Adaptive Curmudgeon

Today I’m trying to do nothing. What a novel concept!

Someone smart, probably Gandhi or Yoda, once said “all things in moderation”. This makes perfect sense. Someone else, apparently a Roman poet, said carpe diem (“seize the day”). I like the latter and tend to ignore the former.

We each get a limited number of days on earth. I endeavor to seize the ever lovin’ shit out each one. Life is too damn much fun to sit on your ass so I don’t. Many of my readers agree. I know I’ve got a higher than average index of hard working folks tuning in; homesteaders, travelers, hunters, preppers (I miss the term “survivalist”), builders, fixers, doers, and zombie hunters. Even those who’ve gone Galt are busily attacking whatever non-taxable endeavor interests them most. All are welcome and all are seizing their day.

The problem with “seize the day” is that it’s exhausting. Seize too many days in a row and you’re toast. Eventually you’re hungover, limping, sleep deprived, and passed out in a gutter in Tijuana. It happens to me all the time. (I’m speaking metaphorically dammit. Don’t ask about the Tijuana thing. Also, I deny everything.)

Obviously a balanced life requires a certain amount of down time. Today I decided to rectify my imbalance in the ass sitting, doing nothing, department.

It’s not easy. I had plans. I’d scheduled a day to do some “recreational logging”. It’s brutally hard work but I simply love cutting firewood. I had my sights on a particular patch of swampy ground that’s just aching for some cutting. It’s an ideal moment right now. The ground is frozen and the snow isn’t deep. (Southerners can be forgiven if they don’t recognize the immense utility of “impassible” swamps that are flat as a pancake and freeze like cement.) The snow could drift at any moment. The time to strike is now! (A wise man tries to work on nature’s schedule instead of against it because doing the opposite will get your ass kicked faster than you can say “sunk in the mud”!)

I was up at dawn (not my favorite hour) but at the last minute decided to take a genuine day off. I left the tractor in the barn and poured another cup of coffee. Sure, I did a few chores, washed some dishes, fed the chickens, etc… I suppose my “ass sitting” is a whole lot more kinetic than most ass sitting. Even so, I promised myself I wouldn’t move a damn inch until the coffee was gone and I’ve done relatively little after that.

Frankly it seems weird. (Also it’s confusing my dog.) Why is it so hard to chill out? I’m not sure. I have a theory that the ants in society are a little more jittery than usual. Feeling all alone in a sea of grasshoppers will do that to you.

At any rate it’s one of those moments when I see that religion had a good idea and I should pay more attention. I’m talking about Sunday. Being non-religious I don’t “do” Sabbath. (Note that I said non-religious. This is not the same as “militantly annoying atheist nutbar”. If you think you’re doing good by getting the vapors over a Nativity scene you’re just being a dick. ‘Nuff said about that.) It occurs to me that taking one day in seven to rest your bones is just common sense and I need to do it more often.

I’ve decided to reserve a weekly day of rest. (It doesn’t have to be Sunday. I don’t think God will get pissed at me if I stack wood on Sunday and then kick back on, for example, Wednesday.)

Unfortunately, I can’t go cold turkey. Maybe doing the bare minimum on one day of seven will be my New Year’s Resolution. (Unlike most, I actually take a serious shot at “resolutions”.) That gives me a little while to break myself in to the idea. I wonder how one integrates an iron clad “day off” into a lifestyle? It’ll be interesting. There’s always pressure and I’ve tended to jump on any job that needs doing without looking at the calendar. (I wish there was a word for “Sabbath” that would work in my instance. Maybe something like “back off”?)

This isn’t going to be easy but I’m going with it. I’ll start seizing the hell out of 1/7th of my time by doing jack shit. So long as I’m busting ass the other 6/7th I don’t think it’s too risky. (If I wind up watching too much Oprah until my only outside activity is wandering around Wall-Mart in sweats I’ll know the idea failed.)

Why didn’t I think of this sooner?

I was minding my own business when a shiny black Dodge roared up to the house. Before the dust settled an earnest, well dressed, youngish fellow jumped out. He was apparently in a hurry. He hoofed it for my door.

It is my long standing practice to greet all newcomers in a relatively menacing manner. They came to my house. It only seems natural to make them question their logic.

