16. Salsa-Fest 2015 Highlights

Brand New Post plus the Senior Editor’s Warning that you had better listen to . . .

Senior Editor’s Note: Although the original 15 posts of Salsa’s Me . . . are organized rather haphazardly, new posts, including this one, actually do rely on your having established a background knowledge of the original 15 posts—which means none of this from here on out will mean a hill of beans to you unless you’re willing to do your homework. Suggestion: Do you homework. Or go play golf.

Update from 2015 Salsa-Fest

(This just in)

Absorbed with polishing her chopper, the local reporter for this story forgot about the event and showed up hours after everyone had already gone home and to bed for the evening. From what she could gather several days later from witnesses willing to return her calls on the condition of anonymity, this sketchy list of highlights is roughly what happened during the 2015 Opening Ceremonies:

1.     As part of the pageantry, Hawkinson climbed to the peak of the roof and set up a pyrotechnics display to “spiff up the event and keep it fresh” but accidentally started several miniature Canadian flags on fire. He then stomped on the flags to put out the fire while three Canadian tourists, who just happened to be driving by, observed the atrocity in total horror. “After the incident during my visit to Canada (which he would not disclose) I was just trying to improve relations with the Canadians,” said Hawkinson, “and now I suppose I’m going to have to write an apology letter or something.” The three Canadians, as polite people, did not comment but indicated through a number of highly excited gestures that they did not intend to ever return to the United States of America. As a side note, the reporter would like to thank the Canadians for their rich use of gestures. From her experience, she cannot understand a word Canadians speak. “Their accents are just so weird,” she said. “I’m like, I can’t understand a word you say. Why can’t you speak American?”

2.       Freida S. (whose claim to fame involved trashing Salsa’s Me. . . See A Literary Analysis . . . ) stopped by, heckled Hawkinson, saying he was “an international incident waiting to happen,” adding “put on a shirt for god’s sakes.” She left in disgust. A dog licked her toes and wandered off.

3.       The neighbor who called the police during the 2014 Salsa-Fest had intentionally left his bathroom window boarded up for several days after the event, causing many neighborhood men and a few neighborhood women to mill around in the street in front of his house, wondering what to do now. “If these people are so starved for that kind of entertainment,” the neighbor said, “they can fork out for the premium cable package.”

4.       In an unfortunate twist during Salsa-Fest, Ed, who was assigned crowd control, started to “get after” unruly teenagers. Unfortunately, they couldn’t understand a word he was saying, thought he was mocking them, and proceeded to pummel him with overripe tomatoes not suitable for salsa making. Ed spent the night in the hospital and would like to express his gratefulness to all the well-wishers—at least that’s what we think he said . . . (His new teeth hadn’t arrived yet.)

5.       In an unrelated but very juicy story, bystanders noticed that Absinthe and Cliff were standing uncharacteristically close to each other, considering their overripe sense of modesty (which in literary terms is referred to as “overweened”), and exchanging shy glances as Hawkinson was panicking on the roof trying to put out the Canadian flags. Apparently, besides smoke and soot and bits of burnt Canadian flags, romance is in the air.

Editor’s Note: We know, we know. The lack of any reference to the police department is alarming in its omission. Let’s let the reporter explain: “Well, I’d been rather frisky with my chopper. I call it Hank. Anyway, me and Hank got cruising about 90 down the state highway after a long night at the Roadhouse (See Salsa fights crime) and here comes the cops. Well, I outrun ‘em, no problem, but I think they know it was me. By the way, this is unofficial, so legally, I can’t say this, but Freida got pulled over for speeding, and she gives the cops a whole lotta erudite flack, which was fully accompanied by this highbrow post-doctorate sort of gesturing, and the cops, they don’t know what to do, so they taser her.”

Second Editor’s Note: Hawkinson sent an apology letter to the National Government of Canada in Ottawa, where it went both unopened and lost. Eventually, a custodian found it on the floor, read it, and commented, “What a jerk.” Hawkinson also planted a maple tree in his front yard in solidarity with the Canadian people. Unfortunately, he forgot to water it, and it died.

1. Salsa’s Me, Salsa’s You—or Introduction, Editor’s note, and Upcoming posts

Introduction

You are a person.

You are a person highly ambivalent about your snack dip. One might even say you have a love-hate relationship with salsa in particular. You love the tart, spicy, slightly smoky flavor in every bite. You hate it when a dollop splats down the front of your new white French-cuff shirt. As people begin to distance themselves from you—as in, who invited her to the party, anyway?—you find yourself unexpectedly pondering the mysterious world of salsa, the people involved in its production, the intrigue, the drama, the crushing heart break . . . 

Salsa-Fest's just around the corner (see next post)

You want to learn more, yet something pulls you back. You’re apprehensive. Your embarrassment grows from gravity’s effects on the stain, on your stain. You then yield to no one, boldly pushing through the crowd, ready to explore, even if it means that in the process of learning about salsa—its ins and outs, its ups and downs—you may have to face up to the deep secrets held down in the corners of your own psyche, like a chewed and forgotten lump of salsa suffocated by a handful of stale chips. Yes, you are ready. Let’s begin this journey together.

