Unbidden

Perfect gifts come in different flavors. There's the gift that's perfect because the recipient laid in the specs to remove all doubt. Herr Cranky's gift of a phone with a map program fits this category; this phone gave the Crankies the logistical umph they needed to navigate unfamiliar cities on their recent roadtrip. In addition, it sent Crankies 1 and 2 into paroxysms of joy as they discovered apps, games, and wallpaper-selection opportunities. C2 found a notes function in which she writes diary entries such as, "I went to the plum patch. We picked a lot of good plums." In her euphoria, C2 raised up an encomium of praise for technology:

I just love this phone.
WHO KNEW that a phone could give you a map? 
WHO KNEW that a phone would let you write notes? 
WHO KNEW that a phone had games on it? 
WHO KNEW that a phone could still let you talk on the phone, like la, la, la.

Steve Jobs, want some PR to provide a diversion from that iPhone 4 kerfluffle? The Crankies are available.

The other perfect gift is the one you didn't know you needed. When friend Zia pressed a thumb drive upon the not-techie Meta Cranky, it was as if the angel choirs were singing. How long had this technological miracle been available to the rest of the planet? That long, really?

Comes now Mr. High Security, who not only studies antique hardware but also can identify individuals who are least likely to accomplish simple tasks on their own. As a result, the talented Mr. High Security not only fixed the beloved, broken, ancient hardware at Cranky Farm, he also installed it. Can we mention that he lives in another state? Sure, Meta Cranky put the repaired lock back in the door, but did she notice that door frame had no hole for the deadbolt? Um. Rather no. The Crankies now enjoy fully operational 90-year-old locks and more working keys than your average janitor--the impressive, skeleton-type keys you'd use to lock Mr. Rochester's crazy wife in the attic. And MC gets to savor the perfect gift of unforeseen, unbounded generosity.

MC's chi is running particularly strong this week, because she also received a unexpected gift for someone else's birthday. Paying her respects on the natal day of friend I'm Adorable, but Don't Piss Me Off, she received a perfectly pressed set of tea towels embroidered by I'm Adorable's mother. Meta Cranky remembers Mother of Adorable's house as cool island of domesticity in a dusty, sandburr-filled sea. Small MC would tumble out of Major Cranky's Chevy pickup, in which the day's only refreshment would have been a bag of Red Man chewing tobacco. Stopping to see Mother of Adorable, with her hospitality, air conditioning, and cold water, always gave MC hope that Major Cranky was going to evoke closure and eventually head home to lunch. I'm Adorable's perfect gift reminds MC that small gestures can bring moments of glad grace yea even into a hot Chevy. Why embroider seven tea towels with days of the week and amusing animal figures? Because looking at them might make you smile when you otherwise wouldn't. Perfect.
--MC

(Photo to come)

Travesty

Meta Cranky has perpetrated a crime against botany. She has transformed the peach, one of nature's most beautiful creations, into something resembling the color and consistency of Oliver Twist's gruel.

The problem arises from inventory control. The ridiculous windfall of native plums has transformed the celebration of Seasonal Fruit into something approaching a work-release sentence. After the fruits of the Crankies' plum excursion were processed, MC was ready for a respite, but Seasonal Fruit was only tuning up. Second Brother's peach tree needed attention, and a half-hour's picking produced enough for a perfectly lovely cobbler and several happy bowls of jewel-tone slices at the breakfast table. MC estimated that she would get her groove back while the apples ripened. Then, foolishly, she left the house. When she returned, there were five (5) gallons of peaches on her porch, lovingly picked by Second Brother.

D(elivery)-Day Plus One: Texas Friend arrives and peels for an hour, producing another bowl of peachy perfection. What remains, however, is approximately 4.5 gallons of Second Brother's peaches. This particular product is in all ways delicious, but also labor intensive; the fruit is small, and most of the little darlings contain a worm or two. The Crankies are no closer to containment than BP after its first lame attempt at capping the Deepwater Horizon.
D-Day Plus 2: MC manages to blanche a dishpan full of peaches during C2's playdate and produce an Incredibly Forgiving Peach Cake. Tres bon! And yet quel dommage!  because those peaches are getting surly. Their worms are growing. Their bruises are blooming. MC thinks that the balance of power has subtly shifted in her relationship with Seasonal Fruit. Second Brother stops by and asks, "Shouldn't you be grinding up those peaches or something?" MC offloads fruit to Mother of Playdate.
D-Day Plus 3: As Seasonal Fruit becomes increasingly demanding, MC no longer has time for that blanching business. She slices up what she's got, produces another Incredibly Forgiving Peach Cake, covers the remaining peaches with sugar, and slams them in the fridge. What could possibly go wrong? Two waves of visitors arrive and the conversation happily takes another turn.
D-Day Plus 4: C1 and C2 look quizzically at the browned mass their mother has placed on the breakfast table. "Did you get the wrong bowl?" asks C1, diplomatically.
Evening of D-Day Plus 4: MC attempts peach remediation. Surely some jamming action will revive those underperforming peaches, she thinks: Pectin, a few square yards of sugar, and presto! However, MC's relationship with these particular peaches had gone to a place where no food stylist can salvage it. C1 walks into the kitchen during the botched attempt and looks on with unfeigned admiration at the effort. "The peach smoosh!" she exclaims. Then, realistically, she asks, "Have you tried it?" No, MC admits, she's rather busy with the draconian Sure Jell instructions. C1 dubiously tries a spoonful of jam and offers this searing assessment: "It looks nasty, but it tastes OK."