I grabbed my dog and slipped out the back door. I like to get a good look at anyone venturing on to Curmudgeon Compound before engaging in the dreaded yet inevitable misery of human interaction. Also I’ve found that people who suddenly discover that a dog the size of Philadelphia and I are precisely where they weren’t expecting… well lets just say it has a wondrous effect on their personality. Salesmen, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and politicians alike suddenly wish they’d stayed in their natural habitat of the suburbs. (I note that folks arrive to take my money, save my soul, or tell me they’re saving my soul by spending my money. It’s nice that people are looking out for my soul but have you ever noticed that nobody ever shows up to hand you a beer and talk about fishing. There’s a lesson in that.)

As usual, the guy didn’t see me until I got a good look at him. Just one guy. (No compatriot in the truck or elsewhere.) Well dressed. Driving a righteous truck. A newish 4×4 clearly owned by someone with the presence of mind not to turn it into a chrome mess. (It’s fleetingly rare to see a good truck withoutout gobs of ill fitting fluffery bolted to it. It was aesthetically marred by the fact that it was a shortbox but other than that a fine machine.) The guy looked as shiny and nondescript as his truck.

Coming alone meant he wasn’t there to convert me to a religion. God’s self selected chosen ones travel in pairs, for entirely logical reasons.  Also, for logical reasons they tend to drive rustbuckets. Similarly, salesmen drive pieces of shit. This is all you need to know if you consider selling anything door to door as a career. Tellingly, politicians drive nice cars. On the other hand they tend to drive trendy abominations like a Prius or hybrid SUV. (Any citizen who’ll change his vote based on the carbon footprint of a leased machine deserves what they get.) There were no signs on the truck so it wasn’t a utility worker. Also no tools.

He looked like he was in a huge rush. Like virtually everyone, he had no idea I was there.

I crossed my arms and adapted my body language to radiate hate. (Which, even when I’m in a good mood, seems to come naturally.) My dog, apparently a better judge of character than me, sat happily and showed no inclination to do one of her patented growls. (Such a shame! I love her growl. It should be recorded and incorporated into heavy metal. It’s low and dark and tells you that something from the deepest pit of hell has awoken. It makes you really really wish you weren’t in her territory. It makes you wish you weren’t even in the same time zone. It tells you that demons, wraiths, and the spirit of the Navy SEALS are considering a course of action from which there is no return. Should she turn the growl into action I’m pretty sure the ensuing mayhem would be exciting and short for whomever is on the receiving end.)

Alas she growls when she wants and doesn’t when she doesn’t want to. The only one to growl today would apparently be me. Bummer.

I cleared my throat; “AH HEM!”

Usually at this point people whirl around, decide they’re going to die, and shorten their sales pitch by 95% while sidling toward their car. This guy, apparently a lunatic, stuck out his hand and tromped right over to me. His smile was a foot wide. More like a lottery winner than a normal person. My dog started wagging its tail. Damn dog was ruining my theatrics! All the while the guy was talking.

“I’mlookingfor243andboyamIgladyou’rehere…”

Whoa, slow down there auctioneer. It took me a minute to process that many words. Meanwhile I’d shaken his hand and he was petting the dog.

Obviously he was looking for .243 ammo. (A side note: there are people to whom “two forty three” means rifle ammunition and those to whom it means nothing. It tells you plenty about who you’re talking to. He had not mentioned that he was talking about ammo and I hadn’t asked. It was obvious.) My only question was why he thought my house was a good place to go to get it?

I took a deep breath. So today’s was the day. Haven’t we all been waiting? It had finally happened. The zombie apocalypse had gone down and the looters were coming from the cities to the country; intent on stealing our supplies. I’d never expected them to be well dressed and smile so much. Kinda’ a letdown. What happened to the rioters from central casting? But life is like that. If the zombies are friendly and talk fast, so be it.

