Re-fried Tortillas

My eating habits are terrible when I'm sick. Because of being sick, I usually just lie around all day. Because of lying around all day, I don't pay attention to normal breakfast/lunch/dinner times. Because of this, I eat the wrong things at the wrong times, and regret it because my metabolism also is kind of broken when I am sick.
The last time I was sick, I managed to change what should have taken five minutes to eat into three hours and a brick.
 I found myself making a cheese quesadilla. (That is pronounced with a y sound for those two 11's by the way. Don't even go there.)
Someone had already made a gigantic pot of soup. I think at one point earlier in the day I may have said something along the lines of wanting soup, and it was interpreted as "let's make a gigantic pot of soup."
I did not want the soup then.
I wanted a cheese quesadilla.
I arrogantly spurned the soup, and heated up a pan to cook a tortilla. (Two technically, if we are going to go by the actual composition of a quesadilla.)
After I went through the arduous task of shredding the cheese, melting it into the tortilla, and then cutting it into quarters, (It's like cutting the grilled cheese diagonally, you can't just bite into that thing) I slapped it ceremoniously(I am very ceremonious about food, and it is definitely a bad thing,) onto a plate, and then got distracted.
Over the course of the day, though I had not done anything productive in terms of school-work, I had certainly gotten a lot done in regards to my blog. I made it actually look kind of nice, and added some quality content.(Sure.)
I was satisfied as I looked over my work and made a few last minute edits. It was looking great.
I took a bite of my tortilla.
I quickly looked at my plate to make sure that I hadn't had it switched with a piece of cardboard.
It took only a few seconds to realize that I had gotten lost in edits and revisions of literary masterpieces(yeah right), allowing the heat from the culinary masterpiece(yeah right here too) to mischievously escape into the great unknown.
Grudgingly I detached my rear end from the comfort of its seat, and returned to the kitchen to reheat my tortilla.
I went through the arduous process of modifying the state of matter in which the cheese was held, and when it had returned to satisfying temperatures and runnyness, I sat back down to continue writing awful limericks.
I picked at my tortilla, and wondered how it had so quickly increased its Mohs scale rating, until I comprehended that the same phenomena had struck.
Again I visited the kitchen, said hi to the sink for no reason whatsoever, and returned my lunch to the pan. The pan and the food were by now of course very good friends, and they chatted about life while I broodingly nibbled unsalted peanuts.
Now there is a funny thing about reheated food. I don't know the science behind it, but it is not the same as the first time you cooked it.
Ever.
Sometimes it is better. Or so my parents claim on leftover nights. I have yet to experience a positive turning of the event. At any rate, there comes a time when your cheddar has been heated and cooled so much that it refuses to drop its viscosity, no matter what you do. And flour has no laws against becoming granite, no matter how many times they tell you that alchemy does not work.
The third time I returned the food to my mouth, I quit. I was not going to heat it up again, only to forget and let it try to be the first object to hit absolute zero.
Now that isn't to say that I was going to waste it. That would be bad for the environment. And by that I mean that it would go in the garbage, and those dang squirrels would attack it and break their teeth.
I smothered it in hot sauce and began chewing away.
Like a proverbial beaver with a log I battled, except that I have human teeth, not beaver teeth, and I can't ignore splinters, even if they are from re-fried tortillas instead of willow trees. I don't actually know what kind of trees beavers chew, and am pretty sure that they don't swallow them. Or add hot sauce. They just make houses.
I probably should have made a house out of that thing which had once been food, but instead I tried to see if my stomach acid would dissolve it. I assume that it did, though I can't be a hundred percent sure.
For all intents and purposes, I ground the quesadilla into what could have been sand, or could have been flour that had been put past its breaking point. I'm no longer quite decided on whether there is actually a difference.

Book Review: The King's Gambit, by John McNichol.

Part-of-Brain-that-is-the-Editor's Note: This review was supposed to be published a long time ago, but I was lazy and never got around to it. I apologize. 

In our current world, there are not many good books for ten to twelve year-olds.