In her final review, C1 couldn't decide if whether the peach jam looked more like haggis or head cheese. Either one is so far removed from the original blushing globules as to be almost a different species of flora or fauna. A generous person might call the product a golden brown. But residents of the reality-based community could never call it peachy.
--MC

A Good Year for Plums

How can the Crankies tell that the local sandplums are maybe over-performing? Could it be the hordes of people they've never seen before standing across the fence from Uncle Michael's cattle, plinking globular fruit into plastic buckets? Maybe because there's no Sure-Jell to be found in two counties. Sorry, but if you want it, you've got to be on site when the One Thing Needful comes off the truck at Walmart. Consider this phenomenon: even  the Crankies' friend I'm Adorable, But Don't Piss Me Off was drawn out of jam retirement when her offspring gifted her with produce she couldn't ignore. The Crankies know this because her jam jars had been in their basement for two years, and she needed to borrow some back. This is a legendary epoch in the annals of Cranky Homeland sandplums.

And none too soon. Prunus angustifolia has taken on the chin for the last two seasons. Alternating drought, flood, and late frost effectively obliterated them from the landscape. Sure, the thickets were still there, thorny and full of chiggers, just like normal. But they were completely naked, like the shelves of a Soviet-era grocery store. The sandplums of Cranky Homeland are now redeeming themselves and, in appreciation, the locals are submitting to all measure of discomfort (heat, bugs, dirt, dangerously friendly Angus cows)  to gather them up. People who live where streets are paved may be muttering, oh jeez, how hard could it be? It's just fruit, for the love of Mike. Tell that to the Crankies' Cousin Winogene. When presented with a pint of plum jam as a hostess gift years ago, Winogene began manifesting PTSD symptoms, twitching slightly as she flashed back to the hot, itchy thickets of her youth. Meta Cranky palmed the jar, and Winogene's heart rate returned to normal.

With family, friends, and liberal application of insecticide, the Crankies revelled in a Hallmark-card-quality fruit-gathering expedition. They attribute the success of their grand day out to the local knowledge and strong chi of their fellow fruit-gatherers, who not only identified the perfect spot, but thoughtfully laid in the correct degree of cloud cover. The Crankies' expedition had more plums and fewer mosquitoes per square foot than any plum-related outing in Meta Cranky's plumming career. Did anyone crawl over a fence and rip her pants? Nope. Fall off the back of the truck into sandburrs? Again, nope. Step in cow plop and subject the party to reeking automobile all the way home? Not this time. Cranky 2 photographed the cow product to remind her friends not to step in it; write this technique into the protocols, because apparently, it works.

Friends and neighbors are busily inserting plum smoosh into little jars and storing the product in the back of their pantries, a huge additional outlay of time and energy. Why all this industry for jam? How much toast can they eat in Cranky Hometown, anyway? Meta Cranky thinks that it's not just about the toast; it's about being in the presence of generosity and bounty. With nothing to work with but sand, sun, and water, Prunus angustifolia has produced an extravagant crop. Confidently, it put out its inventory in the face of searing temperatures, a nasty Gulf oil spill, and an underperforming economy. In a rather mean summer, the sandplums are doing something confident and impressive. Who doesn't want a piece of that action?
--MC

Inbound

Dateline: EFFINGHAM, IL    
The Crankies are returning to Cranky Girl Farm from their glorious trip to the nation's capitol. They easily could have stopped in Terre Haute, Indiana, but they're getting a cheap thrill from saying "Effingham" at the slightest provocation.  C1 smiled immoderately at the sight of the Effingham water tower, which bore the city's name, proudly writ large. Uncle Michael obliged Meta Cranky by asking whether she was going to the Effing swimming pool. Effingham may become the Cs' expletive of choice; they certainly will get their money's worth out of this stop on Interstate 70.

Almost heaven, I-70. Roads are flat there, flatter than the Walmart parking lots. Meta Cranky will take it any day over I-68. Who knew that Maryland had mountains? Meta Cranky never saw a single one at Camden Yards. Not that it isn't heartwarming to see a billboard for God's Anchor of Safety church on a hill with a 6-degree grade. Still, the Crankies would again slog over mountains, or even across the Tappen Zee Bridge (no small feat for the gephyrophobic Meta Cranky) to see their dear DC pals, let's call them Lillian and Dashiell. Wherever they are posted, be it Lodge Pole, Nebraska, or the Federal Territory of Kuala Lumpur, the Cs will follow the Hellman/Hammetts (and their lovely thespian daughter) for their extensive board game collection, their exemplary grilling skills, and their fathomless knowledge of things historical, architectural, or simply fun. They had C2 at "hello," but their understanding of the Sponge Bob oeuvre deepened an already vigorous relationship.