I took a deep breath and prepared to launch into a soliloquy: “Sure you’d like some of my ammo but I’m afraid you’re going to die alone in a snowbank. You should have read ‘The Road’ when you had the chance. Being a sporting man I’m going to give you three steps toward the truck before me and my dog get Medieval on your ass…”

But it wasn’t to be. He was talking again. Fast. So many words…

“Icalledyourwifeonthephone…”

Following a suitable lag time while I processed his words I got the point. He had consulted with Mrs. Curmudgeon about my ammo supply. Why would the lovely and intelligent Mrs. Curmudgeon be giving out OPSEC on the phone? For that matter she probably doesn’t even remember the calibers I (we!) stock. (She’s mostly interested in pistols, beyond that it’s all up to me). As far as she’s concerned, I might kill deer with either a cannon or a deathray. So long as I get it to the freezer the matter of caliber is irrelevant to her. How could she know how much .243 I’d stashed? Why would she offer it up to some schmuck with a shortbox and freshly pressed shirt?

He was talking again. Fast. How many cups of coffee had this guy drank?

“Idon’tneedmuchbutI’mtotallyoutand…”

Slowly the truth dawned. He was still talking but I’d given up on parsing out independent words. I interrupted him.

“Wait. You called my wife on the phone?”

He nodded. He was still petting my dog, who was in ecstasy.

“Did my wife sound like a sweet grandmotherly type who might bake you oatmeal cookies?”

His foot wide smile got even bigger.

Case solved!

“You were talking to my neighbor’s wife.” (Note: sorry for the sexist connotation. Obviously my neighbor’s wife is also my neighbor. But I wasn’t about to get into semantics with a guy that talked like he needed to switch to decaf.) Meanwhile the guy was practically jumping up and down; happy that he was getting through to the rube with the pretty dog.

“You’re at the wrong house. Madge and her husband Frank run a gunshop out of their house. I’m sure they’ve got .243.”

He beamed. Then, regrettably, opened his huge mouth.

“IwasfollowingmyGPSbut…”

“It was wrong.” I interrupted. “But you’re close.” I proceeded to give directions. Contrary to common opinion, country folk will sometimes give simple directions that aren’t intended to get you lost in the hinterlands for our own amusement.

“OKThanksIsureappreciateit.”

With that he stopped petting the dog (to the dog’s immense disappointment) and started jogging toward his truck.

“Hey there.”

He paused in mid stride.

“Take your time. They live there. It’s not like they close at five or something.”

He slowed a bit; still smiling. My dog wanted to follow him.

“Tell ’em I said ‘hi’. They’re good people.”

His smile, already epic, expanded to galactic.

“Good luck with your deer hunt.”

The smile got broader; started forming it’s own gravitational pull.

Then, in what must have been a particularly difficult effort for him, he pulled out slowly and carefully. My dog whined, disappointed to be stuck with me. (There are cookies to be had at the neighbors and I’m convinced she’d telepathically bonded with the visitor.)

For once I’d met someone who didn’t make me want to shout “get off my lawn”. I guess I’m getting soft.

Welcome. Now get off my lawn.

Go to adaptivecurmudgeon.wordpress.com. 

The domain you’re looking at is just a static archive. It is, and will remain, dormant for at least another few months.

When I complete the transfer from my initial domain to this one, this site will flourish; organically growing in depth and complexity from all the steaming heaps of intelligence I’ll toss upon it’s digital soil.  Until then, adaptivecurmudgeon.wordpress.com remains the place to be.

This is my new domain.  It’s destined to be the eventual home of Adaptive Curmudgeon (which, for now, still resides at wordpress).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xos2MnVxe-c

I tallied up the points as follows:

Points for mix based, non-mechanically produced:

• Fewer ingredients.
• So simple a monkey could do it while stoned.
• Kneading pushes my heathen soul closer to enlightenment.
• Another point because enlightenment is a big ticket item.
• Another point because stoned monkeys is setting the bar really low.
• A shape that doesn’t remind me of a tragic heartless Owrellian future.
• Crowd pleasing texture.
• Extra sweet taste.

Eight points.  Not bad.

Points for dump it and forget it, non mix, as prepared by a robot:

• No kneading.
• Superior and exacting instructions.  (The mix instructions don’t mention kneading and bad instructions make me want to punch a kitten.)
• I’m pissed off about the national debt and irrationally blame a can of bread mix.
• You don’t need a “warm place” to let the bread rise.
• Less messing around frees more time to drink.
• Less dishes to wash is the American dream.
• No need to clean, use, find, or own an oven.
• The timer knows when the bread is done so I don’t have to give a shit.
• Another point for less dishes to wash because that’s one of my main goals in life.