The King's Gambit, is one such book.
I am something of a fan of John McNichol's other book series, a steampunk alternate-history G.K. Chesterton as a teenager battling Martians alongside H.G. Wells, (Yep) and but I have to say, I've been waiting for something like this, something directly from his own ideas, rather than a mash-up of some other authors stuff. Not that that isn't good, but Mr. McNichol is quite a good writer, and I think that he should definitely branch out to more of his own worlds. Much potential do I see. (I don't know why I worded that sentence like a small green alien in a mildly popular movie trilogy.)
Gambit is definitely a tentative step into these waters, and I wholeheartedly endorse it. It isn't a perfect book, but it's a fun read, an enjoyable read, and definitely worth the time.
There are a couple issues( an illustration depicts a revolver as the weapon of an FBI agent, which doesn't make sense,) Edward King, the main character, acts just a little bit too old for his age, (Not that I have anything against his philosophy, but sometimes it feels that he just lacks a bit of that adolescent smarty-pants-ness that intelligent kids his age have,) and dialogue can get kind of cheesy at times. But the story as a whole is unique, quirky, and a light-hearted adventure story, which is something I truly love, and so should you, because these kinds of stories benefit mankind. (Really. I'l extrapolate on that sometime.)
In relation to his earlier works, the Young Chesterton Chronicles, Gambit is appropriate for a somewhat less mature audience, which is cool, (as I noted in the beginning, 10-12 year olds get the short end of the stick often as far as literature is concerned,) though a slightly older fellow like myself can still enjoy it as well. Where Catholicism is concerned, I also think his style has improved here. Mr. McNichol has stated at least once that he doesn't want to tone down the importance of Catholicism in his books, (which I understand and can agree with) but in his latest novel, he is more successful at integrating it. Rather than Catholicism being something that seems a little tacked on to the adventure story, everything seems rather more naturally part of the world, allowing narrative to move more smoothly as a whole. It still is a bit bumpy, but it's less jarring here than it has been in YCC so far.
EDIT: Oh, the book itself. I forget this. It's about chess and philosophy and perfect grass. And it's about Edward King. I would put it half in Sc-fi, half in Fantasy, but I don't really know. Fiction works. ;) I don't want to say too much, because when a review basically gives you a play-by-play of a book, half the impetus to read just disappears.
I like this book. It's good enough that it is on my "may re-read" list, which is fairly high praise as far as I am concerned.
Don't expect too much from The King's Gambit. It isn't a masterpiece, and it is oriented towards middle-schoolers, but it's better than 39 Clues Diary of a Wimpy Kid a majority of the books floating through the mainstream right now, and considerably better at that. So what to get for your literate, thoughtful, Catholic nephew in the fifth grade? Take a Gambit.*



*I will never apologize for any puns, ever.

Wrap-up for Freeflighting Cycle 1, plus plans for the blog...

“Sandpaper” is somewhat of a misnomer actually, since sandpaper is rather nothing like sand, and in fact, is called so because it reduces other substances to sand, rather than being sand itself. It should be called “sand-making paper,” if one wanted to be completely understandable. But people get into a habit of calling things by the names that were probably given to them by individuals who weren’t thinking, and so we are stuck in a vicious cycle, with terms such as “sandpaper,” and “feather duster,” and “toilet paper.”

The above is an excerpt from something I wrote when I was very angry. I don't remember the exact details. The story was weird, and involved many monologues of this sort, but for some reason I think that it is funny, and though I plan on burning the whole thing eventually, I may release bits and pieces if I am so inclined*. 

Because.

Just Because. 

In other news, I only put that there because this entire post is something of a monologue, and I don't want to get into a habit of that. I want this blog to remain mostly just a place where I put some decent stories and poems**. So I put a little bit of a story here, and justify myself. 

I digress. 

This is mostly to explain what in the world Freeflighting is about and what I plan on doing with it, and what I have planned for SAC over the next few months.

Yes, Freeflighting is a serialized maybe-I-will-finish-this-someday kind of story. I plan on fleshing it out a lot, making sure that the whole thing makes sense, and maybe forcing my friends to give me a few illustrations before the end. I expect the final result to be 30+ chapters, but I really don't know. 