It’s now time to explore Salsa’s Me, Home of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa . . . but for god’s sakes, go change your shirt first.

Editor’s Note: All posts are reviewed periodically for accuracy. Unfortunately, due to hacking activity, we cannot guarantee that information has not been altered, deleted, fabricated, corrupted, or just plain messed with in any way. Please keep that in mind. We currently have several leads on the neighborhood #@!!*#! responsible for messing with our polls and have every confidence that we are close to breaking the case. Thank you.

Upcoming Posts

Expect to learn much more about salsa in the posts ahead. A brief preview of highlights: (1) Duane pulls a Putin, even without the horse; (2) unrolls an expanded product line, admits most is unavailable to the public; (3) visits Canada, offends an entire nation; (4) confronts allegations his posts are not 100% accurate, threatens to sue; (5) is ousted as owner in a Board coup d’e tat, threatens to sue again; (6) Ed gives back, calls BINGO; (7) Absinthe and Cliff get hitched, cause controversy with salsa choices at reception; (8) Freida recants literary analysis, admits credentials not in order; (9) George and Karl reconcile, their relationship now stronger than ever.

And this is only the beginning . . .

Visit again soon.

2. Controversy Clouds Past Salsa-Fests, expected again this year

(Excerpted from local newspaper)

Salsa-Fest, a celebration marking the end of the harvest and the beginning of salsa production, has suffered stains to its reputation over the past two consecutive years.

During the 2013 Opening Ceremonies, Duane Hawkinson, owner of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, climbed to the top of his roof, raising his arms skyward, a shovel in one hand and an empty salsa jar in the other (“I do it for the drama,” he admitted, “and the kids seem to get a kick out of it. Rock throwing rarely happens anymore”), and unfortunately slipped and slid down the entire length of the roof until he came to a stop, dangling precariously on the edge for several minutes. Rumors swirled that his “slip” was actually an attempted suicide brought on by the pressures of Salsa-Fest itself. “Sure, everyone was taking pictures with their cell phones. A few were taking selfies with me photobombing them as I dangled in the background,” Hawkinson said, “but did anyone think to prop the ladder back up?”

The police were called.

Performing the ceremony again in 2014, Hawkinson was confronted by an angry neighbor, who claimed that from his vantage point on the roof he could get a “pretty good” view of his neighbor’s wife in the shower. Denying the allegation, Hawkinson offered in his defense, “I would never do such a thing, and besides, your wife could try closing the curtains, and do you know how hard it is not to look when you're not supposed to look . . . "* In a follow-up interview Hawkinson observed  so many people had witnessed his neighbor’s wife in the shower it had become “a nightly community event for most of the neighborhood men and a few of the women--especially when the cable's out.”

The police were called.

Expecting trouble again this year, police plan to show up in advance of the 2015 Salsa-Fest. Off the record, one officer quipped, “This whole matter can go away for just one free jar of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa.”

He was later fired.

*Editor’s Note: Hawkinson went on and on along these lines—it’s hard to stuff a sock in his pie hole once he gets wound up--invoking works of anthropology, art history, and current hip-hop for the better part of the afternoon, until he got dizzy, fearing yet another tumble off the roof.

3. The secrets of salsa making finally revealed, or A Recipe for your own pretty good Smokehouse Salsa

So you want to make your own salsa already? And you’ve only just begun to read this blog. You must be a high achiever. Before you begin this concise and well organized recipe, however, please take seriously the note below:

As posts go, this one qualifies as advanced or expert. If you haven’t prepared yourself emotionally, etc., now is the time to go off and explore other posts. One of my favorites is the testimonial by Ed. Then maybe check out a few others. My point: Prepare yourself. Then return. Don’t rush your journey to salsahood.

Preliminary Self-Evaluation

Before you even think about making your own pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, you need to determine whether you’re cut out to follow this recipe with every ounce of determination that you can muster. No one wants to avoid wasting your time more than I do.

Below is a series of questions. Answer each one with a yes or no. Be honest. Deception always catches up with you in the world of salsa. After the questions, you will tally the results and find out whether you should proceed. Good luck.

(1)    Do you always send your mother a card for Mother’s Day?

(2)    Is your credit rating north of 800?

(3)    Do you feel relaxed when a dog is licking your toes?

(4)    Do people walk away from you in mid-sentence?

(5)    Are you familiar with the saying about just falling off a turnip truck?

(6)    Do you believe tourist traps actually trap a few unsuspecting tourists?

(7)    Do people leave your parties early, take items, and don’t say good-bye?

(8)    Does that man in the grocery line have a funny smell?

(9)    Do you believe someone’s texting bad things about you right now?

(10) Do you really believe the lyrics “these boots were made for walking”?

Okay, the test is over. You can breathe again. Now for the results: If you answered yes at least 2 times, salsa making may not be for you. Maybe have a cup of coffee and reflect upon your life. Resist feeling ashamed. Go for a walk. Volunteer. Accept that you can’t always make the cut in all aspects of your life.

