Effie’s Nightly Cat-Collecting Ritual
I have a nighttime routine like I’m sure many people do. Nothing special. But my wife — oh lord! She is incorrigible! She has to make sure all of her cats are in the bedroom before she will even crawl into bed. (She could care less about the whereabouts of my cat Mayonnaise.)
One by one she seeks out each cat (this alone can take some time), carries them back to her bedroom and places them on the bed. It’s a rather time-consuming process considering she only has one arm. Some of the cats don’t like to be picked up or carried, and all of the cats hate to be put in a particular spot, much like every cat in existence. Cats are independent, they prefer to pick and choose their own spots. Once all cats are present and accounted for, she can then get into bed peacefully.
Sounds simple enough, right? Well, it gets tricky…
For starters, while she’s out collecting the rest of the cats, some of the already collected cats (you know who you are!) attempt to escape. Sometimes they do. If this happens the process suffers a major setback or she might even have to start all over.
Certain cats have specific spots on the bed. For instance: Effie wants her dear, sweet (socially awkward) Linus as close to her as humanly possible so that she can snuggle him between her warm nub and body. Oscar, on the other hand, she wants at the foot of the bed because he is a “miserable beast who pretends to be asleep and bites in the night.”
Then there’s Frederick, who has a personal vendetta against Percy that my wife says stems from deep rooted jealousy. Apparently there’s some sort of torrid love triangle involving Fredrick and Percy competing for the affections of Lady Marmalade. Effie insists that the three of them must be split up at night and that neither male can be closer to Marmalade than the other so as to discourage either from engaging in unauthorized nighttime canoodling with Marmalade because that would lead to confrontation. For the record, all of these cats have been Bob Barker’d (spayed and neutered).
Effie is only satisfied once she has seen all of her cats in the same place at the same time. Why, you ask? Well, she has theories (lord, does she ever have theories!) that some of her cats collude to delve into trickery together to outsmart her. She posits that if, say, one of the cats (in most cases it would likely be Oscar) wants to sneak out of the house that a devious arrangement would have been pre-orchestrated between said cat and an accomplice cat to fool her. Meaning, one cat could be accounted for in one part of the house and then quickly, under the cover of darkness, travel to a second part of the house where he would be counted a second time in place of the escaping cat. And before you ask, yes, she can tell the difference between her cats, she chooses to perform this cat collecting with minimal lighting so that she can sneak up on them quietly and catch them off guard. Let me tell you, there is nothing sneaky or quiet about a one-armed lady who goes bump in the night. It’s a catastrophe!
The cats are in no way required to stay on the bed or in her room throughout the whole night, although she prefers that they do and takes it personally when most of them decide to leave.
Yes, I am married to a crazy cat lady. And I love it!
Mr. Mayonnaise in the French Resistance
Adolph Hitler was not a lover of mayonnaise, which is really quite surprising considering mayonnaise is white and far superior to all other condiments. During World War II, Georges Mora [born Gunter Morawski in Leipzig in 1913] and French mime artist Marcel Marceau were refugee smugglers with the French Resistance. Mora observed German soldiers would never search sandwiches with mayonnaise for fear it would stain their uniforms. (Hitler was a bit of a Nazi when it came to uniforms.)
[Australian documentary filmmaker Philippe] Mora, 60, praised the bravery of his father and Marceau. ”Marceau told me this story about my dad being called Mr Mayonnaise in the French Resistance.”
His father, who had escaped from Germany after the book-burning, noticed German soldiers would never search sandwiches containing mayonnaise in case drips stained their uniforms.
So the Resistance wrapped the identity papers of Jewish children being smuggled over borders in greaseproof paper, smeared them with mayonnaise and inserted them into sandwiches.
Once again, mayonnaise saves lives. Is there anything it can’t do?
Read more on how mayonnaise sandwiches saved kids from Nazis.
Hump Day
Oh boy! The emailman just delivered my very first correspondence!