Anyways, the first cycle, which is the first draft of chapters 1-5, is now finished. However, I want every post anyone clicks on here to be a good read, and the first draft of Freeflighting (especially the first three chapters.) aren't what I consider to be a good read. There are going to be a lot of changes in the next drafts, stylistic, plot-wise and character-wise. 

 I'll leave it up for now, but eventually the first draft will be recycled over to my other blog, so that this place doesn't get cluttered. That will happen around the time that I post the next draft, which might be the third draft. (I'll probably keep 2 to myself, so that you get a decent read next time, through every chapter.) 

The system that I am working out, is that each draft I will add five chapters. So first draft= 5 chapters. 2nd draft= 10 chapters. 3rd draft=15 chapters. etc. (I am doing that way because it keeps me motivated more than anything else.)

So if I get a thirty plus chapter book in the end, that would mean I've gone through about six or seven drafts. I might make a couple more drafts after the whole story is finished, just for polish and everything. Hopefully, it will be something worth reading. If I and any sample readers who I might have by then decide that it is worth reading, I'll find some way to make it downloadable as an e-book or something. (Free of course.) 

That pretty much sums up everything about Freeflight. I don't want-right now- to talk about actual content, because it is all very subject to change so early on, but maybe I'll make some commentary or Q&A's eventually if enough people are interested. 

In between now and the next draft I release, I have a bunch of short stories and stuff in mind. Current ideas and early writing include something I mentioned on Facebook (Refried Tortillas) which is in the same vein as my older stories (complaining about how food is out get me. Yes, I know that it is very First World Problem-y. That is why it is funny to me at least,) as well as a tentative war story about a few rugged and battle hardened specialized shock troops. Kind of. ;) 

I also plan adding in a book review that is very long overdue, (I wrote it a long time ago and should have released it,) and may or may not have an essay or two on literary criticism, plus at least one more fun story. 

A lot yeah, but I don't have to get it all done in a month. (Unlike school.) I have as long as I want, though I do plan on increasing the amount of stuff I put up. Two or three posts a month maybe, as long as I am able to juggle my other responsibilities. 

 That's pretty much all I have. Thanks for reading this far, because it shows that you are actually interested in what happens here. That in itself is a pretty awesome thing. The biggest motivation I have for writing is that people other than myself want to read what I put out. Thanks again, to everybody (all four or five of you :D ) who have continued to read my stuff, because what is a story without a reader? Just ink on a page. (or random pixels.)

EDIT: P.S. I should mention the awesome artwork that has been given me by the one and only Olaf Tollefsen, who blogs about Christianity and stuff at Unleavened Ministries with a few other gents. New cover photo here on the blog, and a different one over at the Facebook page. Much thanks to this guy, who always says yes when I ask for drawings(or anything really, he was even willing to try to get me a sword.)

*I will concede that sandpaper and sand both have something of a gritty feel, but otherwise I stand by the statement. 

**Yea right. You aren't getting any poems unless I am feeling very mean someday. 

Epic in Brico

Author's Note: I myself am no artist. I would like to thank the Incredible Olaf Tollefsen for his amazing illustrations, which are probably better than the story itself. Please enjoy the story. 




There was once a small can of root beer.

