Beyond Bertie Bott’s: Jelly Beans That Will Never Be

Yep. That's what they call them in Oregon. Bad idea for a jelly bean flavor!  http://www.honeybucket.com
Yep. That’s what they call ’em in Oregon. Great name; bad idea for a jelly bean. From http://www.honeybucket.com

Thanks to J.K. Rowling…vomit, booger, sausage, and earwax-flavored jelly beans already exist. Having recently reread the Harry Potter books and visited the Jelly Belly Factory, I started wondering if there were flavors that could never be made into jelly beans. I know the box says “Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans,” but surely there are lines which cannot be crossed. Continue reading Beyond Bertie Bott’s: Jelly Beans That Will Never Be

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Weekly Photo Challenge: Object

©2014 Beret Olsen
©2014 Beret Olsen

I grew up in the Midwest, as far as possible from any ocean.

I might have withered in the parched heat of the Plains, but my family headed East for the summers, where a day without a dip in the lake bordered on shameful.

Still, as close as we were, we seldom made it to the seashore, but if and when we did…

I wandered along the water line, icy water creeping unexpectedly underfoot,

The undertow sucking sand from beneath me;

Greedy surf clearing the shore of footprints, emptying the mind of everything but the present.

I looked for shells with perfect holes bored in their bellies from countless trips across the sea floor.

I looked for bits of seaweed, and crabs, and little fish trapped in tide pools.

But what I gathered and hid in my pockets were the stones which had been worn smooth by the relentless drive of the tides,

From being tossed and raked across the beach,

Endlessly,

Endlessly.

Brutally made,

But honed and solid,

Warm in my hand,

Ready to skip.

It reminds me through the long winter chill

That the elements conspire to make us beautiful and strong.

How my mom killed Santa

©2013 Beret Olsen
©2013 Beret Olsen

When I was little, I went to Prairie Market with my mother to do the month’s shopping. Prairie Market hawked groceries at a grossly reduced rate, leaving everything in shipping cartons in an unheated warehouse. Since it predated the days of ubiquitous scanners, we dug cans of soup out of the crates, and wrote the price on each one using a red wax pencil. I got to ride around on a platform hand truck instead of in a janky cart.

In a weird, frugal way, it was awesome.

On one fateful shopping trip, however, I looked up from my can-labeling extravaganza to see my mother sneaking Christmas candy into our pile of supplies. This might not seem like a big deal to you. Keep in mind that–except for a pack of Trident gum in the kitchen cupboard–we never had candy in the house. I came unhinged. I made a huge scene. Demanding to eat it then and there, I fussed and begged and whined until my beleaguered mother thrust a small, foil-wrapped Santa at me, allowing me one single bite.

She wrapped the chocolate back up neatly and paid for it with the rest of our haul.

Then…weeks later…

On a cold and jolly winter’s morning, I reached into my stocking and pulled out a half-eaten Santa.

What??!!

I immediately marched over to inform my siblings, two of whom offered feeble explanations; the last looked away, likely stifling a guffaw. What was this, I wondered? Could they not handle the truth? I squinted at them–perhaps with a bit of pity–not realizing the absurdity of the situation: a six-year-old unveiling life’s truth to a room full of teenagers.

*****

Cut to this year.

At around 10:30 pm on Christmas Eve, I was crouched on the floor beside the bed, reading my godforsaken, depressing book by headlamp, trying to stay awake without disturbing the spouse.

Must. Stay. Awake.

I know. That was pathetic, given the hour. It’s not like I had to make it through midnight mass or anything. But, after two weeks of insomnia and holiday hullabaloo, I was really ready to hit the hay.

Trouble was, one of my kids was on the couch in front of the stockings, holding some sort of vigil. Whenever I thought she must have dozed off, I would tiptoe to the top of the stairs and look down, only to witness her stirring, waiting, watching.

I was torn. Don’t my kids know who plays Santa, anyway? Wasn’t that the reason for her vigil, to have real proof beyond past year’s mistakes and discrepancies, such as:

How come this present is wrapped in paper we have in our office closet?

Why is my friend’s Santa so much more generous?

and

Why didn’t Santa bring what I really wanted:  an iPhone?

If I just bailed and went to bed, I’d be fresh for the morning. I could stick some gifts in the stockings after sunup, right? It’s the same stash, either way.

Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming sense of empathy for my mother, the Santa-killer. I was by far the youngest of four kids. She had been willing herself awake for eighteen Christmas Eves so that some imaginary person could take the credit for all of her thoughtful work. That woman was done.

Sigh.

I’ve only been at it half as long. I can’t yet bail in good conscience.

Ho, *#^%(!), ho.

Let There Be Light

©2013 Beret Olsen
©2013 Beret Olsen

It was a woeful moment.

I was worn thin from an epic day at work. Chilled, tired, and hungry, my couch was calling.

Unfortunately, in order to sit on it, I first had to conquer the Bay Bridge during Friday night rush hour traffic. For added excitement, it was the first rainy day of the season, which is typically when everyone spontaneously forgets how to operate a moving vehicle. I really, really did not want to make the drive.

I sat in the car, listening to the rain and to some extremely sad songs. As I was following the lyrics in the semi-darkness, I began to notice the rain falling over the words. Then, after a minute or two, the wipers would cut across the page, leaving a blazing trail of light.

I sat and watched for eons. No doubt the folks in the neighborhood thought I was on some sort of stake-out.

This was a shot that needed a tripod and a decent camera–and FILM, for crying out loud–but I was smushed into the driver’s seat and all I had was my phone. I took the photograph anyway. It can serve as a visual reminder:

In the midst of just about any moment–no matter how stressful, or annoying, or banal–there is often something amazing right in front of my face.

Haiku Catchoo: A Few More for the Road

©2003 Beret Olsen
©2003 Beret Olsen

Parenthood

At two, she clings fast

And then she is twenty-two,

calling once a week.

One for the Road

We’re pulling away

Laden with baggage and snacks

heading for elsewhere

While I Try to Work

The man next to me

thumps the bench and sings along

then reads this and leaves

 

Weekly Photo Challenge: The Unexpected

brown paper pkg
They send dry ice home wrapped like a present. Nota Bene: hold the cord, not the paper!

The photographs I chose to include for “The Unexpected” challenge are ones I took to document a science project for my education blog. I was simply trying to capture the procedural steps, but ended up being mesmerized by dry ice and everything about it. Like sublimation, for example:

©2013 Beret Olsen
©2013 Beret Olsen

Or, if you add dish soap and water, the way the potion bubbles for hours.

©2013 Beret Olsen
©2013 Beret Olsen

But the best surprise of all occurred when I left food coloring, soap, and dry ice in a pyrex measuring cup in the sink for a couple of hours…and it grew an ice cave.

©2013 Beret Olsen
©2013 Beret Olsen