Thursday, October 23, 2014

Ursula's World

I've long ago given up wondering what triggers my thoughts and memories, but for some reason I found myself thinking of my friend Ursula. I'd never in my life met anyone like her before, nor have I since. And doubt I ever shall again.

I met Ursula while I was living in a very small town in northern Wisconsin. She was well-known in the area as being an eccentric rock of a woman who, in her 70s when I met her, lived alone on a 20-acre farm on which she raised sheep. She also sheared them and spun their wool into yarn, from which she made mittens, scarves, and various other items. She had electricity but no running water and no toilet.

I’d heard Ursula was Jewish before I met her…there were very few Jews in the area, most of the residents being either Finnish (to work the forests) or Italian (to work the mines).

For a time, I worked part-time at a supermarket, which is where I first met her. She had come into the store during Rosh Hashanah, and I wished her a happy holiday. She took a liking to me, and we became friends.

She did not willingly talk of her past, and even then only in small bits and pieces, over time. She was born in Germany of a Jewish mother and a non-Jewish father, and she had one older brother whom she adored. When the Nazis came to power, she and her family were shipped off to a concentration camp for "half-breeds." Though spared the gas chamber, their life in the camps was incomprehensible to those not experiencing it.

At some point during or immediately after the war, her beloved brother was beaten to death by a group of Nazi thugs.

On February 13, 1945, she was on a prison train which was stopped at the outskirts of Dresden as the infamous firebombing of the city began. Over 100,000 people died in the firestorms. Ursula and others on the train were forced to go through the destroyed city retrieving bodies.

When her camp was liberated at the end of the war, her mother and father left the confines of the camp for the first time to go for a walk. Her father was shot and killed while on that walk…she never said why, or by whom, but it didn’t matter. Murder is murder.

Somehow finding her way to the U.S.—again, I have no details—-Ursula married a Serb emigre and had two daughters. The marriage was a disaster, and they were divorced after Ursula moved to Chicago. She managed to buy a small house and raise her daughters. The riots of the 1968 Democratic Party convention in Chicago terrified her, convincing her that what had happened in Germany in the 1930s was happening in America. She sold her house and fled to northern Wisconsin, where she bought her farm. She became estranged from her daughters, who moved away as soon as they could.

I would visit her frequently, and she would call me to ask to pick up a few things from the store for her. She had a large garden, and always kept me supplied with vegetables in season. She mowed her own lawn, using a scythe and a push lawnmower.

She, I, and a gay mutual friend (one of only about 10 gays in a 100 mile radius) built a 30 x 60 foot barn for her sheep, largely out of materials salvaged from the various collapsed buildings around her property. She was fiercely, fiercely independent and resourceful.

She was also literally paranoid in her fear of any form of authority.. When the government installed an "ELF" defense tracking system throughout northern Wisconsin, every low-flying plane or passing helicopter became an omen of danger.

She did not have many friends. She did not trust people, as a rule. However, she had two women with whom she grew quite close. And then, suddenly, one by one, she abruptly cut off all contact with them for some inexplicable-to-me but unforgivable-to-her transgression.

We talked every day on the phone, and she would always say "We have to watch out for one another: you never know what might happen."

And then one day I tried to call her. That there was no answer wasn’t surprising: she was always out of the house tending to chores. But when after five or six calls with no response, I began to get concerned. She usually told me when she was planning to go somewhere, and she’d mentioned nothing. Finally, after about the eighth call, I was truly concerned. For some reason, I was unable to drive over (it was about a 20 minute drive) to check on her, and so I called the Sheriff’s office and asked that if they had a car in the area, they might stop and check to be sure she was okay.

I heard nothing further, and later that evening, I called again. Ursula answered the phone. I asked what had happened, and she said she had just been outside working. She then said: "You had no right to call the police. I do not want to talk to you anymore." And she hung up, and that, despite my efforts to explain that I only called the police because I was concerned for her, was, except for a few cursory accidental meetings at the store during which she was obviously painfully uncomfortable, the end of our friendship.

I was truly sorry to lose her as a friend, but I realize that in her eyes, I had done the unforgivable: I had called her to the attention of the authorities.