The root beer lived quietly on the shelf, avoiding being sold like all the others, for it was a wise can of root beer, and knew well that it's fate would be one of sadness, of consumption by the humans, then of being mashed up and recycled into some baseball bat or modernistic underpants after it had been sucked dry. The can of root beer did its best to stay in the back shelf, where it accumulated a thin layer of frost, but it was determined to stick out until the bitter, carbonated end. It saw generations of cokes, cream soda, other root beer, and even diet coke, disappear like so many potato chips among college students. But its determination was unshaken.
The can of root beer saw a new era, as the shopkeeper began to shift his stock, moving the other sodas to a far side of the store, and putting ricotta cheese in their place. The can stayed hidden in the back, and watched as the cheeses were quickly snatched up by the customers, while it still hid behind the cartons, out of sight. It saw the lactose intolerant pass the aisle with slight annoyance, the cheese addicts grab massive armfuls of the cheese containers, and every night, it saw the shopkeeper smile as he looked over his stock, lock up, and then prepare for the next day.
Then, one day, as the root beer sat there, it suddenly saw a pudgy hand looming over, and before it had time to react, it was snatched up by a naughty looking toddler.
 "Wook Mommy!" said the little fellow, shaking our protagonist around until it's internal carbon dioxide threatened to no longer be internal. "Woot Beew!" The mother, a woman known in her own circles for her health conscious attitude, shook her head in disappointment at her prodigy. "Buford," she said sternly, then continued in an increasingly high pitched voice. "You know that carbonated beverages are not conducive to your physical health!" As she said this, she shook her head very slowly and waved her finger, while attempting to pry the little one's fingers from the can, which was no easy matter, since the minerals that accumulate on the fingers of a small child tend to be of the sort that allow them to chemically bind with whatever substance said child's parents are attempting to separate from them.
"Want Wooot Beew!" wailed her offspring, desperately attempting to detach himself from the grasp of his mother.

After a shortly prolonged duel, the child emerged defeated. His mother glared at the can as if it had purposefully left itself on the shelf to ensnare the good opinion of her darling child.
Young master Buford chose to sulk rather than scream, much to the benefit of the ears of the worthy patrons employed in visiting the grocery store. His mother deposited the can of root beer carelessly in another cart, and then sauntered off with her prodigy held firmly under her arm.
The cart that she had deposited the root beer into was, coincidentally the cart of a very health conscious young man of no relation, who noticed the can immediately when he returned from a slight sojourn, holding several gallons of distilled water and some flax seed. His immediate problem being how to remove the can from the cart without allowing any of the possibly harmful substances that might dissipate off of the surface of the cheap metal used to package it absorb themselves into his skin, he paused for a moment in thought.
The can itself which had landed on its side and possessed now a dent that had not previously existed, remained stolid, as it would to the bitter end.
The young man finally came upon a solution, surreptitiously taking two largish stalks of asparagus, and using them like chopsticks, after he made sure that none of the other worthy patrons were employed in watching his actions of dubious morality, he took the can and successfully set it upon the floor without letting it come in contact with his epidermis. After deposing of the now contaminated asparagus, the health-conscious young man fled the premises carefully, though not without paying for his groceries, as he was not the sort to shoplift.

The can sat on the floor until a few rambunctious toddlers upset it and caused it to fall on its side, from whence it proceeded to do a large number of barrel rolls, eventually resting itself against the bottom of a shelf of pizza sauce.
There it lay, stolid as ever, until the end of the day, when it was found by the shopkeeper, sweeping the floors. Unaware of how it had reached that aisle, which was several dozen feet from the current aisle for carbonated beverages, he bemusedly returned it, not paying enough attention to realize that it was of a brand that he had not stocked in years.
Although the dent had caused perhaps a blow to the can's beauty, it had done much for its survival prospects. Few of the worthy patrons who frequented the grocery store were of the sort to eagerly snatch up what they saw as damaged goods, and as a result the can slowly was pushed and shoved and edged to the back of the shelf, as before, where it accumulated a new layer of frost to make up for the one destroyed by its past escapades.
Years passed by, as the can sat, watching stolidly as always. It saw the switch from tungsten to florescent lighting, the passing on of the ownership of the shop from one man to the next, and the slow evolution of food containers.
And still, it sat there, gathering frost, and watching the progression of age in the worthy patrons frequenting the grocery store. It saw the children of one generation become the parents of another. It saw a child, toddling around one day, toddling his own offspring what seemed like the next.
Then, one day an older man came into the store. He walked with a slow but sure gait, and the carelessly happy air he let out seemed to increase the wattage of the lights. He looked aimlessly over this shelf and that, not looking for anything in particular.
He noticed the carbonated beverages and smiled, as if recalling an old and dear memory. He ambled over and glanced at the different sodas. His pupils seemed to dilate when he noticed something that most others ignored... A definitely expired can of Root Beer, covered in frost, dented, and sitting stolidly in the farthest back part of the shelf.
The old man carefully moved cola and ginger ale out of the way, and reached back to pick up the can. He smiled and rubbed frost off of the can, staring intently at the label.

