Lactose Intolerant? Try Jesus!

Yesterday the dogs and I set out for a small, English adventure at a place called Shobrooke Park.  Over the past few months I’d noticed that whenever I cycled past a certain junction I always saw at least one human-canine party setting out on or returning from a walk which made me curious.  My curiosity was rewarded.  The section of the estate that’s open to the public provided some fine views from atop a hill and everything from massive trees, through a small lake to a cricket pitch.  With yesterday’s sunny blue skies Shobrooke Park was a condensed paradigm of a certain vision of an English summer.  The dogs seemed to like the place as much as I did.

At the various entry points to the bits of the park open to the public I kept seeing little bundles of carefully folded paper in transparent plastic sleeves labelled “For You.”  At first I didn’t dare touch them.  After all, I am Me not You so I didn’t feel I had any right to investigate.  Then I remembered that other people often seem confused about the whole Me versus You thing so I picked one up and read the contents.  Mostly, the small bundle was a collection little slips of paper bearing hand-lettered verses from the New Testament.  Certain, apparently random, words were underlined with a yellow highlighter pen.  There was also an address to write to with requests for more information.  Given that I’m in Devon I was surprised to find that such appeals should be directed to Lancashire.  My guess is that someone decided to put their holiday in Devon to what he or she saw as good use. If anyone is interested I can pass on the address upon request.

The most intriguing and by far largest part of the little bundle was a short story in the didactic vein.  It’s attributed to a man named Dave Branon but no further information was given.  It read as follows:

It was a simple task, but I was in over my head.  One of the items on the grocery list was soy.  Problem was, I didn’t know what kind of soy my wife, Sue, had in mind when she made the list.  After searching the aisles and asking the advice of a worker who was stacking soup cans, I grabbed a bottle of soy sauce, placed it in the cart, and went on my way.

Only after I unloaded my bags at home did I discover that Sue didn’t want soy sauce she wanted soy milk for our granddaughter Eliana.  I was sincere in my search.  I even asked for help and confidently pulled my selection off the shelf.  But it didn’t do me (or Eliana) any good.  I had the wrong stuff.

Sadly, some people are walking through the grocery store of life with “heaven” on their list, but they are not getting what they need.  Despite their sincerity, they grab something that won’t get them to heaven because they find a “different gospel” (2 Cor. 11:4).

Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through Me” (John 14:6).  And Peter said, “There is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved” (Acts 4:12).  Trust Jesus.  Dont’ settle for the wrong gospel.

I liked this story so much that I not only brought it home but I insisted on reading it aloud to my wife last night.  She was glad I’d found something to occupy my attention but, I think, also a little confused and worried about the nature of the material and by my amusement over it.  Mr Branon should, I think, contribute to Radiog 4′s Thought for the Day.  He’s obviously a virtuoso of the peculiar line of thought that passes for logic in that arena.

What I can’t understand is why the narrator of this story didn’t go to the most obvious and most sensible source, his wife, for a resolution to his dilemma.  Maybe they live an entire day’s drive from a supermarket and have no phones, mobile or otherwise, which meant he had not choice but to make a decision.  I also won’t comment on his apparent ignorance of the fact that his granddaughter required soy milk rather than the kind squeezed from cows.  Voicing such mundane and trivial observations would, I fear, be immature on my part and suggest an unreasonable insistence on clear thinking and proper information which would detract from the important lesson on offer.

In fact, I don’t really feel qualified to delve into a deeper analysis of what this story offers us as readers.  I’ll let you make up your own minds and happily engage with any comments anyone has to offer.  I do have to point out that I really like the metaphorical equation of Jesus with soy milk and life with a supermarket.  By extension I suppose we can view heaven as a freedom from the symptoms of lactose intolerance and the fires of hell as some form of heartburn or tummy upset.

I’m thinking of having tofu for dinner.  Does that count as communion?

Worth A Thousand Words. . .

