The Back of the Pantry

We've postponed grocery shopping for a couple of weeks. For the most part, it's been a beneficial exercise in frugality and resourcefulness. Alison and I don't really go for processed foods, so we don't have deep stores of rations to weed through. But, now and then, it's a good idea to consider the things that sit in the shadowy zones of the pantry, and to see what's still edible among the time capsules in the freezer. Yesterday afternoon I wanted something sweet, and the apples and bananas were long gone. Way in the back of the cupboard, between a jar of clumpy beef bouillon powder and what looked like part of an insect that never achieved infestation status, was this little purple box. When port wine-flavoured jello starts looking like an attractive snack, it's time to go shopping again.

I bought it 7 or 8 months ago because I'd never seen it before, and knew I'd be willing to try it at some point. Today was the day. Aeroplane is the Jell-O of Australia, and, by the way, it's called jelly here. I'm not sure why port wine struck the Aeroplane flavourings team as a good idea. Bertie, the jolly airplane pictured at top right, is clearly meant to appeal to kids, so there seems to be some demographic confusion here.

Flavour-wise, this is nothing like port wine, which is good because I don't like port (evidenced by our collection of dust-and-web-covered bottles given to us by friends). But I don't like this stuff, either; it tastes like weak grape juice filtered through musty carpet padding. Aeroplane offers a few other interesting varieties that I may try in even more desperate times ahead, perhaps when I've run out of syrup of ipecac: blue heaven, "creaming soda", and bubblegum.

Cat Pee

Daisy, Momo, Bamako: take note.

A package from my brother, Scott, who lives in Ellensburg, Washington, arrived recently, stuffed with some items we'd ordered from REI for a New Zealand ski trip we're planning for July. It was part of a plan we had for saving money on international shipping; I'd left my ski pants in the United States, so we had the gear mailed to him and asked Scott to add the pants to the package from REI and send the whole bundle together. 

As I rummaged though the box I discovered this note written by my nephew, Ben, who is 6. It reads:

Please do not let the cats pee in my bedroom. Thank you! --Ben

I dwelled on this for a bit, and three scenarios offer possible explanations:

1.) Ben wrote this to me, thinking I have some regulatory control over Daisy, Momo and Bamako from this great distance. (Alas, I do not.)

2.) Ben wrote the note to his parents, Scott and Kara, who either: a.) deemed it a pathetic and futile request and sent it to me at the expense of Ben's dignity, as if to say, "Dig this, Pete", or b.) have already taken appropriate measures to make Ben's bedroom a less attractive place to tinkle, and  included the note as a charming token from back home.

3.) Demonstrating a textbook example of passive-aggressive behaviour, Ben wrote this to the cats, assuming that while Scott was preparing the shipment, Daisy, Momo and Bamako would succumb to typical feline curiosity and inspect the box, thereby discovering the note and feeling chastised without the embarrassment of a confrontation.

Given that my ski pants smell like cat pee, I pick number 3.

The Chart

I am entertained by simple things. Take the Bristol Stool Chart, for example. It's a reference tool used by doctors and nurses since 1997, and it addresses a serious topic-- gastrointestinal health.

I think it's hilarious. I first heard of the chart from my friend Luce, who works as a physiotherapist at Melbourne Hospital. She knew of my fondness for toilet humour and asked me one day if I'd like her to find me a copy of the chart to hang on my wall-- perhaps in the bathroom or kitchen. I think my reply was something like, "Duh!"

That was a couple of years ago, but she still hasn't been able to find a "nice one" for me. Given the workplace context in which I imagine this chart being used, I'm willing to wait. In the meantime, though, I came across this handy pocket-sized version included with a product called Motion Potion-- one of the lamer freebies Alison got in her bag of goodies after a triathlon she ran last season.

Mike digs a latrine.

Poop is funny on its own, but I also derive pleasure from thinking about how this chart first came to be. First, the illustrations: someone drew or painted these pictures by hand. The Bristol Stool Scale may have been published in 1997, but the style of illustration, cute and storybookish, is straight out of the 1930s. These little brown piles could easily have been censored from the final edits of Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel or Fun with Dick and Jane. 


And then there's the writing. What fun! I can imagine the copy writer walking that fine line, imagining how best to describe a piece of shit and not make someone sick or collapse with laughter:

"Like a sausage, smooth and soft."

or

"Fluffy pieces, ragged edges, mushy stool."

It's like haiku. The captions are clinically precise, but reveal a solid command of visual vocabulary. Someone had fun with this even if they tried to hide it.