Is it just me, or has pork lost its flavor? I’m not talking about bacon, ham, nor sausage; I’m talking about pork roasts, tenderloins, and chops. Regardless if I grill, bake, or slow cook, the meat has zero flavor. In fact, I often have to stare at my plate to figure out what I’m putting in my mouth. Even grocery store tomatoes have more taste than pork!

Once in a while, I’d be glad to pay big bucks for a delicious roast or a pack of pork chops, but in all of Phoenix I’ve tried the best, only to be disappointed once again. At first, I thought I was victimized by COVID destruction of my taste buds, not. Then I wondered if it was due to my family raising their own pigs to butcher, maybe. So, I decided to ask others and discovered those of us west of the Mississippi are clearly disillusioned by the flavorless “other white meat.”

Of course, most of us are further disillusioned by the “pork” in Congress. That sneaky little way of sliding a localized project primarily to a representative’s district. One of the most outrageous examples was Boston’s Big Dig, a 7.8 mile road relocated underground. Its estimated cost was $2.5 billion, but due to delays, we, Americans, paid $15 billion for the project. Parking decks in small towns were all a favorite of some congressmen, even though the entire town could have parked on the main level. Another favorite was a million-dollar grant to research the use of sheep grazing as a means of weed control. WTH?

I’m quite sure, though, the Warner Brothers cartoon character is delighted I’ve stopped buying his ribs–that’s all folks!

Unfortunately, I’ve never been delivered from the temptation of a dare. And several weeks ago, I received two challenges. I’ve been working on a new book, which for the most part, is set in a neighborhood bar and grill. Since I’ve no experience in the food and drink industry, I’ve been interviewing owners of those establishments.

Word traveled fast, and one of my friends who owns a diner asked me to waitress for a day. She promised to shadow me, so I don’t scare off her customers. But she insisted it would enrich my understanding of her business. My performance there is still to be determined.

However, my first and foremost challenge is Saturday, April 6 from 1-4 PM at The Playa, where I’ll be serving food and drinks to its patrons, under the tutelage of the outstanding, young owners, Sandi and Lindsey. They are even providing me with a separate tip jar, and its proceeds will be donated to the Paradise Valley Food Bank.

While I’ve a fairly good imagination, it’s far easier for me to write about something I’ve experienced. In fact, according to Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird: “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

‘Nuff said. See you on April 6th!

Why? To get rid of fine wrinkles, age spots, uneven skin tone, sun-damaged skin, and mild to moderate acne scars. I never considered such a treatment after I saw my neighbor’s face when she did it. To me, she looked like she’d been napalmed!

However, this week I had a dinner party, and one of my guests suggested we sit on the patio. “Come on, Sue. We can light the fire pit, and you’ll be warm enough.” You’ve probably already guessed what happened next. As I lit the pit, the gas exploded, and I literally went up in smoke! My quasi-eldest daughter swatted the back of my hair, as I batted the singed bits from my black blazer. My eyebrows, and some of my hair that framed my face were mere ashes.

Curiously, I was not as shaken by the event as my guests were. To make them more at ease, I said in my best Southern accident, “Lord Jesus, it’s a fireyah.” They looked at me like I was insane! “Watch this YouTube video,” I commanded. (If you haven’t seen this viral, NBC affiliate KFOR-TV interview of Kimberly “Sweet Brown” Wilkins after escaping from an apartment complex fire in Oklahoma City, you must google Ain’t Nobody Got Time for That.

Sweet Brown certainly vanquished my guests’ anxiety. And me? I have very soft face and a lot less hair. After all, ain’t nobody got time to pluck eyebrows anyway.

Last weekend I was in North Carolina for my grandson’s first birthday, where I nearly froze when the temperature dropped to a nippy 26 degrees. The baseball-themed, party was great fun and my grandbaby, Mac, loved the balloons, streamers, and especially the tissue paper in his present bags. Even though his cake was sugar-free, he seemed delighted to stick a fistful in his mouth.

While all in all, it was a wonderful celebration and a memory I shall cherish forever, I was frustrated. Like most walking toddlers, Mac is fascinated with plantation shutters he can repeatedly open and close, but he’s most enamored by the cabinets in the kitchen island and those under the sink. Thus, his inquisitiveness prompted child locks. Now I don’t know who invented these contraptions, but this old grandma spent four days struggling to unlock them. Finally, when I figured out the one which held the garbage and recycling products, I left the damn lock unattached. I went about my self-appointed tasks of loading the dishwasher, cleaning up the kitchen, and throwing away the garbage. I was nearly done. I turned to throw my last wad of detritus in the garbage…unbeknownst to me, Mac, had toddled over and locked the door.

I wanted to vocalize a number of my favorite expletives. (Mac doesn’t need to know that Grandma has a potty mouth…yet.) I made several attempts trying to release the lock, which refused to budge. WTH? I was disgusted with my lack of manual dexterity and my endless lack of patience. In the pantry I found a sack full of used grocery bags and filled one with the remaining debris. I donned my winter jacket and took the garbage outside to the dumpster where the cold wind slapped some sense into me and reminded me…this too shall pass.

Happy First, Mac!