At length, he nodded and set off to the register, where he payed with a fifty, counted his change, and bid the clerk farewell.
The root beer sat clamped in the man's fist, stolidly awaiting its fate as ever it had.
The man clambered into his truck, and setting the can down in the drink holder, he whistled to an old tune as he shifted into gear.
He drove out of the developed bubble of land that the town was, into the sprawling acres of green that stretched in every direction. Along a very old road, they bounced merrily, suffering only few potholes, and being uninhibited by any annoying weather based phenomena. At length, they turned into a very long, and rather unpaved driveway, the result of which was that the ride changed very little.
After what could have been either a very long time, or not much more than a minute, the driveway terminated next to a smallish mansion, or a largish house. The old man picked up a few bags out of the back, then disappeared through the front door.
After he had presumably taken care of their ingredients, he returned to the truck and took the can into the house.
As always, the can awaited its likely imminent demise with philosophy and stolidly sat, doing no more than waiting.
The old man did not take the can of root beer into his kitchen or dining room, to devour with a slice of pizza as a slight repast, but instead went deeper into the house. Though large, it was rather cluttered with boxes of unknown objects, as well as being somewhat dusty. Nevertheless, excellent lighting as well as a large assortment of pictures of various small children- -the old man's extended family, warded off any cheerlessness that could have formed in the house.
Finally, the old man made one last turn, and stopped in a room unlike the others. Not only was there a conspicuous lack of boxes and dust, but the far wall, which was quite long, was covered entirely in a plethora of... soda cans.
There was everything from cola and dark colored sodas, to the lighter, more fruit based colors. The only characteristic that each can had in common was the old fashioned designs. The old man was a collector, albeit one with an odd collection.
There was but one empty spot, a spot in the middle of a group of familiar flavors. It was a spot for root beer.
"The only collection like it in the world... and it all goes to a particularly prominent museum when I take the final trip," the old man murmured to himself. "And now it is finally complete."
Carefully, almost reverently, the old man placed the can into the final empty slot, fitting it in perfectly. The collection was complete. He took a few steps back to examine the work of a lifetime, his eyes wandering from one end of the wall to the other.
"I'm something of a silly old man," he said softly, more to his collection than to himself. "But it's the silly little things that always seem to matter most in the end."
Then his gaze turned to the final piece of the puzzle. His creased face broke into a smile.
"A fitting end to a rather strange story, eh Woot Beew?" said the man.

The Worst Decision

Note: This is a dramatic re-imagining of a real life event. All events are recorded as accurately as they need to be.

I knew from the moment that I ordered that I had chosen unwisely. "Sir," I said, "May I have a corn dog?"