Dear Grandpa Wiggly,
Why does my mommy call Wednesdays hump day?Jessie
Portland, Oregon
Well Jessie, your mommy likely calls Wednesday “hump day” because Wednesday is the middle of the week. Assuming your mommy works the traditional Monday through Friday, Wednesday is the hump in the workweek. Once Wednesday has come and gone, you are over the hump and the rest of the week is downhill. Wheeeeee!
Now of course Wednesday is considered hump day if you look at your week from the five-day workweek perspective. In a seven-day week that begins with Monday, Thursday would technically be the hump. Wednesday would be the hump in a seven-day week that begins with the Sabbath. I should probably specify the Christian Sabbath, Sunday. Friday evening to Saturday evening is the Jewish Sabbath, which I guess would make Saturday night to Sunday night their Monday, and Tuesday night to Wednesday night their hump day. Unless they round up, which would make… This is too confusing. I should have just said Sunday instead of Sabbath and been done with it.
Mondays are just Mondays. Everybody hates Mondays! Unless of course your Mondays are part of your weekend. Sunday is Grandpa Wiggly’s Friday so that makes Monday and Tuesday my weekend. Mondays are so terrible that many businesses are closed. Hitler was born on a Monday, which back then they called Saturday in Austria–Hungary. Monday is usually when I make mayonnaise for the week, that’s why I call it Mayonnaise Monday! (Did you know mayonnaise saved kids from the Nazis? It’s true!)
My ill-tempered, one-armed wife, Effie, disagrees with the official Wiggly Calendar. Then again, her week consists of twice as many days on account of her bitterness and cattiness about everything and nothing. She follows the cat calendar, and I don’t mean those 16-month calendars of cuddly cute cat pictures that are sold in the mall around Christmas. I mean the feline calendar.
One cat year is equivalent to fifteen (!) human years. Once you factor in that cats have nine lives, I can’t even begin to fathom when cat hump day falls. That sounds like a task for Math. Or cats.
For Grandpa Wiggly, Wednesday is the first day of my week because, as all of you know grandchildren know, Wednesday is Wiggly Wednesday. That makes Saturday Grandpa Wiggly’s hump day, which makes today, Tuesday, my Sunday.
So, Jessie, now you know why your mommy calls Wednesday “hump day.” If I’m wrong and there happens to be another reason, I think that’s a conversation best left between the two of you. Thanks for writing!
logolepsy
(noun)
An obsession with words, especially obscure words.
logolept (n.) — a person who is obsessed with words.
Little Girl and Kitty in the Meadow
My wife is a creep. Effie keeps this menacing picture that she’s had for years on the wall in her bedroom. She knows how much I don’t care for it. There is something so unsettling about the way the little girl and her kitty stare at you.
This evening I came home from the market to find the tiles from the Bananagrams game Effie and I were playing after dinner had been arranged in a most ominous manner. Of course Effie claims she had nothing to do with it. Perhaps the cats collaborated to conspire against me.
As you can see, there were upside down tiles that, when flipped over, revealed a more gruesome image. Now little girl and kitty don’t want to keep me warm, they want to keep my arm — a smoking gun indicating one-armed Effie’s involvement.
When I got to this part, I expected perhaps the “secret just for you” might contain a more playful hidden message.
Kitty was just hungry… And the little dead-eyed girl wants to ax me a question.
This is just one of the millions of reasons I love my wife…
boanthropy
(noun)
A psychological disorder in which a human being believes himself to be a bovine.
The most prominent sufferer of the disorder was King Nebuchadnezzar who in the Book of Daniel “was driven from men, and did eat grass as oxen.”
