.) The aroma intoxicates even before the golden-red orbs come into view.

My favorite mango recipes don't mess around with the fruit all that much. Slice it, squeeze the juice over the pulp, eat it up. Throw in some Kiwi, maybe a fresh tangerine, but not much else.

To get the most fruit from the skin, you cut them in half, one half delicately carved around the slippery large seed. Then after scoring the flesh into little squares, turn the curved half inside-out, and you're ready for a grapefruit spoon, or bare-mouthed bites. Prepare yourself. The earth will move.

One mango a day would cure the devil of all ills. The vitamin-mineral content is off the map. But the flavor itself makes it so popular. Many American markets offer fresh ones, but if you can't find them, they sell frozen mangoes these days--go for it! In a pinch, use them drained from a can, found in the Mexican/Central American sections of good markets.

A few diversions with mangoes:

The Mango Mimosa

4 freshly peeled & chopped mangoes, pureed in blender with 1 liter or quart mango nectar. Fill champagne flutes halfway, top them off with chilled champagne.

Mango Silk

Into the blender container, place: 3 mangoes, peeled & chopped. One can sweetened condensed milk. One cup heavy cream. Blend on high, pour into casserole dish, cover with plastic. At this point, you must decide: freeze it for a fabulous ice cream, or chill it for the smoothest pudding ever.

Fresh Mango Pie

Into deep-dish pie pan prepared with one layer of dough, place 4 or 5 (4 cups) sliced mangoes. Dust with 1 cup dark brown sugar, a bit of cinnamon and cloves, and a light sprinkling of all-purpose flour. Top with pie crust, make a few slits in the top. Brush with beaten egg yolks, sprinkle all over with sugar and cinnamon. Bake for 20 minutes at 400 degrees; lower temperature to 325 and bake for 20 more minutes, 'til top is browned.

Excuse me--I have to check something on the stove. I'll be back at a later, to-be-determined time. Probably not 'til after supper.