After moving back to Chicago, I heard from a Wisconsin friend that Ursula had died. Though she no longer considered me her friend, she was still mine. I miss her, and hope she finally has the peace that eluded her all her life. Shalom, Ursula.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is also available as an audiobook (http://www.audible.com/pd/ref=sr_1_1?asin=B00DJAJYCS&qid=1372629062&sr=1-1).

Monday, October 20, 2014

When "Then" was "Now"

Every now and then I like to go back to the letters I wrote to my parents so very, very long ago, when I was a wide-eyed kid stepping out into the big world for the first time as a sailor aboard the aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga. I consider it a form of time travel and marvel at how different yet how much the same I am. And suddenly 59 years ago is yesterday afternoon.

Sunday, 18 September 1955
Dear Folks
Here it is Sunday again―another week gone almost completely to waste.  We are now scurrying away from Norfolk, hotly pursued by Hurricane Ion, which is a mere 1,000 miles to the southwest of us. Oh, well, they say an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.  I honestly can’t see why we have to run, though―almost all the other ships are remaining in port.  The United States Navy, like God, moves in many mysterious ways.
              Before I forget, which I have in the last three letters, I meant to tell you (mom especially) that Bill DeForest and one of my other roommates, Carl Hinger, got their commissions, and are now officers.  A guy from my old pre-flight class is now here on the Ti―he washed out, too.  That makes about six of us on here, now.  And some of the guys in my battalion in Pre-Flight are just about ready to get their wings.  Ah, such is life on the planet Earth.
             They have movies on board every night, but I almost never go (“almost never”???)  Either I’ve seen the picture, or we’re working, or I’m just too lazy to go and put  on a pair of whites.
After being at sea all week, we pulled into Norfolk about 4:00 Friday afternoon.  For some reason, we couldn’t get a pier and had to anchor way out in the harbor, on the outermost edge of a cluster of ships.  In order to get from the ship to shore, we had to use the ship’s power lifeboats.  Now, there are 3,000 guys on this thing, and about 1500 were given liberty. We have three power lifeboats, each with a seating capacity of about 65; two enclosed 40’ launches with capacities of 24 each, and two officers’ boats, which needn’t interest us at the moment.  After waiting three hours Friday night, I finally got ashore.  After the first hour and a half, I didn’t really want to go, but I was so mad by then that I swore I’d go ashore even if I had to turn right around and come back again, which is practically what I had to do.  They have a very clever way of doing it around here―officers first, Chiefs next, first-class POs next, then second class, then third, and finally us peons.  And naturally, everyone at the head of the line have five or ten buddies at the back of the line, and they generously let them in ahead.  Then, too, everyone jams toward the exits for the boats.  The MAA’s (Masters At Arms―ship’s police, more or less) come and make us all fall back into four ranks.  The first rank goes first, and so soon there is no second, and third and forth ranks―just a big mob in the first rank.  You fight your way to the exits again―back come the MAA’s; back you go, further behind now than you were when you started.  The guy who was in front of you a minute ago is now fourteen guys ahead of you.   The MAA’s with their “God damn you, get back―ain’t nobody goin’ no place till you get back.”  Ah, such fun―such good, clean American sport―I’m going to make the Navy my career  (as it says on the posters in front of the Post Office).  Well, I’ll tell you what―when I get out, I’m going to make it a point to go to the Post Office once a week and throw rocks at the Recruiting Station.  And then I’ll stand outside the office and catch prospective enlistees and give them the scoop.  Somebody evidently has already been doing this, as I see the Navy is going to have to draft 10,000 guys this November!
Just been out on the fantail watching the waves.  They are getting bigger.  I’m hoping we’ll be in for a real violent storm, but the guys who’ve been in them say no.  They say a hurricane can swamp a ship, but this is too big to imagine it sinking.
           Sorry I didn’t get a chance to call Sunday (today) but they just don’t have phone booths in the middle of the ocean.  I wonder how far out we are?
          Enough for now. I’ll write more the first chance I get.
                                              Regards to All
                                                       Love
                                                       Roge

For anyone who might be interested, all my navy letters have been published as A World Ago: A Navy Man’s Letters Home, 1954-1954 in Kindle and other e-book formats. I’d be pleased if you’d check it out.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is also available as an audiobook (http://www.audible.com/pd/ref=sr_1_1?asin=B00DJAJYCS&qid=1372629062&sr=1-1).