The next big step

If you haven’t already been weeded out, you may be thinking right now that salsa making is a lot more stressful than you had anticipated. You would be correct. If you want “pretty good” salsa, the stress is likely to become unbearable at points. A suggestion: To relax, think of your favorite sign. Here is mine . . .

                                                                           

One giant step

You’re going to need some stuff. Let’s start with the smoker.

Smokers can be very expensive. I recommend borrowing one from your neighbor. However, if your neighbor is the anal type who insists that you return it, then buying a smoker may be required. Keep in mind that buying a smoker for the single purpose of salsa making equals some very expensive salsa. 

See formula:  with f ≠ used smoker

   

It gets a bit tricky. What the formula suggests is that if you buy a top of the line smoker, the amortized cost of salsa per jar will run you anywhere from $119.50 to $174.38 over the life of the smoker. Something to consider.

Another thing to consider: Where do you want to buy your new smoker? A major consideration is the financial health of the firm, along with its overall management style. To help you, I analyzed the stock price action of 3 big retailers—Walmart, Target, and Amazon. Their one-year stock charts are displayed below.

What can be gleaned from these charts? Not much other than they’re not really good buys. You could go deep in the money long Call options, and then play it by ear, or better yet, wait for a fall correction. It’s your call, so to speak.

So, you ask, again, where should you buy your smoker? Well, Amazon will ship it to you, but forget about customer service. Target has questionable management, losing a pile in an ill-conceived Canadian venture. The average age of Walmart employees is roughly 69.5 years old, which means they’re likely to break a hip when trying to load the new smoker into your car.

Recommendation: Don’t buy a smoker. Put some wood chips in your grill and call it a day.

That’s settled.

Time for a break

Not quite finished yet, but you’re on your way. While the briquettes are firing up, you have a few moments to relax. My suggestion is to have something to drink. Coffee, possibly. Or an adult beverage. Your call.

Having a beverage reminds me of the age old question: What should I drink with my chips and salsa? I have lots of ideas, but I’d like to hear from you. If you have a suggestion, please e-mail me at duane.hawkinson@gmail.com (a real e-mail address) and in return I will put your name in the pool of people eligible to win a free jar of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. (For more details about winning free salsa, see So you'd like a free sample of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa? post.) If I really like your idea, I’ll put your name in twice to improve your odds of winning (a worthwhile consolation should your own attempts here crash and burn).

Moving it along . . .

The next step in salsa making is to find some sort of storage container.

Now, I could say, just find any jar or two, wash them out, and you should be set. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Let me explain . . .

* * *

At the tender age of five (still early in my development as a rotten little kid), I found myself one day sitting alone in my grandmother’s parlor, a little room cramped with too much overstuffed furniture, probably brought over from the old country (a.k.a. Sweden). At least it smelled as though it had been stowed with the bilge at the bottom of a freighter for a long, long voyage.

The circumstances for my visit I don’t recall. I may have been prevented from attending a funeral, for fear that I’d become too curious about the corpse, or I may have been punished for my habitual apple stealing, which was strictly a seasonal weakness on my part.

At the edge of an overstuffed chair I sat, my left knee twitching. On the table in front of me stood a bowl overflowing with mints, soft little cubes that, if left out too long, would eventually turn into little jaw breakers. They looked tempting. Then again, my knee was twitching. Clearly, hard decisions lay ahead.

While Grandmother fiddled in the kitchen, I quietly took a single mint and waited. No repercussions. I returned to the bowl and took small handfuls, which eventually turned into large handfuls, which eventually turned into an empty candy bowl and one very hyped up five year old. My knee was now twitching uncontrollably.

Grandmother entered the parlor noiselessly and stood in front of me, her bourbon barrel body blotting out the kitchen light and with it most of my hope for a happy ending. Smiling at first, she wiped her hands on a cloth stuffed into her apron. Then she looked at the candy bowl. Then she looked at me. Her eyes grew smaller by the second. Back and forth, to the candy bowl and to me, over and over again. For about twenty minutes was my best guess.

Finally, in a conspiratorial tone, she whispered to me, “My dear little Duane, would you do me a favor?” Her breath poured over me like a thousand ancient casseroles, not all entirely successful.

Who was I to refuse? I had already committed a crime against humanity.

“I need some mason jars,” she continued. “Would you be a little dear and get them from the cellar?”

She led me to the cellar door. It opened with an agonized creak and released the stale air of the souls of a thousand rotten little kids, I had imagined. She gave me a little shove, and down the steep and narrow steps I crept to a little room surrounded by shelves of mason jars. “I’ll need three,” she ordered from the top of the stairs.

Anything but mason jars

As I reached for the jars, the door slammed shut. “A monster! A monster!” Her voice shrieked. Never before now had I any reason to believe adults were capable of guile; I let the mason jars crash on the concrete floor and scrambled up the steps. The door was locked, or was it unlocked but an unmovable  object  kept it from opening? I still don’t recall to this day. Then the single ceiling light went out. “Monsters! So many monsters!” came from just inches away through the old plank door.

I pounded and cried, “Grandma, Grandma, help! The door is locked! Let me out!” I could feel the monsters tugging at my sneakers; soon I’d be pulled down into the darkness and eaten alive, my bones broken into pieces and stored in the remaining mason jars.