Nine points.

And the victor is… a machine.

Sure there are less subjective test but the only subject that matters on my blog is me.  Get your own blog.

————————-

Happy with my tally of the results I hit “save” and wandered over to the liquor cabinet for more…   coffee.  I passed by the bread machine and made a shocking discovery.

It wasn’t working!  The heater was heating and the timer was timing but the paddles weren’t paddling.  I had thought it was fine but apparently the brick had killed the drive mechanism.

I took off my hat and paused.  It was a moment of silence for my bread machine.  “You die too soon, oh trustworthy bread machine.  Victim of my tinkering with mixes, I salute you.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon popped her head in to see me, drunk, holding a mini wake over a kitchen appliance.

“What’s up”, she probably knew whatever I said would be inane.

“The bread machine.  It has fallen.”  I intoned.

“No biggie.  Isn’t that the machine you got used.  Didn’t you trade eggs for it?”  She never liked my machine(s). (I’ve had several.)

“It died well.  In service.  It’s in a better place now.”

“Appliance heaven?”

“Yes, appliance heaven.”  I muttered.

She paused at this.

“So who won the ‘bread race’?”  It was a good gambit.  It was her attempt to come up with something to say to a drunk who was swaying around the kitchen orating about the life and times of an old, cheap, junky, appliance.  You should have heard me whine when the coffee grinder had to be replaced.

“I have to revise the points.”

Wisely, she ducked out.

—————————

Now, I present to you the new point tally.  The mix officially wins with a tally of 208 to 59 points.  I count them as follows.

Fifty-nine points for dump it and forget it, non mix, as prepared by a robot:

• Nine points based on the race.
• Fifty points because it died in battle!

Points for mix based, non mechanically produced:

• Eight points based on the race.
• One hundred points for successfully identifying and engaging the enemy.
• One hundred points because bread mix “drove its enemies before it”.

So there you have it.  Providence Pantry Bread Mix is not only tasty and so easy a stoned monkey can make it but it also can seek and destroy those who oppose it.  I therefore heartily endorse Providence Pantry Bread Mix.

Kneading makes bread and bitching doesn’t.  So I started kneading.

Something happened to change my mood; kneading was fun. Who knew? Squish squish squish. Sip coffee. Sip whiskey. Repeat. Squish squish squish. It was a smallish loaf so it was pretty easy. I pounded the shit out of the bread and started thinking that it was a kind of meditation. No wonder women like kneading bread. Squish squish squish. Outta’ coffee? Who cares, sip more whiskey. I’m kneading baby! Squish squish squish. I should do this more often. Squish squish squish. You know there’s something absolutely wholesome about kneading. You could be a serial killer that makes puppets out of dead baby seals and you suddenly have a halo when you’re kneading. Squish squish squish. I made a smiley face out of dough. I sipped more whiskey and flattened Mr. Smiley face. Squish squish squish. I was humming a tune. Sure it was “Don’t Fear The Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult but that’s just because I forgot the words to “Amazing Grace”. Don’t harsh my halo dammit.

All too soon I was done. I hereby suggest that anyone anywhere should knead bread whenever possible. If only because it’s an excuse to be an adult while playing with the equivalent of Play Dough.

Should I add points to the mix approach because it forced me to spend fifteen minutes out of my busy day in pleasant mediative reverie? Is that antithetical to my “manufacture” attitude? How much whiskey did I drink while kneading? Do I care? I decided to add two points to mix for forcing me against my will to take a short jaunt down the road toward spiritual enlightenment.

Then came a 15 minute “let it rise” period. You need to use a “warm place” for this. I live in the tundra and heat my house to “pipes aren’t froze so shut up”. Carter wouldn’t wear a sweater in my house, he’d burn it to stay warm. I added one point to the machine for self-heating the ingredients while I wandered around the house looking for a place that didn’t feel like a glacier. (The wood stove wasn’t running that day.)

