It’s All About The Type of Meat

Beef-and-Barley-Stew-with-Mushrooms-from-Simply-Recipes

Newcastle upon Tyne, England – Standish Manor

The lord of Standish Manor was a renaissance man. His interests were vast, from cooking to painting portraits of friends and family.

Always a curious child, Hayden Standish grew up in a wealthy family that entertained his every whim.

He was always on the lookout for new experiences. When he was old enough to travel on his own, he went on a world tour that lasted for three years. He visited great cities in Europe and Asia, soaking up their cultures and cuisines.

His most enjoyable experiences were when he left the beaten road for most tourists, and discovered small villages and towns with unusual customs and laws.

He traveled to Bulgaria, and through the Balkan mountains, to the burning desert sands of the Kalahari desert in Southern Africa. He braved the frigid temperatures of the Antarctica, and the humid jungles of South America.

During his travels he kept a notebook full of the recipes of the food he ate. He would immerse himself in the culture to fully appreciate the experience of each dish. He also carried an artist’s pad and pencils to sketch his culinary experiences.

Among the delicacies he sampled were fried cow brains, puffin hearts, drunken shrimp, escamole (ant larva harvested from the roots of the agave plant), Hakarl (fermented basking shark), live octopus seasoned in sesame oil and chopped up before your eyes (it’s still wiggling when you eat it), tuna eyeballs, bullock’s balls, and A-Ping (fried tarantula).

Just before returning home to England, Lord Standish visited a small town – Ardara – just outside of County Donegal in Northern Ireland. While in France, he met a gourmet chef there who strongly recommended Ardara’s famous stew.

Northern Ireland

Ardara’s hilly streets were lined with gift stores and stores selling the famed Donegal wool. A pub, The Rebel’s Revenge, was Lord Standish’s destination. He introduced himself to the chef, and ordered a bowl of his famous stew.

He was immediately impressed with the first mouthful, chewing it slowly and savoring the tender meat base.

Lamb right?” he asked.

“It’s a secret recipe that’s been in my family for over two hundred years. I regret that I can’t answer your question, but please understand it’s our biggest culinary draw,” the chef replied.

“My compliments sir. It’s the best stew I’ve ever eaten.” 

That night, Lord Standish laid awake for hours in his hotel bed, thinking about the savory stew. He got up several times and looked out his window. He had a perfect view of the pub across the street.

The next day he went back for more. And the next day. And the next.

When a week went by he realized he had to have the recipe. No amount of money had moved the chef to share the secret ingredients. He could tell what everything was in the stew, but the meat.

It preyed upon his waking thoughts and dreams like a prowling tiger. Then one night, he got a break.

It was well past midnight. He was standing up and staring out his window when he saw a light flicker momentarily in the pub. Curiosity already aroused, he got dressed and walked out into the tiny lobby area.

A clerk was sleeping in a padded chair behind the check-in counter, as he opened the door. He expected a bell or something, but nothing happened when he went out.

The pub was dark again. He walked around to the side alley looking for a rear entrance. Rusted trash bins and stacks of wooden crates greeted him. Then he saw the back door. It was slightly ajar and light was seeping out from the crack.

Cautiously, he approached it and tried to peer inside without touching the door. It was only an inch-wide gap and he didn’t see anything at first. Then he made out what looked like a human leg on the floor!

Shocked, but unable to help himself, he stood there and stared at the naked leg. He heard the chef’s deep voice telling someone to separate the ribs and to set the entrails aside. He listened to the sound of meat being hacked apart for several minutes.

When he saw a shadow come cross the leg on the floor, he turned and ran blindly into the night! He flew head-over-heels after tripping on something in the alley. The terrified Lord Standish barely made it back to his room before he started vomiting.

One year later.

Lord Standish invited his friends and family to a dinner party.

Recovered from his initial reaction, he now whole heartedly took on the special stew. A connection with a local corrupt funeral home owner provided the necessary meat on a fairly regular basis.

The main dish, Lord Standish’s Stew, was a hit with everyone in attendance.

As It Stands, this is another one of my cautionary tales where I point out you should always know all of the ingredients in something you eat.