“Oh . . . you’re still here,” Grandmother said, letting the door fall open, her voice filled with bitter disappointment.

* * *

Choose jars right for you, but I can’t recommend mason jars.

I have a bad association.

Let’s keep this moving before we run out of daylight

When you think of salsa, you should think of a house. The three main ingredients—tomatoes, onions, and peppers—form the foundation, or the basement. The fresh herbs and stuff comprise the main floor; they are sort of like your kitchen and living room and bathroom (okay, not your bathroom) and whatever other rooms your home has, depending on how rich you are. In other words, they are really the heart of your salsa, and they will determine whether your salsa turns out “pretty good.” Finally, the dry ingredients—the sugar, salt, pepper, related spices, vinegar, and lemon/lime juice—make up the roof of your salsa. You don’t really notice them when they’re there, but if they’re not there, and in the right combinations, you probably won’t end up with “pretty good” salsa. (Yes, I know vinegar and lemon/lime juice are not dry ingredients, but I didn’t know where else to put them.)

Let’s start with the veggies.

Your salsa making must begin within two hours of harvest. (That’s a critical point based on the laws of chemistry; I could offer a detailed proof, but let’s skip it for the sake of brevity.) If you don’t have a garden, wander over to your neighbor’s while he’s at work; make sure to bring a “treat” for his yippy Chihuahua. If you have neither a garden nor a neighbor with one, do not substitute fresh veggies for store bought ones, and do not buy from a neighborhood stand; the prices are outrageous and, who knows, the employees may have spit on them out of spite. (Working at a veggie stand in the middle of the summer makes one bitter about one’s life choices, which leads to acting out in some cases.) If you absolutely cannot find fresh veggies, stop reading now. You have been disqualified. (I suspect you may have cheated on your Preliminary Self-Evaluation.) Go play a round of golf or something.

Now let’s get our hands dirty (so to speak)

It’s math time again. My formula, when strictly followed, will result in “pretty good” salsa almost every time. It’s a trade secret, so keep it to yourself: In a word, it’s all about . . . Proportionality.

Now, wrap your mind around this logic.

As the anchor in salsa making, the tomato gets top billing. You should therefore use 12 tomatoes for every 1 onion and 1 pepper (or .8 pepper and .2 hot pepper or .95 pepper and .05 really hot pepper, it’s your call), dividing this group into 3 piles, approximately 1/3 for smoking (for that silky, smoky flavor), 1/3 for raw stuff (for that fresh, tart flavor), and 1/3 for stovetop steaming (for that rich, savory flavor). For you advanced cooks, you can divide the group into fifths, and put 1 into the oven and 1 into the microwave for a flavor profile so subtle and sophisticated that only the most highly trained palette will notice the difference. In a recent taste test, a local fry cook noted, “I can’t tell the difference.”

Put the raw veggies in the refrigerator, so long as you don’t store any apples in there. Apple gases will interact with the raw veggies and do things that you don’t even want to know about. Allow the smoking veggies to remain on the grill for approximately 70% longer than your stovetop steamers. “Hold on, just one minute,” you’re saying. “What if some of the tomatoes are too small or too big or have beetle larvae growing in them or what if I dropped one and accidentally stepped on it, can I still use it, and what do I do with the seeds and the skin and all that goopy stuff on the inside?” All good questions. Perhaps cut down on the caffeine.

The veggies on the grill, which should have been quartered (sorry, I forgot to tell you), should now be brought in to cool. Pour off the excess water from the steamed veggies and combine them with the smoked veggies so they have a few moments to get acquainted. Caution: Never mix the cold veggies with the hot veggies. You could end up with something resembling pasta sauce.

After a suitable period, throw your ingredients into the food processor, but don’t overmix. Again: Think pasta sauce. Drain out any excess water, reduce it by 85%, and then re-add it to your veggies.

Now, for the next golden mean ratio: Sugar is the star. “Wait a minute, wait a minute!” you say. “Isn’t sugar bad for you? Doesn’t it do all kinds of bad things to your body? Doesn’t it? Won’t it make my kids hyper? I can’t have that. I can barely control them now. Please, tell me this recipe won’t make my kids  hyper. Can you do that?” (Yes, I can do that. This recipe will not make your kids hyper.) Use 8 parts of sugar to 1 part of salt to 1.5 parts of pepper to .25 part of garlic to .35 part of vinegar to .5 part of lemon or lime juice to 1 part of my secret ingredient (commercial steak seasoning) to 1 part of your own favorite spice. Don’t use cinnamon, however. That would make your kids hyper.

To enhance your flavor profile, add freshly chopped Italian parsley. (For some reason, I can’t grow cilantro, but I wouldn’t recommend it anyway.) Also, cook about 40% of your parsley for a few moments for a sweet flavor that the raw stuff just can’t duplicate. When all of that is done, immediately jam your own “pretty good” salsa into a jar and seal it tight to keep the good flavor in and the bad air out. Now, as you're jamming away, you’re saying, “But my salsa is separating. Have I done something bad? Am I a bad person? Have I gone desperately off the tracks?” Not at all. “Pretty good” salsa is designed to puddle.