The older gentleman smiled benignly, and casually tossed one of the aforementioned objects into the deep fat fryer. Perhaps my instincts were aware, but my intellect certainly wasn't, and I realized only later that my hot dog was the only one of its kind being cooked, as opposed to the large amounts of chicken nuggets and french fries .
In fast food world, when you don't prepare a whole lot of something for holding during peak hours, it means that it isn't a very popular item. When something isn't a very popular item, even when half the price of pretty much everything else on the menu, its either niche, or just bad.
I hoped it was niche. My mind wandered. I had been forced into this situation. My stomach wasn't prepared to sit through the three hour graduation unassisted. Food is a very large part of my life. Stomach needed some food, and wallet didn't have a whole lot of money. I had thus no choice but to try for the corn dog and hope for the best.
My first misgiving at the time was a financial one. I noticed the grilled cheese, which was ten cents cheaper, probably bigger, and no one has ever gotten food poisoning from a grilled cheese, right? But I wasn't brave enough to ask if I could switch my order out, and cowardice defeated wallet and stomach's pleas for mercy.
My second misgiving came when I looked through my wallet. Despite my attempted frugality, there never seems to be anything in there. It all gets funneled this way and that, and I usually end up as I did then, with nothing more than a five. Kill me now, the bill seemed to say, fully aware that he was about to be broken into three parts assorted change and two parts late night hotel toilet tour.
I only knew that I had already bit off more than I could chew, and hadn't even sunk my teeth into the corn dog yet. I wondered who had invented the corn dog and if any time travelers had made plans to kill him. It would be an interesting addition to the Terminator movies. I could just imagine Ahnold with an M249 SAW in his hands and a corndog clamped between his teeth as he gunned down foes.
When the dog was placed in my hands, the river of emotion I felt can in no way be explained. It was small. It was greasy. It was in a cardboard container that wasn't meant to hold corn dogs. It was both horrific and unnatural. Meat on a stick is not unnatural. But unnatural meat on a stick, inside of what appears to be cornbread, is unnatural squared. As I walked towards the register to pay, I did my best to hide the corn dog. I felt for sure that everyone saw me as that guy, the corn dog guy who can't cough up another two bucks to buy some decent junk food. I could imagine them all standing there, pointing and shouting "Corn Dog Guy!" repetitively as I ran the verbal gauntlet.
I reached the register before anyone was inspired to begin the chant, and sheepishly held my lunch up to the lady. I gave her old Lincoln, who had been nervously crumpled and uncrumpled until he resembled a waffle gone bad more than anything else, and just as sheepishly accepted my three dollars and seventy three cents change back. "Enjoy your corn dog," she said with a smile, focusing on the register instead of me, like you do when passing a car accident and trying not to rubberneck.
"Yea right." I thought. I actually just smiled and nodded, as protocol suggests when one is in a precarious situation one probably will not leave except in an emergency airlift.
My family looked at me accusingly as I brought the limp piece of meat towards our seating. I wanted to scream "I was young and foolish!" but my voice failed me, and I sat down in misery to attempt to eat the fruit of my works.
I prayed that it would be quick.
With the first bite, I realized that it wasn't niche. I was halfway through before I recognized the curious sensation in my mouth, but there was no mistaking it. Despite having been fried in hot grease for what had seemed like half an hour, the saucy(figuratively) fellow remained ice cold on the inside. Stomach gurgled accusingly at me. I just patted him as you would pat a small family pet that you had just backed your car over and was in its last throes.
 By the time I had finished corn dog, I was thoroughly disgusted with myself and with my futile attempts at frugality and prudence. I tossed the grisly remains, and went over to the nearby water fountain to try and wash away the memories of grease that I knew would linger on in my throat and stomach for the next twenty four hours.
I eventually gave up by the time a line had formed behind me, and went to find a box of tums.

Writer's fit

I like to call it writer's fit. I'm sure I'm not the only one. While working on some mundane task, you suddenly get swept away. Everything fits together logically in your mind, and you know that it will fit on paper too. The biggest problem with writer's fit is the unpredictable nature. You might hold on to it for an hour, or you might have it for thirty seconds. By the time you can get to something that can record your incredible thought processes and logical conundrums, your Beauty for Dummies handbook has faded into the dark recesses of your mind. Tonight I thought I snatched a bit of the writer's fit, about itself (Naturally.) Holding on to it is like being that shipwreck survivor with a handful of cotton that he has painfully lit on fire by rubbing two sticks together. (Yes, it is possible, but it takes just about all day and leaves you with massive lactic acid buildup and blisters for hands. {At least, that is what I hear}) You hold on to it gingerly, knowing that it can go out any moment, and leaving you with nothing but a dark island and a burnt hand. And of course, writer's fit never occurs when staring at blogger. It's always when you're doing something different, or uninteresting, dishes, wiping tables, jogging, or simply taking a walk and daydreaming.
 It's often doing nothing that seems to get the most meaningful things done anyway, oddly.
 I'll let Chesterton close, seeing as I am suspicious that he was a master of taking advantage of writer's fit.
"(Poetry) is done by doing nothing."
-The Mirror of the Magistrate