Sandwiches

A truly good sandwich is a beautiful experience.    I’ve had a few in various parts of the world: French baguettes with fine ham, good cheese and a bit of mustard; monstrous creations of thinly sliced pastrami, corned beef and sauerkraut topped with just a half pound or so of chicken liver paté and a kosher pickle and cold beer on the side come to mind immediately.  The first time I visited New York City I arrived at dinner time then I woke up jet-lagged and hungry in a mid-town hotel in the disgustingly small hours of the morning.  The remnants of three sandwiches for four people were more than I could finish and I was able to drift back to sleep with my anachronous appetite sated along with the addition of an over-price mini-bar beer.  I’ve even made one or two sandwiches I’ve been quite proud of.  One was such a pleasure that it’s a good thing I was alone when I ate it.

There are also bad sandwiches.  The ones that taste of little, if anything.  They come in plastic containers, sit on bread made soggy by wilting lettuce and anaemic tomatoes.  Their cheese, if they contain it, tastes off.  Any animal protein they contain is tasteless at best, dry and fuzzy at worst.  Toasting exacerbates the problem but, apparently, is a means of distraction.  These sandwiches make you feel filthy and ashamed to be your mother’s child.  They are like a horrible defecation in reverse: unavoidable at the time but unspeakable and best forgotten.

I always figured that this kind of mass-produced calamity and betrayal of what can be a wonderful food due to its simplicity was the result of very recent developments in our world.  It seems I was wrong.  Back in 1953 Raymond Chandler’s The Long Good-bye was published.  McDonald’s had yet to take over the world.  There wasn’t a Subway on every corner and Quizno’s wasn’t even a mean glint in its degenerate daddy’s eye.  Late in the novel, with all the troubles and cares of the type you’d expect to be sitting heavily on the shoulders of one of the original hard-boiled detectives Philip Marlowe has something to eat:

I went down to the drugstore and ate a chicken salad sandwich and drank some coffee.  The coffee was over-strained and the sandwich was as full of rich flavour as a piece torn off an old shirt.  Americans will eat anything if it is toasted and held together with a couple of toothpicks and has lettuce sticking out of the sides, preferably a little wilted.” (Chandler, The Long Good-bye, chapter 45)

I wish I could deny the truth of Marlowe’s statement about toasting and toothpicks.  I can’t.  All I can say is that it’s probably a good thing that Marlowe lived in LA rather than Chicago or Boston or, of course, New York.  In the the Big Apple especially he would have been assured of a regular supply of great food including truly wonderful sandwiches rather than having carefully to hunt them out.  There would have been no reason for this clear connoisseur of the sandwich not to stop and grab one en route to see a panicked client or a stakeout or to speak with some windbag of a cop.

Faced with that situation I suspect that, like most of us, Marlowe would have had a hard time maintaining his stony, cynical facade.  A happy, fat Marlowe just wouldn’t be able to face down the tough crooks, sneer at the rich men who feel they’re above the law or get the bombshell on the terms dictated by his secretly sensitive heart. Plus strings of roast beef in your front teeth and bits of kosher pickle on your shirt don’t tend to make you look tough or sexy, just sloppy.

So what’s my point in all this?  Well, it seems to me that despite its simple nature a truly great sandwich will always remain something of a beautiful mystery.  If not Marlowe, ham that he is, would have had a larger repertoire of cute observations on the subject.

Then again maybe we’ve both just had too much coffee chased by too much bourbon.

Testimonial

A big change has occurred in my life since my last posting.  Unexpectedly I have had my doubts about the value of non-establishment medical practices overturned alongside a severe challenge to my previous metaphysical leanings.  Taking one simple action last night has changed my life and I can already tell that this alteration will never be reversed.  I am happier than I have ever been, I feel more secure in myself and I want to share the reason why with those of you who have been paying attention to the musings of the Omphaloskeptic.  I know some of you out there will find my claims dubious, even ridiculous.  Please, keep an open mind.  You too could enjoy the kind of contentment that has suddenly come my way and which has been strong enough to overcome my previously muscular misanthropy.