Before hacking the life out of your veggies

Naming veggies improves opportunities for bonding

This step is strictly optional, but critical if you wish to have a meaningful experience in both your salsa making and your salsa eating. Here’s what you do. Name your veggies. That’s right. You’ll bond with them and fully appreciate your salsa eating experience when you know the sacrifice they’ve made for you. As you munch, you may even stop to think about Mavis or Karl or Devon, and you may feel a moment of regret. This will pass, but it’s important that you process the experience. I do this as a matter of course. The practice has helped me become one with the salsa.

I’m concerned . . . my salsa tastes funny

You may have done something wrong, especially if your math skills are weak. Or you’re worrying about nothing, which is far more likely.

I may be receiving a visit from a black limousine with black tinted windows for saying this, but I’ll take the risk for your benefit: It’s a well-known industry secret that the big boys in the salsa world have teamed up with big PHARMA to dump piles of secret combinations of rejiggered molecular structures (See Time magazine’s headline story “Big PHARMA denies any connection to Big Boys of Salsa”) into commercially sold salsa in an attempt to denature and stabilize the naturally perky yet highly volatile personality commonly found in homemade salsas. In other words, don’t worry. Your salsa is just expressing itself.

According to my own research in the world of “pretty good” salsa, “pretty good” salsa has a half-life that goes something like this: Day 1, getting to “pretty good,” yet unstable, subject to extreme changes; Day 2, achieving “pretty good-hood”; Day 3, peak flavor—it will never get any “pretty gooder” than this; Day 4, flavor is sliding down the bell curve, still suitable for guests that you’re not “in love” with; Day 5, time to offer your salsa leftovers to your dog, or your neighbor, or your neighbor’s dog. Your call.

I'll help you when I'm free . . .

If you’re still unsure about whether you’ve made a critical error, you can always e-mail me with your concerns. See e-mail address above. Use as your Subject Heading: “Concerned that I may be poisoning my family.” Tell me what you did to screw up, and I’ll offer my best advice.

Final words

Always remember: Keep chilled. Shake well before opening. Serve warm, cold, or at room temperature. Your call.

Congratulations. You’ve achieved salsahood. Now clean up your kitchen, for god’s sakes.

Then read my other posts. They’re not going to read themselves . . . A few are actually pretty good.

Thank you. You’ve been a good sport. 

(your name here) pretty good Smokehouse Salsa

4. A rare interview with the owner of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa

Q. Before we begin, let’s clear the air concerning the title of your blog—Salsa’s Me. Don’t people usually say Salsa Me? Usually after they’ve scraped the remains from their bowl, and then they want more. Don’t they usually say Salsa Me? Meaning, fork over some more. Isn’t that right? Did you make a mistake right from the get-go? Even if it’s inadvertent? What do you have to say? Please answer the question . . .

A. It’s a Zen thing.

Q. Let’s change the subject . . . How does this year’s salsa production look?

A. Pretty good. Going out on a limb here, but I’m projecting anywhere from 8 to 16 jars.

Q. That’s a 100% range—why so wide?

A.  Well, the critters have a say in the matter.

Q. Since your production facility is quite modest, have you considered expansion?

A. Well, if I dug up the other half of the back yard, the neighbors would probably complain.

Q. Let’s talk about you now. Why do you like to garden so much? My guess is it’s your passion? Is it your passion? Is it? Please, answer the question.

A. You’d think so . . . Well, actually, I hate gardening--lots of hard work, and compost dust gets up your nose.

Q. That is a stunning revelation, sir. I’m like, I’m stunned. I mean . . . Let’s move on to your product—salsa. You must have a passion for salsa. After all, it’s your life’s work, for god’s sakes.

A. You’d think so, wouldn’t you . . . You know, after about half a jar, I’m full.

Q. You can’t even get excited about your own salsa, sir. What kind of man are you, anyway? Please, now, answer the question. Don’t you like it? Why don’t you like it? When did this happen? Isn’t it any good?

A. It’s pretty good.

Q. (Frustrated) What are you passionate about then?

A. Well . . . I like to _______________________*

*Editor’s Note: If you think you know how to finish this sentence, please send Duane Hawkinson, owner of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, an e-mail at Duane.hawkinson@gmail.com (This is a real e-mail address, so don’t say anything you wouldn’t say in front of your grandma (unless your grandma hangs out in casinos and strip clubs.)) If your entry is correct, you are automatically eligible to receive a jar of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. For bragging rights, your correct answer will be highlighted on this site.

Second Editor’s Note: If the thought of being wrong inhibits you from trying, some of the printable incorrect answers are listed below to help narrow down the possibilities, along with Duane’s annotations. (The guy’s gotta have a comment about everything. Geeze.)

Duane likes to ____________________.

1.       Walk the dog and not pick up after it. (I would never do that, the latter and not the former,       assuming I owned the former.)