The Crankies' DC tour is the longest road trip of their collective career, and the experience has left them pondering the mysteries of enduring friendships and sisterhood in confined spaces. In addition, the Crankies will be processing the random information they have gleaned along the highway. For example, Indiana appears to be the high fructose corn syrup capital of the planet. Mile after mile of corn, taller than your minivan. Drive a few miles further, and Indiana's roadside advertising features an individual who successfully lost 200 pounds via surgery and, apparently, wants to help you do the same. Hmmm. Corn. Morbid obesity. Could there be a connection? Corn probably is not an issue in another Indiana observation: Signage indicates that Eastern Indiana citizens want desperately to see you in church. Any church. In the western part of the state? Bleh. Western Indiana appears not give a damn about your immortal soul. The Crankies are curious about why Indiana is running hot and cold on this one.


MC suspects that children of a certain age may not remember the lovely reflection of the Washington Monument on a glassy smooth Potomac, or the uplifting words of FDR carved in stone. They will, however, remember playing pickup-sticks at a certain national park and seeing a sleeping panda. MC herself will remember the Air and Space Museum for its space shuttle-shaped gummies, which C1 thoughtfully selected for  C2; C1's satisfaction in conquering the Metro on her second trip is also a keeper. The complete Cranky party will remember C2's appreciation of Walmart's advertising in Wheeling, West Virginia: Reading the phrase in the store's parking lot, she began vigorously chanting, "We sell for less!" Her interpretative recitation wasn't completely squelched until the group reached the produce section. 


MC recognized many years ago that final results excited her more than a discussion of their means of production. However, life with C1 and C2 on I-70 (and I-68!) reminds her that it's not just the destination; it's the journey. Now that she has evoked closure with a metaphor, she can get back on the highway.
--MC  


**Regarding photo, which features a favored koala and a doll named Isabel that plays "Send in the Clowns" when you wind up her bottom: C2 requests that readers observe how neatly she has arranged her friends in the back seat.

Travel is Broadening

The Crankies are taking their mid-America tour, a trip ripe with opportunities for cultural enrichment and self-exploration. However, Meta Cranky is proving the theory opined in Repo Man: "The more you drive, the less intelligent you are." She thinks that  chicken products sold along interstate highways must suck IQ points out of your gray matter and leave them in the detritus on the minivan floorboard. Even C2 has noticed something going on and asked, "Please can we not go to Wendy's any more?" She offered this devastating review of The Ultimate Chicken Grill: "Not Yummy."

In one alarming vignette in downstate Illinois, the Crankies wandered into a McDonald's full of the patrons who looked like the rotund, sedentary humanoids in WALL-E. It was perhaps the palest, plumpest, chain restaurant in the Crankies' experience, and they know every Braum's ice cream store in I-35. The U.S. President seems to be a notable exception to the Illinois' paradigm of pinkness and chub.

In Indiana, the Crankies explored the hometown of the famed Hoosier poet James Whitcomb Riley. Never heard of him? That's because you're not from Indiana, loser. The Crankies' Quaker ancestor recited Riley from memory, passing down certain euphonious phrases about grandpappies and punkins to his heirs. Riley's hometown of Greenfield, with its meticulously restored courthouse, appears to be auditioning for the role in a The Music Man; all it needs is Robert Preston skipping past the adorable gazebo on the courthouse lawn. Greenfield residents seem oblivious to all the ambient Victorian cuteness and are undistracted by acres of polished brass and burnished grillwork. The museum guide clearly had dealt with crankier customers than The Crankies and effortlessly reduced C2 to compliant, raised-hand docility. Don't even think about playing with those historical dollies.  All that rapt attention assured that the Crankies were ringers at their  next Indiana museum, a house on the Underground Railroad. Anybody know what this t-shaped wooden gizmo does? Yes sir, said C1 politely; it tightens the rope supports under the bed. After the guide demonstrated and replaced the gizmo on the bedspread, C2 observed that the other museum kept it on acid-free paper so the wood wouldn't stain the cloth. Just a suggestion.

C1 observes that the midwest is full of corn, and she requests stops to photograph vistas and native flora. C2 has made the acquaintance of midwestern small people, sharing her Skittles with random children of America's heartland. Meta Cranky is thrilled to find clean towels and liberal hours for motel pools, and she highly recommends the produce department at the Zanesville, Ohio, Pick-N-Pay. The Crankies expect to recover from recent infusions of Interstate Highway Dreck and subsequently report on their arrival Inside the Beltway.
--MC
*flora photo credits go to C1