Thursday, October 16, 2014

The Bouncing Ball

While it is unlikely that you are of a sufficient age to remember when movie theaters, as part of their programs, would include an assortment of "short subjects" along with the feature film. "Sing Alongs", in which the audience was encouraged to...well, sing along with some well known old song, were popular. The words would appear at the bottom of the screen, and a little ball would appear over the first word of the song. The audience would be invited to "follow the bouncing ball," which, with the start of the music, would then bounce along over each syllable of the song as it was sung.

Today's entry is something like that, except that neither you nor I know the words, and there is no music. I just basically hope you'll be able to follow the bouncing ball.

If you've read these blogs for any length of time, you know that how I ever manage to get anything done, let alone complete a thought, is a constant source of amazement to me. I've used innumerable comparisons in various blogs to try to explain how my mind works--raging rapids; a pinball machine; a 4th of July fireworks display; a popcorn popper; a roller-coaster ride; an exposed live wire, tornado debris, and now a bouncing ball. All true but no single one definitive.

So...ready? Cue the music, and begin.

This morning in the shower, it occurred to me--you know better than to ask why, I'm sure, since I have no idea myself--that I had not heard from a loyal reader, John Bidwell, in a while. "That does not bode well," a mind-voice said, having majored in Clever.

A chorus of mental groans was forestalled by another thought: "Exactly what does 'bode' mean?" 

"Foretell." (A later check of the dictionary shows I was right: Origin: Old English bodian [proclaim, foretell,] from boda [messenger,] of Germanic origin; related to German Bote, also to bid 1 .) 

"Then what about 'forebode'? If 'bode' means 'fortell', how did 'forebode' come to mean 'warning'?"

After pondering this for all of twenty seconds, I opened the shower door to grab a towel. As I did so, I noticed my cat Spirit was not sitting there, eager to run into the stall and start licking the beads of water running down the wall. I did not see him until I returned to the computer to try to come up with a blog subject for today, and was a bit startled to see him curled up behind my laptop, his head using my internet modem as a pillow. This was a first, and as I watched him, he began making odd little sounds...also a first; I'd never heard him make any sound in his sleep, and it occurred to me that he must be dreaming.

What in the world do cats dream about? I wrote a poem once called "Dreams of a Calico Mouse" about a calico cat. But since we do not have mice in my building, and Spirit is not a calico, I was at a loss as to the possible subject of Spirit's dreams.

By this time, the peripatetic nature of my thought processes over the preceding twelve minutes or so had given me the subject of this blog. “"Peripatetic" (peripatetic |ˌperipəˈtetik| adjective: traveling from place to place, esp. working or based in various places for relatively short periods”), by the way, is on my rather long list of favorite words, both for its sound and its meaning. I wonder what your favorite words are?

Well, time for the feature film to start. Thanks for following the bouncing ball.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is also available as an audiobook (http://www.audible.com/pd/ref=sr_1_1?asin=B00DJAJYCS&qid=1372629062&sr=1-1).


Monday, October 13, 2014

The Sound of Laughter

Laughter is one of the greatest gifts bestowed on humankind. And while certain other animal are capable of it, laughter is part and parcel of what makes us human. The sound of laughter is often associated with our warmest memories. (A teacher once asked her students to describe the most beautiful sound in the world, and one little boy replied, simply, “My mother’s laughter.”) 

The gift of laughter is lavished on the young, and is an invaluable asset throughout life. It has been scientifically proven to actually improve one’s health. While exactly what it is that triggers laughter may vary from individual to individual, almost all laughter is positive, and has its roots in surprise and incongruity: something said or done in a totally unexpected/unforeseen way can triggers a physiological reaction of delight. The ‘funny bone’ is the only ‘bone’ located inside the brain.

Laughter can be visceral…the reaction to a pratfall, for example…or intellectual, as in puns and when the expected is suddenly turned on its ear. Irony, satire and even sarcasm can provide fodder for laughter. While there is such a thing as derisive laughter, it lacks the basic element of humor and therefore doesn’t truly count. To laugh with someone is positive; to laugh at them is negative. And laughter not based in positivity is not truly laughter.