I’ve just returned from a three-day stay in Las Vegas with much less cash than I had when I went. I couldn’t believe the change in prices since August. Believe me, the food and drink prices are absurd, not to mention the mediocre quality of the snacks and meals. For example, a 3-ounce bag of vacuum-packed popcorn is $9.99; a domestic beer is $13.00, a glass of house champagne is $50; and a slice of pepperoni pizza is $15.99. Now, if I had partaken of a meal at a restaurant which included the names of Ramsey or Flay, it would have been $150+! 

Of course, these increases may be attributed to LVIII Super Bowl next week, where the average ticket price is $11,000 and suites are in excess of $1.3 million. Typically, the Super Bowl, with its glitzy entertainment, amusing ads, and four quarters of gladiators grunting and huffing as they get smashed to the turf, also revolves around over-priced merchandise, food, and drink. Lord knows, how much the food is going to cost inside Allegiant Stadium.

There’s been a lot of talk about rising prices and a lot of blame being passed around, but in reality it’s purely a result of CORPORATE GREED. In fact, taxpayers are held hostage by professional sports teams. “Build us a new stadium, or we’ll leave.” (If I want to have a retail store, I must rent space or build a building. I can’t get a state-of-the-art facility courtesy of taxpayers.) Further, Allegiant Stadium is the third smallest of the thirty NFL stadiums. It seats 65,000, which conveniently allows for less cheap seats and more luxury boxes and premium seats. Five out of 7 of those most recently-built stadiums seat less than 71,000 with higher ticket prices.

Thankfully, my brief trip to Las Vegas left me with no interest in next week’s uber-expensive extravaganza. I didn’t bet on LVIII. I like Arizona’s Purdy, but Mahomes is ok, too. And hopefully, Taylor will make it in time for the game to give the news commentators something else about which to talk.

Given my recent boredom, I have begun to contemplate writing another novel. Though it’s not an easy task to first conceive an idea and it requires tons of research to add elements of truth to fiction, it is a great exercise of my twisted imagination. Over the last year, I’ve been collecting interesting characters, interviewing experts, and mulling the plot. But like with any writing, there’s a lot of rewriting and massaging that goes into the finished work. As Hemingway so eloquently said, “The first draft of anything is shit.”

Certainly, it helps if I personally experience an event. If it happens to me, I can easily describe my emotions, actions, and the event itself. Recently, I was the victim of a crime–courtesy of a pick pocket. Of all the crimes, a good one. In fact, according to research, it is one of the oldest and most lucrative crimes that is rarely prosecuted because the victim doesn’t even realize something’s been stolen until after the fact. The victim doesn’t know who, where, when, nor how it happened.

Now, no one has ever accused me of being Pollyanna, but I find all this information fascinating. Yes, I lost some money, but I gained an intriguing angle to add to the plot. Life deals me blips on my radar screen–health issues, accidents, losses, ad infinitum. What matters most is my ability to cope with and benefit from those blips. As my grandma always said: it does NO good to cry over spilled milk! Ain’t nobody got time for that!

As many of you know, I attended a luncheon and memorial service last weekend and found myself seated at a table of elderly women–meaning women about my age. For fifteen minutes or so, they discussed their current health issues and griped about the state of the world. After enduring as much as I could, I said, “Can’t we talk about something else? Something less maudlin?” Disgust crossed their faces. Their eyes were vacant; they were at a loss for words. After all, what else was there to talk about?

Of course, I didn’t stop there–my filter was asleep. “Why do old people all want to live together? You know, in retirement communities, such as these.”

Again, horror crossed their countenances. ”Don’t you get dreadfully bored hanging out with people our age?”

Talk about a conversation starter! I had opened the proverbial Pandora’s Box! They attacked me from all sides: “Why would we want to live where there are children?” ”They scream and yell; they engage in vandalism.” Their parents don’t discipline them.” ”In my day, my mom would have paddled me if I was as disrespectful as kids are today.” “Kids are hooligans.” “And don’t forget the drugs.”

I was incredulous. Should I leave the table, or forge on? I chose to continue. “I find young people absolutely delightful; they’re far smarter than I was when I was their age. If you don’t believe me, visit a high school math class, or a career-tech engineering class. Secondly, the thirty-fifty year olds have interesting perspectives on balancing career, family, and social lives. They’ve experienced things I never did, and they’ve been places I’ve never been. For me, I don’t want to be insular. I don’t want to surround myself with just people my age. I live on a shrinking planet; I don’t have all the answers to world problems and social issues. But I want to be part of solutions, not simply sit on the bench and talk about my gall bladder.” My sermon fell on deaf ears. “It was nice to meet you, but I’ve got to meet my adopted daughter and her kids at Jungle Playland.”

Now, I’m sure I left my new acquaintances with their knickers in a knot, but research has proven that homogeny or homogeneity can be destructive to society, for it reinforces prejudice, bias, and hate. Those who look different, act different, or are different by age are ostracized by those whom are all the same. 

As a case in point, some of the retirement communities west of Phoenix have exempted themselves from paying taxes to support elementary-high school districts, community colleges, and universities. Their mantra: “I paid taxes for my kids to go to school, and they’re grown. Let the young pay for their kids.” Not only do I find this short-sighted and repugnant, but I believe our greatest resource is our children. Without an educated public, we will never cure disease, address world conflict, or maintain economic growth. In fact, it raises such questions, Who is going to wipe your backside when you’re bedridden? Who’s going to fix your leaky toilet? Who’s going to remove your gall bladder?

To those of you who expect me to listen to your health issues and other gripes of your old-age syndrome: I ain’t got time for that!