Posted in artisan food, food, Food Writing, funny, Greece, humor, stray cats, travel, travel writing, Uncategorized

How Catty

Stray cats. Street cats. Beach cats. Cafe cats.

I had traveled to the Greek island of Lesvos, not because I wanted to learn about its stray cat population, but because I wanted to explore its tasty treats populating bakery shelves. Since this woman cannot live on baklava alone, I was eating a fig and walnut salad and salted sardines on the deck of a restaurant overlooking the Aegean Sea.

As waves lapped at the shore, I slurped the remaining morsels from the sardine skeleton. The more I bit, the more I nibbled, the more the spiky, spiny bones jabbed and stabbed my tongue. I didn’t want to swallow any. I stopped eating. I pushed the plate aside.

I waited for the waiter to take away my plate. I waited for the waiter to say, “Anything else? Would you like some water?” I waited and waited.

Just as I was wondering whether anyone would come clear my plate, someone did appear. Half a foot tall, about a foot long, pointy ears, white fur splashed with orange, it sat kitty corner from my left, swishing its long tail over the deck.

“Hello,” I crooned, “aren’t you pretty.”

It opened its mouth wide, revealing sharp, pointy, white teeth. Hungrily, it eyed the sardines.

“No,” I told it. “No.”

As I stared down the cat on my left, a tiger cat crept forward on my right; jumping onto the seat next to me, it leapt onto the table, and snatched a sardine.

“No!” I yelped.

Not one person on the deck glanced my way. Not one waiter rushed to my aid.

Taking matters into my own hands, I picked up my camera and when the cat came back, I snapped photo after photo of it stealing sardines, licking my plate clean.

Several minutes–and several photos–later, my waiter ran over. “This is a restaurant!” he shouted, waving his arms.

“Something must be done about the cats,” I said.

“The cats are stray, but you did nothing to shoo them away.”

The situation presented an interesting question: was it the responsibility of the customer to keep the cats from dining at the restaurant or the responsibility of the restaurant to keep the cats from dining with the humans?

Posted in funny, How To Unstick Zippers, humor, knapsacks, plastic bags, Uncategorized

The Operation Was A Success

All was going well, when my life hit a snag. My zipper got stuck. Not just any zipper, but the coil zipper* on my beloved knapsack. It went forward. It did not go backward. The culprit: a plastic bag.

There are many reasons not to use plastic bags, and one that is never talked about is that it could snag your beloved knapsack zipper.

However, I had confidence. Because I recently solved The Case of the Missing Glass Case. And if I could do that, I could do anything.

Like any good surgeon, I needed appropriate tools. Mine were a small screwdriver, bobby pin, pencil, and flashlight.

I began by inserting the screwdriver into the zipper doohickey and wiggling it about to extricate extraneous bag bits. Next I used a bobby pin. It broke in half, which turned out to be a good thing; one half had a little hook and I could scrape away at the tiniest plastic pieces. Then I said, “Open wide and say ahh,” and shone a flashlight inside. It looked like I had taken care of the problem. But the zipper still wouldn’t work, so I consulted the oracle: a WikiHow article on unsticking zippers. It recommended rubbing a pencil inside the zipper and along the teeth. The graphite acts as a cleaner and rubs away the dirt.

Voila! My zipper worked. Backwards, forwards. Up and down. I felt quite zippy.

* Footnote: So that I could properly name the zipper type, I consulted a Source on the anatomy of a zipper. Just goes to show what a great surgeon I am.

Posted in funny, humor, lost and found, Uncategorized

The Case of the Missing Glass Case

My eyeglass case was missing.

I had placed the light, light blue case on my bed, eyed it as I was getting ready for bed, and planned to tuck my glasses in before turning off the light.

Then the case vanished.

I searched on my bed, by my bed, and on my black futon couch, where I sometimes put clothing. I had, in fact, dumped a gray sweatshirt there, and I moved it to one side. No case.
The next day I searched again. Bed, floor, futon: no case.
That night I dreamed I found the case. That seemed promising.
The next morning I wanted to make a case about my missing case. I looked around and found two more I could use–one purple lightweight champion, the other heavy metal–in case my light, light blue case didn’t appear.
I was thinking of wearing a t-shirt, but the weather looked coolish. It could warm up later, though. I’d wear a long-sleeved  tee. My blue and white shirt was folded neatly on my couch. I picked it up. I sat on my bed. I put on the t-shirt. I glanced over at my couch. There, awaiting me, was my special case.
I recalled that the long-sleeved t-shirt had been on my bed, after doing laundry the other day. When it was time for bed, I moved it, and without thinking, the case also.
I relayed solving that mystery to a friend, who is ten years older. She laughed and said, “I do that kind of thing all the time.” Then she added, “Welcome to aging.”