Last night as I gazed into the blue LED lights on our living Christmas tree I was reflecting on the fact that, of late, I’ve felt increasingly frayed mentally.  The pressures of my job, my social life and even my own expectations have been weighing heavily on me.  Often, I’ve felt something like a pressure from some external force pushing at the walls of my mind resulting in occasional breaches.  I haven’t done anything dangerous, or wrong  but I have sometimes even recognised a split between my own intentions and the actions I am performing.  Like most people would, I figured this was all the result of stress and located entirely in my own mind.   I was starting to suspect I needed so-called ‘professional’ help.

But how could I be sure?

To answer that question I did a little research on the internet, designed and conducted an experiment.  The beneficial results were palpable and immediate.  All I needed was a roll of aluminium foil, a permanent felt pen and a baseball cap.  As a result of my experiment I can safely and scientifically conclude that there were external forces trying to harm my mind.  It is just as incontrovertible that some were extraterrestrial and a few supernatural.  Others were simply, yet malevolently human.  I don’t blame the agents behind those forces, they were simply doing what came natural to them.  In any event I am free from their influence, I am happier and can tell I am already a better husband and human being.

My wife who has a much stronger mind than I was also instantly pleased with my experiment and its results.  She smiles every time she sees what I’ve done and, though she hasn’t said as much, I know that it is because she understands that I am a happier and better person and that I took the action I did in large part because I wanted to be a better, healthier companion for her.  Please don’t dismiss my testimonial out of hand.  Have a look at the photo of what I constructed, a device that hasn’t yet left my head since its construction apart from when I showered.  All of you out there, the credulous and the sceptical alike, could enjoy the same piece of mind that has become mine on a permanent basis.  It’s simple, it’s cheap and it’s easy.  Why wouldn’t you do it?  Don’t you love yourself?  Don’t you truly care about your friends and family who worry about your mental state?

I think a single photo will suffice to illustrate the nature and construction of the device that has changed my life for good.  Let me know if you need or want more detailed written instructions.

Jebus Time Season

So far I haven’t been very good at sparking off lengthy or heated discussions with my posts.  I have, of course, appreciated and enjoyed all the comments I’ve received.  I also know that there are a number of regular visitors who haven’t felt the urge to respond to what I’ve written.  The way I look at it that’s my fault.  I’m not going to promise not to keep posting self-indulgent, introspective observations and opinions of the type that have been typical of the Omphaloskeptic so far.  I will endeavour try to be better at stimulating responses.

With an eye to opening the metaphorical floor to more discussion I thought I’d pose a question with a certain seasonal flavour.  All sorts of answers will be welcome, the more irreverent the better.  I do reserve the right to filter anything truly offensive.

So here’s my question: What would Jesus do?

Feel free to invent scenarios, etc.  If I get enough responses I may even choose a winner.  There will be no prizes.

Health and Safety Haiku

I’ve known since a relatively young age that, despite my recurring aspirations to becoming a writer it was, at best, highly unlikely I would ever be a poet.  That hasn’t stopped me from, on occasion, producing verse, usually of the absolutely execrable variety.  I offer the haiku below not as an example of anything approaching good poetry, but instead as an exercise in non-prose based omphaloskepsis.  It was prompted by a warning sticker I saw on a jacuzzi in 2001.  Despite the fact that the jacuzzi – referred to with the limited (regional?), American term spa – was on a porch overlooking the beach not far from Pipeline on Oahu’s North Shore, I couldn’t really concentrate on the natural surroundings until I’d exorcised the demonic hold the warning had taken over my mind with this verse.  I just wish I had a picture to share.

“Avoid drowning,” reads

The spa sticker.  “Oh really?”

“How necessary.”

To this day I wonder if the absence of such a sticker had proved to be an annoyingly recurrent problem.

That’s all for today.  I think I might go fill the bath, stick my head below the water line and take a few deep breaths to help me relax.  Oh wait, that’s on the list of bad ideas my wife kindly left for me . . .