I’m honestly sorry that I do not laugh nearly as much as I used to, or want to. I would give anything for a good, old-fashioned, scrunched-face, unable-to-stop, tear-streaming, gasping-for-breath belly laugh. I truly miss it terribly. I’ve given a considerable amount of thought to why such laughter tends to diminish to some degree as one grows older. One obvious reason is that because one of the most common triggers of laughter is surprise, the longer one lives, the fewer things are surprising. A second reason is that repetition tends to dull the sharp edges that jab the funny bone to invoke laughter. The toddler’s giddy delight in a rousing game of “Peek-a-boo,” diminishes with repetition, which eventually dampens both the surprise and the delight. 

A very funny joke is of course repeated. But the more often one hears it, the less it “tickles the funny bone.” Common situations which lend themselves to jokes also are muffled by repetition. Once wildly popular sitcoms have the tendency to become “less funny” as time goes on. Often I suspect, it is not the show that has been dulled so much as the viewer’s automatic reactions. The older one gets, the more one hears the same—or only slightly modified—joke until the factor of surprise is totally diminished.

A shared a sense of humor is often one of the key elements of friendship. It was a major factor with two of the best friends I’ve ever had. When I was a teenager, my best friend was Lief Ayen. Had it not been for our identical senses of humor, we were so different I doubt we ever would have been as close as we were. To our parents’ dismay, we would spend hours on the phone laughing hysterically. 

Later, in college and beyond there was Russ Hogan, whose intelligence sparked a caustic wit which never failed to have me doubling over with laughter. Both Russ and Lief are now sadly gone, but just remembering the laughter we shared still warms my heart.

College was, by itself, one of the happiest times of my life, and happiness inevitably produces laughter. But it was the laughter shared with friends which enriched the experience exponentially.

Because I have reached an age where surprise is harder and harder to come by when it comes to humor, I find of late my sense of humor has taken a more caustic turn, as demonstrated in many of my ubiquitous posts on Facebook. However, I still delight in the incongruous and the bizarre. And the antics of children and animals still seldom fail to provoke it.

The world would be a far better place if the sound of good-natured laughter could increase to the point of drowning out currently overwhelming hate-filled babble of politicians and pundits.

Okay. So, two penguins walk into a bar……


Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is also available as an audiobook (http://www.audible.com/pd/ref=sr_1_1?asin=B00DJAJYCS&qid=1372629062&sr=1-1).

Thursday, October 09, 2014

Ah, If Ye Only Knew....


While I don't often presume to speak for others, I think I'm on safe ground here by making an exception and speaking not only for myself but for every other writer I've had the pleasure of knowing over the years. 

This blog was prompted by a totally-unexpected e-mail I received from a reader saying how very much he enjoyed my work, and it occurred to me that my reactions to it would quite probably be echoed by any writer who received it or anything similar to it. 

I did not recognize the name on the email. The heading was "From a Fan of the Dick Hardesty Series," which of course got my attention, and it began, "Dear Mr. Grey."

I am always absolutely delighted to receive a note from a reader, though a little embarrassed to be called "Mr. Grey." To one who has always suffered from serious low-self-esteem issues, the email was what a tire pump is to a flattened tire. For I’m sure the majority of writers, any positive note from a reader defines the word "validation."

For some unknown reason, readers tend to be intimidated by writers (and having so said, I must admit that I am, too, by writers I consider far better craftsmen than myself). I suspect part of the  reason may be that perhaps they assume all writers are F. Scott Fitzgeralds who live in a different world than  mere mortals. And while there may be a couple of writers who dwell in marble mansions high on Mt. Olympus, most of us are just average people who happen to write books. (I can’t add "who write books for a living," for very few writers can actually live off their writing income.) 

Like any reader hesitant to contact a writer, I too, often feel intimidated anyone I consider more learned or successful than I. So when, in the course of reading the reader's note, he mentioned casually that he was a television writer and producer, I was more than a little flattered. And when I noted that his signature line included the information that he is also communications professor at a well-known east coast university, I was close to euphoric. I did a Google search on him and discovered his television credits include several Emmys. That someone so eminent actually took the time to write me to say he enjoyed my work made me feel like a little boy who has just been given a wonderful present. 