Then I assembled the stuff I’d need to bake bread in a machine “from scratch”. There aren’t many ingredients in bread but it did take longer to find everything, measure it, dump it into the machine, and put it away. I gave one point to the mix for truly demonstrating the concept of stoned monkey.

My ingredients were in the machine and it was doing it’s thing long before the kneaded dough was done with its 15 minutes lag time. I had time for more coffee and whiskey; another point for the machine.

Before I had time to get bored, the bread had risen. I had to knead it some more but this time I only did it for a few minutes. Not enough to feel smug and righteous but enough to make a mess on the table. No points either way.

Then I had to prepare a bread pan and stick the loaf in the pan. Probably I don’t need the pan but have I mentioned that I follow the damn recipe like it’s direct orders from God? Yeah, well I do so if it said “carry to the loaf to Mount Doom and throw it in the volcano” I’d do that too. Fiddling around with bread pans is a hassle. One point for the machine which used the pan as a mixing bowl too.

Then I had to let the bread rise. It was only 40 minutes but I gave another point to the bread machine which had dutifully left me alone since the moment I’d turned it on. The bread rose and I tossed it in a pre-heated oven. I gave the bread machine another point because there’s always shit in the oven and I had to clean that out too.

Behold, it has risen!

Less that a half hour later the bread was done. Unfortunately I had to use judgment to decide when the crust was golden brown. This is different from the bread machine which will beep when it’s good and ready.  I for one welcome our mechanical overlords which time the bake cycle on our behalf. In keeping with the nature of modern American society I gave the bread machine another point for removing the need for judgment.

I belatedly admit that the human mind prefers this to the the heartless cube which emerges from a machine.

I dumped the loaf out of the pan.  I had to admit that it looked nicer than machine bread.  I can make “pretty bread” that looks practically gourmet but since I gave this bread virtually no serious effort I mentally expected a generic ugly duckling.  Not so.  It wasn’t the ugly Orwellian loaf produced by a machine. While not gorgeous, the presentation on the cutting board made me appear rather competent. One point to the mix for making a “normal” shaped loaf. Another point for making me look competent.

Within minutes the stamped happened.  People came out of the woodwork. Bread was sliced. Bread was consumed. Smiles abounded. I was a hero!

I took the time to survey the audience.  I though the bread was a bit mealy for my tastes. Everyone else assured me that I have no taste. I’ll admit that my tastes aren’t for everyone. I sometimes make 100% wheat breads that are like hard tack from the Napoleonic wars and more suited to fueling up before fighting a dragon than delicately nibbling with a little strawberry jam. What can I say, I like bread with horsepower. I decided the mix based bread was far more suited to the average American palate.

Also I thought it was a little too sweet (being “honey wheat” that’s to be expected). Everyone assured me that my disposition is plenty acidic enough for the whole world and sweetness is good.

I bowed to public pressure and awarded the bread two points for crowd pleasing texture and taste.

Then I asked who was going to wash the bread pan.  Every living being in the house (except me and my dog) vanished. I gave the machine another point for producing fewer dishes to wash.  Had I done that before?  No matter… it’s a key finding and worth whatever points I’d allocated.  It only took a minute to clean up.  (Editor’s note: Gentlemen?  If you share the kitchen with the missus do you leave the kitchen in better condition than you found it?  Don’t lie!  You do?  Does she back you up on that?  She does!  Well done sir.  Carry on.)

I didn’t bother to obsess over the bread machine loaf. I’d been ignoring it and until it beeped and wasn’t going to learn anything interesting.  I’ve eaten a thousand loaves based on this particular recipe and they’re remarkably uniform. I poured more whiskey and turned on my laptop to make my final assessment of the bread race’s finish.

Stay tuned for the final tally:

It all started when I purchased some Provident Pantry Bread Mix from Emergency Essentials.  Just for the record I don’t get jack squat from either Provident Pantry or Emergency Essentials so don’t chalk me up as a corporate shill.  So far I’ve been delighted with Emergency Essentials’ service and reasonably pleased with stuff I’ve bought from Provident Pantry.  Your mileage may vary.  Enough of the introduction.  Let’s get to the main event:

Every bunker needs some cans of bread mix!

