Those Who Know, Chuckle.
TO AN AMATEUR SKYWATCHER (in the original sense of that first word), the beginning of the month is quite special; it’s when the new issue of Astronomy arrives. Among that magazine’s many excellent features and fixtures is “Ask Astro,” where experts answer readers’ questions. Here is something from the May 2023 “Ask Astro” that — well, just look:
THE MISSIONARY AT THE DOOR was polite but insistent as she tried to hand me a tract.
I bowed my head and pointed to my yarmulke. “No thank you,” I said.
Her eyes widened and her mouth made a little “o” of consternation as she backed away. “Thank you for being so courteous,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” I said, and closed the door.
Usually, my “yarmie” acts as a lighthouse for interesting conversations. It’s good, and a little sad, that it can also act as a conversation stopper.
– Definition: adj.; chiefly British chaotic, disorganized, or mismanaged.
– Used in a sentence: Our political and cultural landscapes have become shambolic as all get-out.
– Why: Because we need a more polite (and adjectival) descriptor than… those in current usage.
“DO YOU WANT ANSWERS? Or better, more interesting questions?”
ALBACORE GETS ALL THE PRESS when it comes to canned tuna, but skipjack is the preference ’round here due to its richer flavor. (Think of it as a “white meat / dark meat” thing.) And the preference for preparing an economical and delicious sandwich of same is as follows:
Drain two cans of pole-caught, no-salt-added skipjack ($2.29 a can at our local Whole Foods). Flake into desired container. Add a few squirts of Tabasco and some fresh-ground black pepper to taste, enough dill relish to provide a nice crunch, and a modest squeeze of anchovy paste. Moisten with sufficient ranch dressing to hold everything together and mix thoroughly.
To serve: Toast some good bread as dark as you like it. Spread one piece thickly with skipjack mixture, top with a leaf or two of romaine lettuce, and top that with the other toast-slice. Cut diagonally and place both halves at an angle on a suitable plate, fill the intervening space with kettle-cooked potato chips, and have at!
THERE IS A REASON THAT the expression “take care with your wishes” is such a widespread cliché.
It was a fine spring day, mixing an unbroken vault of blue, the alluring scent of sun-warmed fragrantia, and magah-birds crooning sprightly refrains from the branches of occasional latticewood trees. Prosatio Silban tugged at the plaited yak-hair reins, brought his dray-beast and galleywagon to a gentle halt, and whistled in wonder.
They had emerged from the trees into a broad lawn encircling a tall white dome set atop a gentle rise. The dome seemed to be missing a vertical section, but from his perspective, the cook-errant couldn’t see what lay within the darkened cavity. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Consequential Light”
WE’VE ALL HEARD OF LOST arts. But what about lost artists?
Prosatio Silban rolled out of his sleeping-berth and onto his ornate braided rug, studying the bedside mirror with worry etched on his face and defeat slumping his shoulders.
I can’t do this anymore, he thought at his downcast image. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Shattered Vessel”
THE SMALL BOY AT SONOMA Plaza came running up to the ducks.
Great, I snarled to myself. Just what we need — another damn kid chasing the local waterfowl. Why can’t they leave the birds in peace?
As I considered this, he turned from the flock and ran to an old woman in a wheelchair. “Would you like to feed the ducks?” he asked with youthful enthusiasm, offering her two slices of rye bread.
Some days, crow doesn’t taste half-bad.
WHILE HITCHHIKING BETWEEN PLACERVILLE AND South Lake Tahoe in 1985, my ride — who had just unsuccessfully offered a friendly beer — taught me a valuable lesson on which I still reflect constantly: “When you’re on the road, and someone wants to give you something, take it.”
People like to help. So much so, that when you refuse said help, they feel at least disappointed or, at worst, insulted. Whether it’s carrying something, taking something, getting ahead of them in line at the grocery store, or whatever, it makes a vital human connection between otherwise-strangers. We all like to feel needed; and when someone else implies that we’re not, it grouses us on a visceral level.
Here in Lower North America, we pay a good deal of lip-service to the Rugged Individual who’s admonished to “stand on your own two feet.” But that can get lonely after a while. When that loneliness-wall is breached, it feels good — both to the giver and receiver. And who wants to refrain from helping someone feel good?
So the next time you receive an offer of help, accept it with a cheery “Thank you.”. It’s the human thing to do.
WHEN THE CHICKENS COME HOME to roost, there is often confusion in the henhouse.
What a strange dream, Prosatio Silban thought, sitting up in his sleeping-berth. So vivid. So compelling.
Then he caught his breath and listened.
Someone or something is here in my galleywagon, he thought. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Paid Piper”
WE HAVE READ MANY TIMES of the Heirs Second, who rule the Uulian Commonwell by solemn duty and occasional whim.
But who rules the Heirs Second?
Late one night, Prosatio Silban was hard at work scrubbing the inside of a large copper boiling-pot. A wave of frustrated fatigue washed over him; he had several times passed the vessel through his immaculator – a wide bone-hoop set on a heavy ironwood base, whose magik could (in theory) remove even the most intractable stains. However, after several passes, his work was still without any visible result. So it was no wonder that his surly mood was further aggravated by a loud knock at his galleywagon door.
It’s no longer the hour for visitors – and I should be abed myself, he thought, stepping with soft tread across his ornate braided rug and grasping a doorside cudgel. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Midnight Summons”
NO ONE HAS YET DEVISED a satisfactory agency for long-distance intimacy – but in every world, there’s at least one that tries.
With a protracted high-pitched scream, an enormous emerald-hued bird circled Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon in descending spirals as the vehicle made its careful way along the tamped-earth road between the villages of Bottle and Wardhaven.
At last, the cook-errant thought, and smiled in anticipation. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Jade Hawk”
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