 

Artist Confronts Daffy ‘Devil’ Duck

thQZV4SRGE

William J. Bernstein was famous for his accuracy as a professional illustrator of animals.

His talent was apparent as early as kindergarten. He drew the best rabbits, puppies and cats in the classroom.

When he was ten he was drawing animals so accurately that his art teacher helped him put together a portfolio of his work. Family and friends were impressed with his artistic flair. In high school he was selling his illustrations to magazines and exhibiting them in art fairs.

His work was popular from the get-go. His admirers talked about how real his animals were. How they could almost walk off the paper they were drawn on.

But William fought an inner war that no one, not even his parents, knew about. It started when he began drawing animals in kindergarten. The first time he drew a rabbit it talked to him!

Startled, he looked around the table at the other kids to see if they heard. They apparently didn’t. He was afraid to reply to the rabbit’s questions and have everyone stare at him.

Even at the tender age of five, William knew rabbits didn’t talk to people. He asked his parents if there were any animals that talked to people? They laughed, and his dad patted him on the head, “My little artist,” he said.

As he got older he became aware that the conversations he was having with animals were in his head. If they were intrusive he would have sought help, William told himself.

The fact of the matter was he enjoyed talking with rhinos and parrots because they shared so much about themselves. The problem was they were becoming his family, at the expense of his real family, and friends.

It was gradual, this transformation from a social little boy to a reclusive artist living in a loft who was awkward around other people. He was an accomplished illustrator that made animals come to life under his pencil but totally lacked any social skills.

When he decided to explore his art – and try cartooning – a new world opened up to him. Literally. The cartoon animals were unpredictable and not always nice, like the realistic ones he drew.

But what an adventure! He’d hole up in his loft with snacks and draw cartoons for hours.

His research included drawing established cartoon characters to “get the feel” of the methods that other cartoonists used. At first, his attempts didn’t say anything. After countless hours of practice however, they proved to be downright gabby.

As the days went by, William made a lot of brand new friends with great stories to tell. Elmer Fudd and Sylvester the Cat had a wonderful sense of humor and he found himself laughing so hard at times his ribs hurt.

One day after drawing Daffy Duck, Yosemite Sam, and The Tasmanian Devil, he discovered another side to famous cartoon characters; they weren’t all nice. Some were downright mean, and in the case of one…evil.

Daffy Duck: What do you think you’re doing? You’re not a cartoonist!

William: Whoaa! Hold on there Daffy! What’s the problem?

Daffy Duck: “You are, you ugly little creep! Why don’t you go stick your blockhead into the toilet bowl and flush it?

William: I don’t get it. You’re acting more like a devil duck than the funny character who I grew to love while growing up and watching TV.

Daffy Duck: When Bob Clampett and Chuck Jones died, I didn’t see any reason to be happy anymore. So, I went to sleep. And, now you woke me up ass brain! There’s hell to pay now!

William: If that’s the way you’re going to be, I guess I’ll put you in the fireplace,” he warned as he grabbed the piece of paper Daffy was on. A minute later he threw it into the blazing fire.

“So much for you, you damn duck!” he crowed, and laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

When his parents found him during their weekly trip to his apartment, he was sitting in the middle of the living room weakly laughing.

After he was admitted to a mental institution, William no longer talked with people (his parents included) and he showed no interest in drawing animals anymore. After a year William was deemed harmless, and allowed in the general population.

On his first day, an orderly put cartoons on the big screen TV. When Daffy Duck appeared William screamed…and screamed…and screamed.

As It Stands, horror is where you look for it!

Global Warming Affects Hell

Hell-Freeze-640x353

The devil was furious! Hell was frozen over!

Tortured souls were no longer being burned in hellfires because they were snuffed out by freezing temperatures.

The volcanos stop spewing lava, and became encrusted in ice.

Lost souls were having a good time skating on the ice that formed over the rivers of fire throughout hell.

What made it especially galling for the devil was that it was all his own doing that caused the situation!

For decades, he worked with his minions on earth to infiltrate governments and to cause as much havoc as possible. One of the devil’s pet projects was convincing gullible humans that they weren’t polluting the planet, and that climate change was fake news.