I already make bread by hand all the time (using double batches of a no knead recipe and fresh milled wheat for eight loaves at a go).   I also use my bread machine all the time (often using simple recipes and store bought flour for cheap fast 2 pound half white/half wheat loaves).  The idea with the mix was that I’d use it when I’m in a big hurry.  I’d scoop some mix into a bread machine, add water & yeast, and then get on with my life.  Good plan.

Wrong!  Putting the mix in my bread machine created a brick.  Whoops.

Now the question had turned to whether the mix truly was a labor saving technology at all.  Enter my concept: the bread race.

I would make some bread with the mix (but without a machine) and I’d compare it to making bread using a machine.  It’s not all about speed, it’s about hassle too.  If the bread machine takes longer but I can be splitting wood while it’s working then I don’t care about speed.  If I’ve got to hover around the oven babysitting my creation, I care very much about every last minute.  I decided to give points to either process based on which one pissed me off the least.  (It’s my bread race.  I’ll score it how I wish.)

Subjectively I assumed the mix was going to lose big time.  Why?  Because it’s reasonably easy to make bread by hand and it’s even easier to make bread with a machine.  The mix would need to turn easy into “so simple that a monkey could do it while stoned”.  A tough challenge indeed!

I started with the mix.  As expected you need more or less nothing but the can of mix and a jar of yeast.  That’s the whole point of a mix.  The photo below shows everything you need:

Some measuring stuff, yeast, and a can of mix. nothing more. Looking good.

I thought I’d need the big red tub for when the bread rose.  I didn’t need it.  Thus, even a second bowl was overkill.

The oil isn’t a big deal.  You put a little on the dough when it’s rising.  The oil covers the bread surface as the yeast does it work and keeps evil spirits from infiltrating the bread and turning the yeast into spiders.  (There is a reason I don’t write cookbooks.)

Eagle eyed folks might notice the whiskey and coffee cup in the background.  There is absolutely no reason why you should be sober while baking.  Duh!

When you use the mix you start by dumping mix and yeast into a bowl.  Stir it a few seconds.  Then add water.  I had to admit that it truly was so simple a monkey really could do it while stoned.  One point for the mix.

Then…  What’s this?  The instructions tell you to mix on low speed for 1 minute and then high speed for 10 minutes.  This word “speed” seemed to imply a “speed setting”.  Thus presuming the presence of a stand mixer (one of those heavy duty kitchen appliances that make cake mixers look like a child’s toy).

I call bullshit! This mix was specifically made for someone who owns a $300 stand mixer but won’t acknowledge the existence of a $50 bread machine.  No damn way am I just gonna’ let that roll off my back.  It’s just not cool!

Mrs. Curmudgeon, hearing my rants, came by and topped off my coffee.  She rocks!  Meanwhile I stirred with a wooden spoon in my best approximation of a human powered stand mixer.  I added a snort of whiskey (to the coffee) and grumbled.

Mixing dry ingredients like flour by hand ‘aint a big deal.  On the other hand, it’s more or less impossible to standing there like an idiot rotating a wooden spoon once water has been added.  This pissed me off.

I was going to have to knead the bread.  I was dreading it.  First of all it wasn’t mentioned in the instructions and I like following the damn instructions.  I’ll get creative elsewhere in life but food is (to me) all about processing materials.  I don’t care if I’m gutting a deer or making coffee, I prefer an ordered set of steps and will stick with it like I’m defusing a bomb.

Kneading is just too damn much like “cooking food” and not enough like “manufacturing food”.  Cookbooks are constantly yammering about how firm the bread might “feel”.  Add a dash of flour here at touch of liquid there.  Those are the parts of the cookbooks that I rip out and use for kindling.  I’ll happily gap a spark plug with a gauge or weigh reagents on a scale but “guesstimation” annoys me.  Kneading seems like guesstimation.  I gave one point to the bread machine approach which skips that step.  Then I gave another because the instructions said nothing about it.  Then I gave a third because I’m pissed off about the national debt and the can of mix got caught in the crossfire.

I started pondering how hard it would be to convert my variable speed drill press into a mixer.  Brilliant or stupid?  Anyone ever try that?

Stay tuned while I fume about kneading and ponder a gas powered, sixteen horsepower kneading machine because I’m an American dammit: