FoxCraft

S'more Than Enough

For a photograph to make it to the cover of a magazine about "gracious living"—which one would think ought to mean showing kindness and impeccable manners but which apparently means doing a lot of decorating—it has to be perfectly posed and lighted. The one I noticed this week on the cover of Martha Stewart Living was no exception.

The picture didn't show a retouched celebrity or a gorgeous model. It was a s'more. The chocolate was perfectly placed. The melted marshmallow oozed symmetrically over the sides of the graham cracker. The graham cracker itself, though, was what made this s'more so exceptional. It had a star cut through its exact center, so the delicately browned marshmallow goop was artistically exposed.

I noticed this creative bit of campfire cuisine while I was in the checkout line at Safeway. My 11-year-old granddaughters and I were buying food, s'mores ingredients and all, for a camping trip. Bright girls that they are, the twins had the same response to Martha's s'mores as I did. Our view was:

A. How in the world could you cut a star through a graham cracker without breaking the whole thing into inartistic crumbs?

B. Why in the world would you want to put a hole in the cracker in the first place? The whole point of the graham crackers in a s'more is to keep the gooiness of the melted chocolate and marshmallow contained so most of it goes into your mouth instead of dripping all over your shirt and oozing down your chin.

Perhaps the answers to these questions were provided in the article. Since I didn't buy the magazine, I may never know.

Creating an elegant display with food so it appeals to the eye as well as the taste buds is an art. Just because I have no talent in that direction doesn't mean I don't appreciate it.

But some classic foods are best left alone. S'mores aren't meant to be "gracious living." They belong in the sticky hands of enthusiastic, underage amateurs where the only decorating involved consists of random patterns of marshmallow goo and chocolate drips on their tee-shirts.

When it comes to campfire desserts, less is s'more.

When There's No "I" in "Sorry"

"Sorry for being three minutes late."

As an example of the apology-that-isn't-quite, it was really rather elegant. First there was the omission of that inconvenient little word "I." Nothing so direct and personal as "I'm sorry," or even "I was late." No subject in the sentence at all. Just the breezy, impersonal "sorry" that implies a certain level of mild regret on a vaguely global scale without necessarily acknowledging that the speaker personally had anything to do with whatever may or may not have happened.

The master stroke, however, was the speaker's subtle but unmistakable emphasis on "three minutes" rather than "sorry." This was a delicate but oh-so-clear statement that any transgression that may have inadvertently taken place was so minor and insignificant that no one could possibly be upset by it unless that person were an unreasonable, obnoxious jerk.

This neatly preempted any possible complaints from the five of us who had been standing outside the locked door of the fitness center wondering why the door was still locked when it was after opening time. If we expressed any annoyance, we would be obnoxious jerks. Especially if we were so unreasonable as to point out that we had, in fact, been waiting for longer than three minutes.

This placing the responsibility on the apologees rather than the apologizer was skillfully done. It was almost up there with the classic phrasing from the public figure who really isn't sorry at all: "I regret it if anyone was offended."

I doubt whether those of us who had been waiting were particularly annoyed at the employee's minor tardiness. Certainly no one said so. We knew perfectly well that any of us can be rushed, forget to watch the time, mislay our keys, or for all sorts of other reasons end up keeping people waiting. It's an ordinary, understandable, and forgivable thing to do.

But any of us can also say, simply and sincerely, "I'm sorry." A genuine apology instead of a pseudo-apology builds connections with people instead of brushing them aside. When we take responsibility for our own little human errors, we make it easy for other people to forgive us, because we are treating them with respect. Most of the time, we'll get their respect and quick forgiveness in return.

But even if it doesn't persuade others to forgive us, there's another reason why a genuine apology is a good idea. It just might keep people from posting snarky little rants about us on the Internet.

Where's That Lonely Maytag Guy When You Need Him?

Splashing in the water on a 90-degree day. It conjures up delightful images of diving into waves from sun-kissed beaches, wading in rippling little streams, or running through sprinklers in the back yard.

Fill that water with half-laundered clothes, however, and suddenly the enjoyment factor goes down faster than the water drains out of a washing machine. Well, as fast as the water would drain out if the washer were actually working. Which, in the middle of the wash cycle for a large load, on the day before my partner was leaving on a six-week overseas trip, our washer stopped doing.

First I did the obvious things like checking the circuit breaker, trying to restart the machine, and plugging it into a different outlet. No luck. Then I thumped the washer a few times, hoping to resuscitate it with what a handyman member of the family calls "percussive maintenance." Nada.

The next step was to haul the sopping items out, dump them into a bucket, and lug them over to the big sink in the utility room. In the process, I learned an effective method to fish for floating socks at the bottom of a washer full of cold, scummy water. If you swish your arm around the tub a few times to start the water swirling in one direction, then move your hand against the current for a couple of cycles, you can grab those last few elusive socks as they swim by.

I filled the utility sink with water and rinsed the clothes by hand, twice. Looking on the bright side, I did discover that our big bath towels were every bit as absorbent as they were supposed to be. Judging from how much they weighed, they held a lot of water. Wringing them out by hand was probably wonderful for the triceps and shoulders, but by the end of the second rinse I wasn't fully appreciating the fitness benefits.

Once the clothes were finally in the dryer, it was time to deal with the water in the washer. For anyone who cares to know, a Kenmore Model 110 heavy duty washer, extra large capacity plus, holds approximately 15 gallons of water. This estimate is based on the number of scoops it took to bail the water into a bucket with a one-quart yogurt container. Unfortunately, anything bigger didn't fit between the agitator and the side of the tub.

Finally, it was time to sit down and rest, with chocolate in one hand, the phone in the other, and the yellow pages open to "appliance repairs." Of course, someone would be glad to come look at the washer. The earliest available appointment? Certainly. That would be 10 days from now.

On the wall of our laundry room hangs an old, well-used washboard. It's a reminder of just how much hard work laundry used to be and gives me a sense of appreciation for my grandmothers and great-grandmothers. I'll probably think of it, and them, a lot next week.

While I'm sitting at the Dew Drop Laundromat with my e-reader.

Darby O'Gill and the Scared Little People

The Hipp Theatre needs my help—yours, too, if you're interested.

For the past several years, the movie theatre in my home town of Gregory, South Dakota, has been run as a nonprofit organization staffed completely by volunteers. In order to keep showing movies, they'll need to buy expensive digital equipment. They've sent fundraising letters to all the Gregory High School alumni they could find, asking for donations to help today's kids enjoy movies "the way we did."

Great idea. Except I don't remember ever enjoying movies at the Hipp Theatre when I was in high school. Maybe the fact that my social life consisted largely of reading four or five library books a week had something to do with that. Surely I must have gone to a movie at least once or twice. If so, apparently neither the movie nor the date was that memorable.

What I do remember vividly about the Hipp Theatre, though, is watching a Disney movie there called Darby O'Gill and the Little People. Darby O'Gill was an elderly Irish man who kept trying to catch, or maybe did catch, the king of the leprechauns. His daughter was courted by a handsome young man who kept singing a lilting little song to her. The song still pops up in my mind at random moments: "Oh, she is my dear, my darling one, her eyes so sparkling, full of fun . . . "

Besides the song, the most memorable part of the movie included wailing banshees and something called the "death coach." I'm a little hazy on the details, mostly because I watched that part in terror with my hands over my eyes, huddled in my seat next to my Aunt Ginny and peeking every now and then to see if the scary things were gone yet. As I've always remembered it, I was about four years old at the time.

Well, thanks to the marvels of the Internet, I looked up Darby O'Gill and the Little People just now. I discovered two facts, one startling and one disturbing.

The startling fact was that the handsome singing lover was a young actor named Sean Connery. Maybe that explains why I've had a crush on the man my whole life.

The disturbing fact was that the movie was released in 1959. I was born in 1951. When I sat there in the theatre, not breathing, trying not to peek at the fearsome banshees, I wasn't four years old. I was at least eight.

That realization was a bit embarrassing. At least until I remembered that, in another theatre and another decade, I watched Jurassic Park the same way. I was 42 at the time. At least by then I was adult and sophisticated enough that I didn't have my hands over my face. I just shut my eyes and held my breath whenever I thought another dinosaur was going to burst through the wall and grab somebody.

Meanwhile, my daughter, at the blasé age of 11, sat there calmly munching her popcorn.

Either I was emotionally scarred for life by the banshees, or I'm just a wimp. I don't think I care to figure out which.

Still, I guess my memory of Darby O'Gill and the Little People is reason enough to donate a bit to the Hipp Theatre. Good for all the hardworking volunteers who think a small-town movie theater is worth keeping open. I hope they succeed.

I also hope, even in today's world, that there are still a few kids who watch the scary parts with their fingers over their eyes.