He hand-picked, pliable, politicians told people global warming was just an excuse to hold back progress.

All the politicians had to do was deny facts, sell their souls, and make sure fossil fuels continued to spew into the atmosphere unabated.

For eons, the devil’s tactics bore fruit and the planet became so polluted people could no longer eat fish from the ocean or rivers. Gray blankets of smoke smothered cities from New Delhi, India to Los Angeles, California.

The smog became so thick people could taste it. Those who could afford it wore stylish gas masks, while the poor had none.

The oceans rose eight-feet in some parts of the world, leaving places like Florida little more than half the land size it had two decades ago. The east and west coasts of the United States were completely reconfigured by the rising waters.

Massive rogue electrical storms in the sky and stratosphere made plane travel treacherous. Intense heat spurred fires across the globe. Water tables dried up in heavily populated desert areas like Palm Springs, California.

But in hell, the changes were welcomed by the suffering souls. The parts of hell that didn’t freeze over were warm with tropical climates, lush fruit trees, and plants.

The devil had outsmarted himself.

As It Stands, I always thought the devil and global warming might have a connection.

Adventure of a Lifetime: See Jeb

 

hiking.jpg.653x0_q80_crop-smart

Raleigh, North Carolina

Okay, my friends! It’s time to put your backpacks on and to follow me!”

Seven people dressed for a long hike fell into an irregular line behind their guide Jeb Brewster, III. Four men, and three women. All city-slickers. All wearing expensive new gear and clothing.

All out for a big adventure.

“North Carolina is the Pine Tree State,” Jeb said, as he led his clients deeper into a narrow forest pathway.

We have eight different kinds of pine. My favorite is those loblolly pines on your right.” Nine pairs of eyes briefly swiveled to the right. Thus far, Jeb was the only one talking which wasn’t unusual.

Finally, the woman just behind Jeb asked, “How long until we set up camp?”

Another hour,” Jeb replied.

There were more than 5,500 acres of woodlands inside the city’s Outer Loop, and Jeb knew them all like the back of his hand. He was raised in these wild woods. His family, the Brewster’s lived in Raleigh since 1800.

Jeb came from a long line of famous guides, and trackers. His reputation brought in a steady flow of clients. He charged more than any of the other local guides, but promised an adventure of a lifetime.

He refused to take a client who wasn’t in good physical shape. He made his clients sign contracts that they would not sue him if something went wrong on the four-day excursion.

Jeb called for a 10-minute break for anyone who had to void their bladder. It was a good time to sit for a short spell. Jeb had set a brutal initial pace to make sure they made it to the first clearing to camp out before night fall.

The group sat around a fire Jeb built and smoked weed. They laughed, ate food, and told scary stories late into the night. Jeb listened, but didn’t contribute to the story-telling. He quietly sipped on a silver flask filled with homemade moonshine.

A Red Wolf howled as the group settled down for the night. Two raccoons watched them from the concealment of the debris on the forest floor. A Bobcat slowly approached the fire but suddenly ran away when Jeb threw a rock at it.

The pace was slower the next day. They were in Cherokee territory when Jeb began pointing out small monuments, and grave sites off the beaten trail. He talked to them about how the white man almost wiped the Cherokee off the face of the earth.

On the second night they camped out near a running stream. This time the group built the bonfire. After listening to the group tell their stories for awhile Jeb spoke up, “I’ve got a story for you folks.” 

The little group turned their full attention on Jeb.

My kin have been up here for over 200 years. The first Brewster to enter these parts befriended the Cherokee people. We even intermarried. My mother was mostly Cherokee. Through all of these years we’ve hunted these woodlands.

“Heck! We still enjoy hunting, but we’ve been running out of game for the last twenty years.”

One of the men coughed, and then passed his pipe to the woman next to him.

That’s why I decided to start my own guide business. City folk like adventures in the wild and like I told you from the onset, I’ll provide you with the experience of a lifetime. If you live through it, you’ll agree.”

Nine worried sets of eyes latched onto Jeb. “What the hell?” one man asked.

Then the group saw them. They were wearing traditional war paint and carried tomahawks. Their leader came up to Jeb…and they hugged.