Most writers' worlds are fairly insular. We pour ourselves into our work for months and years at a time. From the moment the manuscript goes off to the publisher, we're more or less left dangling. Few publishers have the time to let the writer know how the book is selling, and our only real way of knowing whether what we've written is good or bad, other than the always-too-few reviews and too-infrequent royalty statements, is what we hear from our readers. And in the end, it is how the writer’s work is received/perceived by the reader than matters.

So whenever a reader is kind enough to take the time to contact a writer directly to say something nice about his or her books, it quite literally fulfills Clint Eastwood's famous request to "make my day." I have never heard a writer say he or she was less than delighted to hear from a reader. To hear someone actually say that the writer's words may have brought someone a degree of pleasure is a special form of validation.

I've always consider every book I write to be a one-sided conversation with the reader. To actually hear back from a reader is, like the credit card ad says, "priceless."

Please keep this in mind, and the next time you read a book you enjoy, don't hesitate for an instant to drop the author a note. It will be immensely appreciated.

Trust me.   

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is also available as an audiobook (http://www.audible.com/pd/ref=sr_1_1?asin=B00DJAJYCS&qid=1372629062&sr=1-1).






Monday, October 06, 2014

Hourglass

Each human life is an hourglass filled with a specific number of seconds/minutes/hours/days/years, and I, for one, am excruciatingly aware of each one that passes from the top of the glass to the bottom. Since they are numbered, they are precious, and the waste of a single one of them is an irretrievable loss.

It is my deep and sincere belief that we emerge into life from the nothing of eternity and return to it at the moment of our death. The nothing of eternity does not disturb me, but doing nothing in the infinitesimally short existence available to us does. I can't stand to do nothing; I must always be doing something. I grudgingly admire those who can sit motionless for hours on a park bench on a warm summer's day. I am sure it gives them immense pleasure. If that is the way they wish to use the grains of their limited time, that is their choice. But I am incapable of doing so. Even as a child, when I would lie on my back in the grass and stare up at the clouds, I was doing something by searching them for—and finding—ships and clowns and elephants and faces. I love being on a beach staring at the waves, but I can't just sit quietly on the sand and observe for more than a few minutes; there is the whole beach to explore; so many colorful pebbles and seashells and bits of unknown things to see and contemplate.

To me, motion—doing something—is life; physical, and worse, mental inertia is somehow something less.

I probably spend nine or more hours of every day on the computer, but am compelled at some point to get up and go for a walk, not only for the exercise but to experience something of the world outside my apartment and outside my mind. I'm sure many would argue, with some justification, that much of my computer time is “wasted”; the equivalent of a car spinning its wheels without getting anywhere. I would disagree. I do emails, and write blogs, and engage in exchanges on Facebook and other sites, and too seldom work on my next book, all because with every word, every idea, every thought transferred from mind to monitor I am leaving a record of myself which hopefully will be around long after I am physically gone.

I have no way of knowing how many, if any, others see life the way I do, or are as compelled to hold nothingness at bay by doing something. I know there must be some. You, perhaps?

There are so very many things in our individual lives of which, if we consider them at all, we never speak, ironically because no one else speaks of them; thoughts and feelings we think of as being so personal that we feel no one else could have experienced in the same way, or be expected to understand. I am thoroughly convinced that those who think that are wrong. Which is why I have often described myself as being like a frog on a dissecting table, with all my emotional and mental innards laid out for anyone to see. I would hope that in doing so, others may say, “Hey, I can identify with that. That's me he's talking about! I thought I was the only one!”

Which brings us back to the hourglass. Man seems to be the only animal consciously aware of the passage of time, and the fact that it is, for each individual, finite. There are billions upon billions of things we will never know, books we will never read, places we will never visit, adventures we will never have. We can't possibly do/experience it all. But we can try to do/experience as much as possible in the time we do have before the last grain drops from the top of the glass.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is also available as an audiobook (http://www.audible.com/pd/ref=sr_1_1?asin=B00DJAJYCS&qid=1372629062&sr=1-1).



