Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: Bestsellers (Page 51 of 71)

Got the time?

Man. One time-warp ought to be enough. Three in a week? That’s a bit over the top, in my book.

That big bank clock across the street caused the first one. Bam! I look up Saturday afternoon, and it’s three-thirty! Where did the day go? I had several projects needing attention, but – Hey! – there isn’t enough time left now. Close at 5pm on Saturday. Tackle the job on Monday.

What? I look down later (later, I tell you…) at the little time indicator at the corner of the computer screen. It says two-o’clock. Somethings wrong. Computer glitch. Melt-down. Dell laptop brain freeze.

The cash register has a time function. When I’m not ringing up a sale, it shows the time. Sort of. Probably, the correct time in Denver. I never re-set it for Daylight Savings Time. But I know that. Just add an hour.

What? It’s showing one o’clock. Computer: two o’clock. I glance over at the bank. Man. Banker’s hours. It’s showing 4pm. 4pm.

Time warp.

Bank error – not in my favor. No collecting nothing.

So, what was going to be a quick Saturday, my only workday to get off a little bit early, now is going to be a dragger-outer. Hey! Someone stole two hours from me. They ain’t coming back. Even this evening. Take a look at those late evening shadows on the clock and compare it to the time o’day showing. The shadow is the cattle-guard iron fence on the bookstore roof showing on the bank at sundown. Someone needs to wind that big Ben.

Time warp.

Today, I finally got to the project that I should have finished on Saturday. Dragged a book case down from the loft. It was a lawyer leftover, I guess. Already here when I moved in, but covered with construction dust so thick I swore I’d never need it badly enough to do the clean-up.

Clean-up this evening. Needed it badly enough.

I needed a spot behind the counter where I could stash spray bottles, paper towels, special order books – odds and ends, you know. The stuff that would go in the kitchen junk drawer, but they’re too big to fit. I don’t have kitchen cabinets out here.

Everything was pretty well caught up. A get-out-and-go-to-the-house-on-time night. Bam! Clean up the bookcase. Clear out the space for it behind the counter. Dust.

Dust?

Where did that come from? How can there already be a collection of dust in that space back in the corner by the edge of the counter? Oh. It’s been a year (or more) since we moved that big counter in through the skinny door. A year (or more).

Time warp.

It just doesn’t seem that long. I’m trying to get all these things done to get the shop up and running, and Bam! A year has gone by. Man.

Time warp.

So I grab the broom and the dust pan. I yank loose some paper towels and a super-spray cleaner. Squirt, spray, wipe. Cough. Sweep, bend, bang into the trash can. Repeat.

Repeatedly.

What? Oh. There’s a lady talking to me, wondering if I’m still open. I guess I am, since she is inside and I haven’t attended to any of the closing duties. I look around, start to look at the bank clock – reassess – and look down at the little computer screen indicator. 7:10pm.

Time warp.

Ever happen to you? How a little project spins off another? You move this from here to there and then experience the attack of the dust bunnies? Back! Back! Knock them back! Then, the squirt bottle overspray must be wiped up and the paper towel comes up grimy. Another forgotten corner. Clean it. Clean it.

It’s still only around five, isn’t it?

Lady, at the counter: Are you still open?

Me, freaked out. Sure. Sure. I’m just trying to get an early start on the clean-up.

Lady, looking confused: How late do you stay open?

Me: ‘Til seven.

Lady: Well then. I guess you’re getting an early start on tomorrow’s clean-up. I’ll be quick. I know what I want.

Slam! Bam! Time warp.

Another late night at the shop, hours seemingly sucked completely away like dirt in a Dyson with the rollerball.

The other image would have been another time warp, given that I thought there was no activity on the Main Street renovation. I just hadn’t been paying close enough attention, since it began at the south end of the district. In truth, they’ve dug up a lot of pavement on Main, and have almost readied the east side from Commercial to Dallas.

Bam! Nah. No time warp, this time. Unless that fellow in the picture with the metal detector brings up something hidden under the dirt since the time Main Street left dirt behind in favor of asphalt.

Come visit! (Don’t waste time…)

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main Street, Broken Arrow, OK!

Stay the course? Of course not!

Change it up. Keep the change. Nothing constant, but change. Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes, sang David Bowie. Sea change.

Menu change.

Not all that dramatic, but along with some fine tuning and corrections, there are a couple of new offerings. I’d wanted to bring in something that would work better through the hot days of summer, maybe a salad or cold pasta dish. Wanted to. Then, that ol’ orange barrel syndrome made me nervous.

Construction has just started on Main. Maybe the bigger changes can hold off until things are settled again.

In the meantime… for your comfort food pleasure: Paddy’s Melt, our version of the traditional patty melt sandwich. Instead of the fried hamburger patty, you’ll find country style meatloaf slices on Russian rye bread, toasted on the grill with melted Swiss cheese and a dash or two of zesty sweet BBQ sauce.

Or try it Sunday-style. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes topped with rich brown gravy and stew vegetables. Those potatoes are peeled and prepared fresh daily, hand-mashed for some buttery-rich goodness. (Even if a little bit lumpy some days.)

The menu mention of potato chips being served with the sandwiches has been replaced with potato salad. I was tossing out chips. Not the case generally with the potato salad. It’s tasty.

The new sandwich and lunch-entrée have been well received. (I judge that based on how much is left on the plates when they’re taken back for washing. There hasn’t been anything left on the dishes to scrape before the sink…)

Still have potato soup every day, along with Irish stew prepared each morning.