2.       Compare apples to oranges. (I knew this post would invite snarky responses.)

3.       Go shirtless like Putin. (You’re cheating. That’s in my Upcoming Posts list. I haven’t actually done it yet. But I appreciate that someone would have the chutzpah to cheat on my own blog.)

4.       Bee a pooopee hed. (It’s not something I like to do. It just seems to happen.)

5.       Chase blue jays out of the yard that crossed the Canadian border illegally. (If you let a few cross, who knows how many will follow? It’s my patriotic duty, not something I like to do . . . )

6.       Discuss major works of Darwin with anyone willing to listen. (No one’s willing to listen.)

7.       Never wear pants. (A near miss. Not at the same time I pull a Putin. “Never” got you.)

8.       Shave and shower at the same time. (Not so much wrong as overly vague. Shave what?)

9.       Rescue turtles in the middle of a busy highway. (Getting warmer. But I’ve cut back on this activity after a guy in a grumbly Ford truck yelled, “Get out of the road, you dumb motherf*ck**r!” At first, I thought he was the literary type, citing a line from Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed coincidental. He didn’t seem like a book reader. I could be wrong, though.)

10.   Read, write, and try to be funny. (Disqualified based on form. Only one answer allowed. A shotgun strategy may work in a college psychology exam, but not here. And I’m having second thoughts about putting your name in the pool with that “try” crack.)

Third Editor’s Note: Due to a complete absence of insight, inspiration, or entertainment value in the previous interview, Duane has volunteered to share a brief biographical sketch to help unravel the until-now unknown and humble beginnings of  the Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa dynasty.

(Recently submitted)

Thank you, Rusty.

Let me begin by saying I was a rotten little kid.

My rottenness took a new turn one day when I flipped to the back of Boy’s Life magazine. An ad from a seed company promised great wealth in exchange for relatively little work. I just had to go door to door and sell its seeds. Flexible hours. No investment required. That part was good because I had a quarter and two dimes that I stole from my older brother to my name. The company would split the profits with me after a few easy hours of knocking on doors.

I filled out the order form and sent it in.

When it arrived, I greedily tore open the box revealing rows upon rows of seeds all neatly organized and labeled. This was really a big deal dumped on an eight year old. I thought about what I had gotten myself into, and decided I wasn’t really your high-flying executive type salesman at heart; I was more of a Boy’s Life reading, taffy eating, Gilligan’s Island watching type at heart. Almost immediately, I decided that selling a box load of seeds was a lot of fuss. I’d just go ahead and keep them for myself. Did I mention I was a rotten little kid?

D. Hawkinson, haunted by giant tomatoes

Well, after not receiving its share of the profits, the seed company sent me several threatening letters. I wasn’t too worried, though. I was already planning new hiding spots if some strange man came knocking on the front door. I also had an excuse (which started with “Who, me?”) memorized in case my mother asked what in the world was going on. (In hindsight, what kind of business model relies on an eight year old for its financial success? Even I knew I wasn’t reliable.) As it turned out, I never opened the seed packets or learned about plants or gardening or financial responsibility or about the cutthroat corporate world. I just threw the box of seeds in the back corner of the closet and forgot about it.

Now you know the genesis of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa.

This is a true story, well most of it anyway—although you may not necessarily trust a narrator who started out as a rotten little kid.

Fourth Editor’s Note: Here’s a chance to voice your opinion. If you believe this story is true, e-mail Duane Hawkinson at duane.hawkinson@gmail.com (This is a real e-mail address, so be a good digital citizen and you won’t have to redeem yourself later.) Tell Duane: I believe, I believe. Your name will be put in the pool of potential salsa winners. If you don’t believe Duane, say: Hey, mister, I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. You too will be eligible to win a jar of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. Good luck.

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            Nothing is free.

This post is brought to you by Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Bidet and Sump Pump Systems. 

Our slogan is “You’ll never know what hit you. But you'll be glad it did. Plus, your basement will stay comfortably dry—even in the worst monsoon. Now, that’s a two-for-one special you can live with.”

That’s Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Bidet and Sump Pump Systems.

Call today: 1-800-4 your downstairs & your downstairs. 

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5. So you’d like a free sample of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa?

Although Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa is distributed without consideration to salsa-worthiness (and we’re pretty sure that term will find itself in the next edition of the Oxford Language New Usage Dictionary), we do make exceptions for those who insist on begging for a jar. 

Here are the rules: 

If you’re interested in receiving a free jar (all jars are free; it’s just a matter of whether we have any left) of  Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, you may e-mail our owner at Duane.hawkinson@gmail.com (This is a real e-mail address, so obscenity laced tirades are frowned up.) Include your name, shipping address, and a 2000 word essay explaining yourself. (If it’s a little
saucy, that’s not a problem.) We’re unlikely to read beyond the first page, but we still want you to make the effort. (We’re funny that way.) If you’d like to be more visual, you can forgo the essay and send a short video. (DO NOT go beyond R-rated material. We all like to be entertained, but no one wants to get into trouble here.)

Should you be selected, you will NOT be notified. Instead, Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa will be delivered to you at some time in the future—typically after you’ve lost all hope of ever receiving  Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. We like to surprise you after you’ve lost all hope. (We’re funny that way.)

