CANDY CANES AND CONSEQUENCES
Many years ago during the Christmas season, when I was still a small child, my mother asked if I wanted to go shopping with her. I loved going shopping with my mother. It was always an adventure. The mall was a wondrous place, especially adorned with its Christmas decorations. And, of course, Santa would be there passing out candy canes!
However, that night there was also one of those holiday television specials that came on every year. I don’t recall which one it was, but it was my tradition to watch them every year. So, I didn’t want to miss it. (Note: That was before DVD or even VCR, so if you missed it, it wouldn’t be back for another year!)
I was torn. I wanted to go with my mom, but I also wanted to watch the television special. The special won out and I stayed home with my dad.
Then when the show came on, I felt bad because I suddenly wanted to be shopping with my mom. I started to cry. I didn’t just cry, I wailed. My dad, losing his patience, finally declared, “If you want to cry, I’ll give you something to cry about!”
His threat didn’t rate high on the compassion scale, but it was effective. I quieted down, though I didn’t feel any better. I pouted silently. In my misery, I lost all enthusiasm for the program. I placed myself in a no-win situation where I missed out on an opportunity to go shopping with my mom and I didn’t enjoy the special that I just “had” to see.
Now I’m a grown man. I don’t cry over not going shopping because I can go anytime I want. I don’t fret over missing a television show because I don’t watch television any more. And, if there really was something I really wanted to see, I could record it and watch it at my convenience.
However, there are times when I still do place myself in no-win situations — I give an ultimatum to someone that I really don’t have the commitment to follow through on, I fall in love with a woman who won’t return my love, or I desperately want to control the outcome of something beyond my control. And the little boy in me cries because I can’t have all my wants satisfied.
Then from somewhere deep inside, I hear my father say, “If you want to cry, I’ll give you something to cry about!” This reminds me that regardless of my lack of control over situations, the one thing I can control is my response.
There are consequences to every action. The choices I make determine those consequences. I make those choices based upon my understanding of situations at the time and I try to make them based on my higher good. However, despite my best efforts, sometimes I just can’t get all my wants satisfied. But, now I do realize that like that night when I lost all enthusiasm for the television special I just “had” to see, if I lament about what I can’t have, I will miss out on appreciating whatever joy is taking place in the moment. And there is always joy in every moment, even if it’s tempered by sadness sometimes.
So, whether I get to see that Christmas special or go to the mall and suck on a candy cane from Santa, I can accept the consequences of each action and still experience the joy in each moment.
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I love to eat chicken. And it’s a good thing, too, because other than hot dogs and bologna, it’s the only decent meat I can afford. I guess I could give up meat and become a vegetarian. But I’m sorry—I can’t make a meal out of cauliflower and brussel sprouts. And fresh vegetables can be more expensive than meat.
As far as cuts of chicken go, I choose those with the highest ratios of meat to gristle so I get my money’s worth. That means chicken wings are definitely out. Chicken breast is preferred, but only smaller pieces (the “tenders”) are affordable. Ever try to bread two packages of chicken tenders by hand? It takes more patience than I have.
So I usually end up with a whole broiler or fryer. And yes, I’m one of those arcane people who actually roasts a chicken in the oven rather than buy it ready-to-eat from the store. But I don’t care for removing organs, like the liver and heart, from the chicken’s body cavity. A chicken is probably the only meat you buy that still looks like an animal. And I don’t need to be reminded by having to stick my entire hand inside the chicken’s ribcage. It makes me feel like an Aztec priestess extracting a human heart.
I don’t understand why innards are included in the bird, anyway. Is that some special bonus? They don’t include innards with steaks or pork chops. It gets me into a lather that I’m paying for all those useless guts. In my grandmother’s day, they fried the chicken livers. It must be all those senior citizens demanding their free chicken-livers that keeps them coming.
Chicken occupies an exalted food-position in my family. Where would we be without chicken broth for making rice pilaf? Growing up, we ate roasted chicken every week. It amazes me how one chicken fed a family of four, with leftovers. Now it’s barely enough for one person. Either chickens have shrunk or our appetites have gotten bigger. Let me guess.
Choosing the brand of chicken is a real dilemma. Do I go for the cheaper, name-brand one? Such chickens are grotesquely robust in their proportions. They are a tribute to the wonders of antibiotics and forced feedings. But why should I support intensive-farming practices that show little respect for the animal? However, the expensive, organic chickens are downright scrawny. I guess all that happiness from free-ranging wears them out.
If I were living in a bigger city or Key West, Florida (where there are more chickens in the streets than people), I’d consider buying a live chicken or two. I’d keep them in a backyard chicken-coop and have fresh eggs at my disposal. But I live only blocks away from the county courthouse. I’d surely be risking a lawsuit the first time my chicken pecked someone. Nor do I want to deal with cleaning-up chicken poop, which is unusually smelly. Though I guess if I were a chicken I’d like it well enough.
There’s a controversy among chicken-lovers. It involves whether a certain chicken from Chile has pre-Columbian, Polynesian roots. The inference is that if it does, it may prove trans-Pacific migration to the Americas. That’s bunk. How do they know the chickens didn’t just fly there themselves? Or get swept up in a typhoon and deposited near Chile sans human intervention. Oh sure, chickens don’t fly well in general. But who knows what they’re capable of? This Chilean chicken produces blue-green eggs, and not just for Easter. Hey, that’s one, seriously-capable chicken in my book.
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