Mayonnaise 911
Fellow Redditor tsulahmi sent me this message regarding his mayonnaise:
Yesterday I attempted to make the mayonnaise you had discussed on your AmA thread, unfortunately it was not a success. It never thickened while I was making it and was a yellow color much darker than any mayo I have ever seen. I was hoping it would thicken in the fridge, but alas, all of the ingredients separated (oil on top, spices on the bottom, misc in the middle). I whisked it for quite a while (it took about a 1/2 hour to make) and even used an electric egg beater at one point hoping it would speed up the process. All of the ingredients were at room temperature when i started except for the eggs which were a little cook and the lard was cold (it had come out of the freezer about an hour beforehand).
Chances are he didn’t do anything wrong. Making perfect mayonnaise takes time and skill, and a whole lot of patience. My first failed attempt at making mayonnaise is legendary (just ask my wife). It took me several attempts to get it just right. Also keep in mind that the weather can have a lot to do with how your mayonnaise turns out. If it’s a rainy, humid day, mayonnaise can be just as stubborn as your hair. You always want to make your mayonnaise in a cool, dry place if possible.
Here are some pointers:
- For maximum mayonnaise making success, always start with room temperature ingredients.
- Beat your egg yolks separately until they are thick and appear sticky. Your oil is more easily emulsified that way.
- Add your oil very slowly, just a few drops at a time, beating well between each addition to avoid overwhelming the yolk and curdling the mixture. When the mixture starts resembling thick cream, the oil can be more easily absorbed by the egg yolks.
- Do not exceed half a cup of oil per egg yolk, at least initially. The chances of ruining your mayo increases with higher proportions of oil versus water (egg yolks are half water), and who wants to risk such a failure when you are just starting out?
- If you plan on using an electric mixer to make mayonnaise, beat your egg yolks with salt and lemon juice on low until the mixture is thick and sticky. Gradually add your oil, beating continuously on medium speed.
Eaglstun’s Mayonnaise
Twitter user and fellow Redditor, eaglstun, tweeted this picture of homemade mayonnaise (and ketchup) slathered all over delicious cheeseburgers. It took a few attempts to get it right, as it often does, but he got the hang of it. Soon he’ll be making mayonnaise in his sleep!
It’s mayonnazing!
eaglstun: Burgers and fries with homemade ketchup and mayonnaise.
Grandpa Wiggly: Looks delicious! Did you make the mayonnaise yourself?
eaglstun: yep! It is my third or fourth batch and the best yet, I’m definitely getting the hang of it. Thanks for the recipe!
Have you tried making your own Wiggly Mayonnaise at home yet? Email Grandpa Wiggly pictures of your mayonnaise or share them on Twitter (hashtags: #wiggly and #mayonnaise).
Mayonnaise Investigates
Effie woke me up to investigate a noise she claims she heard coming from outside. Said noise was described as: “A series of random claps followed by a loud clang.” I peeked out the bedroom window but did not find any marching band trespassers. I told her it was nothing and to go back to bed. Unsatisfied, she added, “Probably prowlers from the internet! This is all your fault for telling them where we live!”
“I did no such thing,” I said.
“Well then the internet told them!”
Upon further insistence, I went out into the living room to get a better view of the backyard. As usual, Mayonnaise was way ahead of me. Effie may be the Great Cat Detective, but Mayonnaise is the Great Cat Detective.
“See, there must be something out there if fatty got up to check,” said Effie. I snapped a few quick pictures of Mayonnaise perched on the back of the love seat. “Don’t take pictures! Go see what it is.” I donned my robe and slippers and headed outside with the camera. Effie locked the door behind me. “Just in case.”
Outside it was completely dark, Effie didn’t want the floodlights to spook whatever it was. I couldn’t see anything. I moved a few feet over knowing the motion censor lights would detect my presence. The lights came on and spooked the trespasser. I heard a calamity and saw a black object run from the side of the house — a black cat.
“What is it?”
“It’s just a cat.”
“Bring it inside.”
I snapped this picture just as it jumped the fence. We’ll be seeing him again.
Back inside Effie debriefed me and shared her own deductions: “I think it’s obvious your sweet little Mayonnaise has been secretly consorting with mischievous black beasts in the night that have been God knows where. This is going on her permanent record.”