Joseph says he’ll give you a lead,” he told the group. “You have until daylight. If you bear north you just might make it back to Raleigh!”

As It Stands, traditionally native Americans have got the short end of the stick. I thought I’d reverse that for once.

Moe The Manipulator, or Whatever You Want To Call Him

head_study__1_by_hald3ll3-dbdz2at

In the absence of facts and truth there is a void, an alternative universe.

It’s parameters are loosely defined by physics subject to change daily. In this universe you can find Moe the Manipulator.

It’s his job to hold reality at bay. He’s the guardian of the gullible. The Gatekeeper of Gall. Nothing is too far out for Moe. He can be the Master of Disaster, or your Daddy. He’ll take up residence in your brain without pain.

Once he’s riding your cerebrum you can sit back and watch. He’ll introduce you to your frontal lobe, parietal lobe, occipital lobe, and temporal lobe. It’s a wild ride when Moe hits his stride.

Some say he is the devil. It could be true, but who knows for sure? Whatever he is, he’ll try to get inside of you. If you give in to greed, hate, and power you’ll be devoured by the void.

Moe has nothing good to say. He spends his time trying to lead you astray. He’s a clever character who reads you like a book. Can’t take detours with Moe. Ya Gotta drive him out of your cranium like a NASCAR driver on his last lap.

He’s crazy with a capital C. He’ll make your brain burn like a dried-out tree. No sympathy. No hope. Moe will get you hooked on dope. You’ll be buzzing like a stoned bee bumping into eternity.

It’s best to just stay away from Moe. Ignore those little voices and don’t go there. He’s a bedbug that will burrow into your brain. He’ll happily drive you insane.

He goes by many names, and likes playing nasty games with your life. Hate, vengeance, cruelty and bigotry. He’s the harbinger of strife. His goal is to ruin your life.

Look around you. How many people do you think have Moe the Manipulator embedded in their skulls? Has Moe gotten to you yet? If not, then spread the message; Love conquers hate.

As It Stands, despite the fact that many people carry Moe around like a medal, I believe there’s more good people who aren’t afraid to stand up to him.

Go Ahead! Call In The Clowns!

evil-clownAt first, the clowns started showing up at street corners advertising a circus that was coming to town.

After two days, and no circus, people began to wonder what was going on?

On the third day, the clowns were gone from the street corners, but began showing up in alleys and people’s driveways. They never said anything. They just stood there with their exaggerated evil clown smiles.

The town’s mayor and city council held meetings trying to determine how to deal with the silent clowns that were scaring their children. No apparent laws were being broken. They always left at curfew.

How could the townspeople in Knotty Grove, New Hampshire, know that it was the annual Gathering of Crazy Clowns? They came from nearby states. All with criminal records. All with garishly painted clown faces. All, a little crazy.

The tradition began years ago when John Wayne Gacy, serial killer and rapist, invited a few criminal clowns he knew to hunt for victims as a group in a small town in Maine. It didn’t end with his death.

There were ten crazy clowns this year. They advertised on the Dark Web, inviting like-minded murderers to join them every September 15th at a different location. This year it was Knotty Grove’s turn.

The fact that it was such a small, isolated little town without its own police force, made it an ideal target.

Ho! Ho! The Clown, was this year’s host. He picked the hunting grounds with care. It was an honor to select victims. The sense of approval from his fellow serial killers made him feel justified in his bloody dealings.

Just before they broke up and went in search of victims, the Evil Santa Clown said what they were all thinking. “I can’t wait to see the surprise on their faces.”

The mayor, a computer geek, discovered what the clowns were up to and called for a townhall meeting.

“Well, there you have it,” the mayor said, while pointing at the clowns on his computer monitor.

“These clowns are serial killers that like to stalk in groups. They especially like finding small communities like ours.”  

“I don’t think they’re going to like what they find in Knotty Grove,” chuckled the town’s only gas station owner.

Here’s the thing. These clowns won’t be missed by anyone,” the mayor said.

The gathering broke out into cheers, showing their fangs in glee when he gave them the green light to go hunting.

As It Stands, the hunter and the prey story has many variations. This one is mine.