Be patient.

You might be rewarded.

6. The Scourge of Dill Run Amok

(Submitted by Audrey Burning, newly hired Director of Human Resources)

Dill run amok

Mr. Hawkinson wanted me to write about the scourge of dill run amok in the garden. He said to treat it as a metaphor for human frailty and lost confidence. He actually said that. (What a schmuck.) To tell you the truth, I don’t know beans about that topic. (Between you and me, I think he has a few flies in his ointment.) Since I was supposed to submit something, I’d like to tell you about my cat . . .

Her name is Poopsie, and she’s been with me for many years now.

Poor Poopsie is getting old. I had to put my foot down after she went on my pillow. But she’s getting old. It’s heart breaking. But I can’t let her go on my pillow. How am I supposed to get any sleep when my pillow is soaking wet?

Now she scratches on my bedroom door in the middle of the night. I say, “Poopsie, no-no!” She’s quiet for a while. Then the scratching continues until I let her in. Then she goes on my slippers. I say, “Bad Poopsie! Why would you do that when I just let you in?” She just crawls under the bed.

Poor Poopsie. I’ve tried walking around in wet slippers, but I’m afraid I’ll slip in the bathroom.

I just don’t know what to do . . . 

7. Salsa Prevents Crime

(Story Contributed by Ed)

The local newspaper reported that a potential bar fight between rival chopper gangs was quickly and peacefully averted by Duane Hawkinson, owner of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. According to first-hand accounts . . .

Tensions rose as the two gangs actually mixed up their reservations and ended up in the same Roadhouse bar. Instead of admitting to an error, the leaders “got all up in each other’s faces,” according to an anonymous source, who went on to say, “and then that Smokehouse dude got up, approached the smelly thugs, and offered them each a jar of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa.”

The bartender picked up the story from there. “Holy sh*t! It was amazin’! I’m tellin’ ya, I thought they was gonna f*****ing kill him, but no! It was a f****g miracle! J****s H. Chr**t! I’m not a f*****g religious dude or nothin’, but it was a f****g god-d**mn miracle!”

Though, having aged a few days, the story has taken many forms, the gist of it is that after Hawkinson offered the jars of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa all anyone could hear for the next fifteen minutes was the sound of salsa slopping and chip-munching. “And how they f****ing stretched out two jars to f*****ing feed thirty f****ing bikers, I’ll never know," explained the bartender. “It’s like the five f****ing loaves story all f****ing over again!”

When asked how he felt about preventing an all-out battle, lost lives, hurt feelings, burnt out buildings, chaos in the streets, and general civil strife, Duane Hawkinson, owner of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, replied,

“Pretty good.”

8. Business Model Explained

As a vertically integrated, reverse revenue enterprise,* Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa has scratched out a unique niche for itself in the rough and tumble world of corporate salsa.

• It does not have to compete against the “big boys,” who could never follow the same business model and survive. That’s one of our main advantages.**

• It does “choose” its customers (recipients) on a non-merit basis, which can sometimes be a problem when the customers don’t actually want Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, but not so often that we’ve had to reconsider our strategic planning model.
  
  
• It does not require payment for Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, but as Hawkinson personally said, “I’m not going to turn down a cold brew, if you offered it.”

• It does keep its selection process a secret, more to protect the recipients than anything else. History has shown that recipients of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa get so giddy that their neighbors soon suspect something is up, and when they find out a jar of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa has been left on their doorstep, they’re likely never to speak to their neighbors again. “It sometimes leads to people moving away,” Hawkinson had to admit.

*Editor’s Note: Another term we’re confident will find a home in the Oxford Language New Usage Dictionary.
**For more information, see Mission Statement posting.

9. Label receives facelift

(For immediate release)

Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa Marketing Director Absinthe Florida reports that extensive improvements have been made over the 2014 label.

“We were just trying to spiff it up a bit,” Florida muses, “and then everything turned into a big ball of tangled barbed wire!” Apparently, other staff members have been pressuring her to change “pretty good” to “way good.”

“Over my dead body!” Florida insists.

After calming down, she explains, “We’re not a bunch of braggarts around here—oh sure, maybe in Wisconsin or Canada, but NOT here . . . We’re Swedes, for god’s sakes!”

Drum roll please . . . Here is the new 2015 label for Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa.

And of course, the wrap-around has been improved to express a more international flare:

10. A Literary analysis of Salsa’s Me

Double-Graduate student in the fields of Early Twenty-first Century Mediated Communications in an age of Male Dominated Multi-Media Confusion, Subversion, Aggression, and Hostility and Advanced Culinary Theory of Embedded Wafer Design and Application . . . Freida Snintnonerlynn, could not, unfortunately, be reached for comment.

In a later voice mail, she explained, “I’ve analyzed every entry in this blog, every word, every mark of punctuation; I’ve deconstructed the syntax, the style, prose, and use of metaphor, and I can tell you it’s all about the setup and the joke. This man—I can’t say his name, I’ll have nightmares—mocks the very idea of blogging and, thusly, (she actually said thusly, we have a recording of it) he’s mocking us all.”