Thursday, October 02, 2014

The Gourmet Chef

I know, I know, I've regaled you with heart-rending tales of my inability to eat like normal people and my incredible bravery and nobility in dealing with this challenge. But this does not prevent me from being a superb cook...I may be so immodest as to say "chef". I've frequently considered doing a cookbook but do not want to steal any thunder from Julia Childs.

As a graduate of the prestigious Cordon Puce, where I studied under famed chef Joe Smutch, owner and head chef at Joe's Diner and Transmission Repair in Sheepdip, Wyoming, I am barraged by requests for my recipes, and have decided to share two of them with you today.

The fact that I take great pride in these two gourmet dishes although I am now unable to taste them speaks, I think, for their worthiness.

So get out a pencil and paper, and let us begin.

The first is Filet du Spam avec fromage.

Take one can of USDA Prime Spam (it comes already deboned and fat trimmed). Carve into 8 equal, horizontal slices, each approximately 1/4" thick. Place one slice of Spam for each diner onto a small "boat" created of aluminum foil. While the Spam, like a fine decanted wine, is "breathing" after being sliced, take a jar of olives--salad olives or whole olives avec pimento and slice each olive into four segments, vertically so as to retain some pimento in each slice. Next, carefully place sliced olives over the surface of the Spam slice, making sure to cover the entire slice.

Open a jar of barbecue (we chefs pronounce it bar-BEEK) sauce, and pour over the olives gently so as not to wash them off the slice of Spam.

Next, take one slice of the finest American Cheese (I prefer individually wrapped slices Kraft for ease of handling, though you must be careful to remove the wrapping), fold it over carefully into two equal, rectangular halves. Since the slices are square, you may fold from any direction except diagonally, which is not advised as it leaves some of the Spam and olives uncovered.  Place the folded rectangle of cheese atop the olives and bar-BEEK, making sure the cheese is parallel with the Spam, not crosswise to it. Depending on your love of bar-BEEK you may pour additional sauce over the top of the cheese.

Bake in 350 degree oven 10 minutes. Serve to the oohs, aaahs, and applause of your guests.

Gourmet Heaven!

The second gastronomic delight--Chien Chaud avec Fromage is simplicity itself, though care must be taken at certain stages of its preparation for maximum results. The directions below are for one serving, but can be easily expanded, again, by the number of servings desired.

 Take one finely-ground U.S.D.A. approved, processed meat sausage commonly if quaintly referred to in the United States as a "hot dog." Set aside one slice of choice American cheese (see above), cut into four equal strips. Slice the "hot dog" lengthwise, beginning the incision 1/2 inch from one end and extending to 1/2 inch from the other. Be careful that the knife cuts as close as possible to but not through the "bottom". Putting the knife down, grasp both ends of the sausage with thumb and index finger to force the slit open. Into the slit, place two of the cheese strips. This may prove a bit difficult without breaking the strips, but no matter. Force them in as deeply as they will go. (You may eat the other two strips.)

Make a small "boat" of aluminum foil just big enough to hold the "hot dog", and place the cheese-stuffed "hot dog" into it. Take care that it does not roll over on its side, or the next step may be next to impossible.

 Pour either Teriyaki Sauce or bar-BEEK of your choice over the cheese so that it fills the remaining gap in the "hot dog" completely.

Set oven to "Broil" and place the aluminum boat into the broiler. Be very careful, again, that the "hot dog" does not fall over on its side, or the sauce will all run out and the dish will, in effect, be ruined.
Broiling times may vary, but two minutes is a good general guess. If you hear the smoke alarm going off, it may be an indication of over-cooking.

Remove from broiler (do not forget to wear protective gloves while doing so) and serve. If you are dining alone, to save dishes, you may eat directly from the aluminum "boat."

One day, if I am in a particularly beneficent mood, I may give you my award-winning recipe for Frog Legs avec Frog. Until then...Bon Appetit! 


Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is also available as an audiobook (http://www.audible.com/pd/ref=sr_1_1?asin=B00DJAJYCS&qid=1372629062&sr=1-1).