Drop in at lunchtime – or call ahead (918-258-3301) and we’ll have it ready for carryout! Serving lunch from 11:30am to 1:30pm Monday thru Friday.

We’ve got a cure for Hungry. Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main Street
Broken Arrow OK!

Heck’s Kitchen

Installed a new microwave in the kitchen today and it made me think of my old high school buddy Faron. We were roommates for a time after graduation and had a little crackerbox of a house over by the state prison.

He played bass guitar and I had just switched from guitar to keyboards. We had some practice sessions that never really came to anything, but he was a great wood-worker. He built some arena-concert-sized speakers that wound up attached to our living room stereo when we gave up the band idea. There was a microwave in the kitchen.

That was a pretty new appliance back then (not to date myself, but I suppose I just did…). When the glass-lined door was opened it revealed a cooking area about the size of a shoebox. Next to the door handle was a big round clock-dial to set the minutes and a big square button to set off the nuclear cooking.

Not that we did much of that.

As one of his home improvement projects, Faron brought back some rough-sawn cedar and hauled it into the living room and set it down where the couch might have been if we’d had one. (I had never heard the term rough-sawn at that stage of my life, and I don’t believe I’ve had occasion to repeat it since then – until now.) Faron took that wood and measured and cut and nailed. He added some decorative trim and then cut holes and added plumbing, somehow.

We were the only eighteen-year olds in town with a personal wet-bar in our living room. It was a thing of beauty.

It might have been our frequenting that part of our abode that led to the chicken-rustling incident. We were tapped, financially, and we were coming into the holiday season. For both of us, it was the first independent observation of the big three holidays. Money, as I mentioned, was tight.

New Year’s would be taken care of. (You haven’t forgotten the wet bar in our living room already, have you?)

Christmas would be tougher for Faron than for me. He had a girlfriend, requiring a present. I – on the other hand – had no social life of that sort, and could plead poverty with my family in the way that I have since perfected. He was making time-payments on the gift.

Thanksgiving would naturally be spent with our separate families, but – being the first of the Big Three – we both thought it appropriate that we have some sort of moderate feast, if only to put the bar to good use.

Chicken-rustling isn’t exactly accurate. They were turkeys in those buildings. I had no idea such things went on, but somehow Faron had discovered that a farmer south of town had signed an agreement with Campbell’s Soup and had several long, narrow buildings filled with those big birds. Apparently, Campbell’s Soup would back up a truck filled with tiny turkey chicks and herd them into the stock-barns, then – after they were shoulder to shoulder and jostling around for dancing room – the trucks would return and pick them all up. They wouldn’t miss one turkey, Faron said.

Faron: They won’t miss one turkey!

Me: Are they in plastic wrappers?

Faron, laughing – thinking I was joking: Yeah, sure. Frozen and sliding around like hockey pucks.

Me: Maybe you should take an ice chest.

Faron, laughing – thinking I was joking: Okay, buddy. One Thanksgiving turkey on ice, comin’ up!

Me: I don’t suppose they’ve got the boxed dressing mix, too…

Faron brought back a bird. It wasn’t a turkey. Those, as you well know, are the Butterball things with the pop-up timers built in, with gizzards and such in a bag in the middle. This thing – well, it was a bird. Feathers. Feet. Spindly legs.

By the time it made it into the kitchen, though, Faron had worked some kind of culinary-prep magic on it. I knew he was a fisherman. Apparently, there was hunter in his DNA as well. It may have been lacking plastic wrap, but Faron had plucked and cleaned the bird until I recognized it as something cook-able. (Not to imply that I had ever cooked a turkey at that point. Or even a pot roast. Hey! We were eighteen and on our own, and had a wet bar in the living room!)

It barely fit into the new microwave.

We had no dishes or plates that would accommodate such a cooking endeavor, so I improvised. The bird went into a black plastic trash bag, all dashed and splashed with spices and aromatic things. I left an opening, figuring that there might be steam and a need to vent. Microwave ovens didn’t have instructions about Thanksgiving turkey preparation back then. (Still don’t.)

All those visits to my grandmother’s house gave me the foundation: I knew it took a long time to cook a turkey. My mother and her mother got up early. We ate late in the day. I figured that this new microwave thing would cut down some of that time. Maybe half. I set the timer.

There was a smell before the realization hit. When Faron and I yanked the bag out of the micro, the plastic was clinging. We pulled it open and looked inside.

A big black charcoal briquette sat where the bird once was. I’ve had Thanksgiving turkey that was a little dry. This was dryness that was a little turkey. We opted for burgers and onion rings at the new Sonic.

There aren’t many calls for a microwave with the menu here at the store, but for emergencies, thawing, and the like – it’s good to have one. I made a plate of nachos with the newly installed appliance, the shiny stainless steel one, and based the cooking time from experience with the old one. They came out a little more edible than the turkey was – but it is clear that technology has improved. Bam! Cheese melted!

Styrofoam plate, too.

Faron told me the farmer chased him all the way back to the road while he kept that angry bird under his arm. Over the years, my memory has embellished his story. I’m not even sure what the truth is, but as I recall, the turkey-man was wielding a shotgun, or a hatchet, or a carving knife. Faron escaped.

The granite stone over his grave has a notation: Free Spirit. That he was. Faron died in a car crash just shy of twenty years ago. A roommate and bandmate and friend, for altogether too short a time.

Here’s a promise. There won’t be any trash bags filled with turkey birds inserted into this new oven, but I’m sure to remember that holiday season – as I always do, each time that part of the year comes ‘round.

No turkey on the menu here. Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main, Broken Arrow OK!

« Older posts Newer posts »