After a long gap in the tape, she continued, “Oh, the poor bastard. If I could, I would feel sorry for him, but since he’s a man, I don’t feel that sorry for him.”

Editor’s Note:  Freida Snintnonerlynn went on to Chair the Women’s Study Department at Harvard University. Currently, she offers community education cooking classes on a regular basis.

11. A life after salsa

(Submitted by Cliff, the night security guard)

To relax, Duane Hawkinson, owner of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, occasionally practices his comedy writing skills. Most of it stinks, but he wanted me to submit something, so here’re two jokes he told me just the other day . . . Sorry.

Watching for turtles

(1)    Two star-crossed lovers lie on the beach, their eyes following the path of a single sea gull against a cloudless sky.

“Just the other day, I smelled the sweet aroma of pipe tobacco smoke,” she says, “and it reminded me of something, of what . . . oh, I don’t recall.” She sighs wistfully.

“Just the other day, I put on an old T-shirt,” he says, trying to keep up, “and it reminded me that I
haven’t done laundry for over two weeks.” He sigh-burps.

They never speak again.

When, later, they cross paths, she looks away and sniffs . . . loudly.

(If you think that one was bad, I recommend cutting your losses now and read a different posting.)

(2)    George and Karl are sunning themselves on a log in the middle of a pleasant Sunday afternoon. “I feel we’re drifting apart,” says Karl, slowly, softly, a little catch in his voice. George gives Karl a long, tired look, then dives into the water, sinking to the bottom, where he remains for the rest of the afternoon. George thinks to himself, it’s the same thing every, every weekend!!! Did I mention they’re turtles?

Well, that completes this submission. I’ve done my job. Now back to broom-swatting raccoons out of the dumpsters.

12. Salsa turns one life around . . . a testimonial

(An Interview: Submitted by Ed Terwilliger, Operations Manager)

Q. Let’s cut to the chase, Ed. How has Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa changed your life?

A. M’ laf spir’lin’ outta ‘ontro’. Waf alwa’ mad a’ me. Spen’ mo’ey o’ ‘illy ‘in’s. No way ‘a go ex’ep’ oop.

Q. I see. And then this particular salsa turned you around? Please go on.

A. Ah kin e’t it wid’oud m’ ’oppa’s.

Editor’s Note: Transcribing the comments of a man without his dentures is tricky business. If you couldn’t understand the previous passage, please e-mail Duane Hawkinson, owner, Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, at duane.hawkinson@gmail.com (This is a real e-mail address, so mind your manners.) He will be happy to provide a translation.

13. Mission Statement

(Mission Statement Task Force Minutes, Submitted by the committee as a whole)

Duane’s been on our case about updating the mission statement. It expired in 2013. We scheduled 7 committee meetings, but for some reason or another, not everybody could show up. As a result, this is about as far as we got: “Our mission is to inspire and motivate people to . . .” After that it gets a little fuzzy. Everyone went out for coffee and never returned.

Check back. We’ve scheduled another meeting for next week.

14. Parsley vs. Cilantro Controversy & 15. Reaching Detente with the critters

(Contributed article by Grace Kellinski, Operations Coordinator)

Purists out there say that salsa isn't salsa unless it's made with authentic cilantro, and I'm saying that isn't so. Parsley is just fine. It tastes good, and it's not all rubbery and disgusting, like cilantro. Anyway, Duane Hawkinson, owner of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, just can't seem to grow cilantro. I don't know if it's a character defect, or what. He tries hard, don't get me wrong. Oh, no, I've said too much. Oh, the whole issue is getting me worked up.

I'm going to stop now and have a cup of coffee.

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15. Reaching Detente with the critters

We’ve all seen the damage they can do. They are bad. No doubt about it.

As I see it, there are three options in dealing with the critters.

First, you can go the extermination route—gasses, chemicals, gunfire, Muffin. I tried the Muffin approach for a while with limited success. Here is the problem with Muffin. You set Muffin out on the back step, she finds a critter, gnaws its head off, and leaves the remains behind. (Some cats are funny that way. Other cats drop the beheaded carcass at your door as kind of a see-what-I-brought-you-aren’t-I-a-nice-kitty present.) You then mow the lawn, hit the remains, and create critter salsa all over the yard. That’s not an ideal situation.

Second, you can limit your losses by overplanting. This allows both you and the critters to share in your bountiful harvest. Sounds reasonable. However, your neighbors see the abundance overflowing in your  garden, and later in the evening they send Mittens (which is actually not a cat but their eight-year-old daughter and something of an experienced juvenile delinquent) with a bowl and a list, and pretty soon the garden is reduced to a few weeds and a squashed tomato. Not ideal.

Third, you can do what I now do. You feed the critters your leftover junk food. In no time, they will

become obese and lethargic. In no time, they will lose interest in the healthy food grown in your garden and become dependent on your cheese puffs, chips, pretzels, etc., etc., etc. The only downside I’ve found from this approach is that sometimes you’ll find them waiting on the back step—their stomach folds dragging and their breath labored and short--and you’ll have to toss out the crumbs left over from your pizza night even before having your morning coffee. (God help you if you run out.)