My Crib's in the Hood but I'm Still Dealin' Good or You Really Can't Make This Stuff Up

On a recent Saturday, I put on my sweat shirt, grabbed my camera, got my wife, placed my child volunteer approval badge around my neck and set off to Cumberland Valley High School to chaperon the Bishop McDevitt Marching Bands competition trip at CV, "Echos in the Valley". The trip there, the event, the trip back; all uneventful.

I get home about 10:45, dash into the house, remove my coat and dash to the shower so that I can 1) have hot water, b) TCB before everyone else gets home and 4) sit on my recliner to unwind from the events of the first paragraph. My glass of milk, my remote and my Fios On-Demand have set the mood. I am chillin' in my crib. Everyone else returns home, showers, snacks and goes to bed. The light in my bedroom has been extinguished so I know now that I am on my own.

Sometime after midnight, maybe 12:30 Sunday morning, I hear some thing knocking at my side door. Maybe I had dozed off and it was on TV. Maybe it was the wind. Does the wind have the ability to make my side door vibrate to the tune of "Shave and a Hair Cut"? Naahhhhh! I don't think so. Anyhow, I get up and quietly sleuth across the room in the eerie blue glow of the TV to peak out to catch the wind performing it's magic. Much to my shock and amazement it wasn't the wind, it wasn't a family member and it wasn't Santa, the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. It was ...

Let me pause here because I need to try and be politically correct. I am not sure what adjective to use to describe the noun that was at my door. Should I say Negro? Should I say African-American? Should I say Black? This is the stress placed upon me as a white male in the 21st century. I am no longer comfortable referring to someone who is a homo sapien, just like me, and using their race, not as anything derogatory, but rather as a distinguishing trait that makes them more identifiable. I have decide, I am using black.

... the black girl that has been living with my neighbor for the past several weeks. As I reached for the door knob to open the door and address the crisis at hand, a thought flashed through my mind, "Holy Cow!, Dan. You're in your boxers and are about to open the door to talk to an almost stranger of the opposite sex. Just as quickly the thought was answered with, "It's my crib, I'm chillin' on my time: What you see is what you get." So I opened the door.

"Can I borrow a knife?". I didn't think the boxers were that bad looking.
I said, "What?"
She stated very matter-of-factly, "Can I borrow a knife? I came home and no one is supposed to be here. But when I got here the door was open and lights are on inside. I'm scared and I need a knife to use to search the house."

Being relieved that it wasn't the boxers and using my superior intellect knowing that one shouldn't take a knife to a gunfight, I countered with, "Why don't we call the cops?" Being white from the burbs and not possessing a rap sheet this seemed to me to be the next/most logical step in the whole process. But nooooooooooo!

"We can't call the cops! We can't call the cops! That just wouldn't work!"

I tried to explain that I would call the non-emergency number, that they would come and she could walk with them through the residence to make sure all was in order and secure.

Again it was, "We can't call the cops! We can't call the cops! That just wouldn't work! I ain't callin' no cops."

I did the most logically thing I could think of at the time. I piroeted from the door, strode proudly across my kitchen floor in my boxers, addressed the cutlery board and got the biggest knife I could find. Upon returning to my midnight visitor I handed her the knife and said, "Good luck!"

I closed the door not knowing if I'd ever see the black girl or my knife again. Oh, maybe I'd see the knife again in court but then again maybe not.

As the good Lord provides sometime around 12:45 the wind knocked on my door again to return the knife. She said all was well and that she didn't need the cops.

Never mentioned my boxers. She was probably trying to be politically correct. - DD

Recipes from Our Neighbors or You Just Can't Make This Stuff Up

This past summer the Pilgrims from St. Margaret Mary Church put together a book of their favorite recipes to sell in order to raise money to offset the cost of their World Youth Day trip. It was either a rousing success or a complete and total failure. I am not sure which. I only tell you that so that I have some sort of introduction to what I am about to write.

I found out that our good friends and neighbors have a great recipe for banana nut bread. It goes like this: go to the supermarket, buy a hand of bananas, bring them home, place them on the counter, let them ripen beyond "yellow", have neighbor Ann in, let her see the yellowish-brown bananas. At that point neighbor Ann says (like clock work), "If you aren't going to eat those brown bananas I'll make banana nut bread." At that very moment the good friend and neighbors respond, "I don't know why I buy so many bananas, no one eats them. Sure go ahead, bake the bread." Within minutes the wafting aroma of baking banana nut bread fills the neighborhood. By the following afternoon there is freshly baked banana nut bread at our good friend and neighbors house.

The story doesn't stop there. If good neighbor Ann walks in while a pot of water is boiling on your stove in the anticipation of a pound of semolina spaghetti, she will inquire about the type of sauce to be used. At this time good friend and neighbor will reply, "Oh, darn! I was supposed to get sauce and forgot!" No problem for neighbor Ann. She grabs fresh tomatoes from the garden along with supplements of crushed tomatoes from the pantry and quicker than you can say "Nuovo Vesuvio", voila, fresh, homemade sauce.

Another great recipe is to be a good neighbor and friend and show up as neighbor Ann is cleaning up after her own meal. Come into her kitchen, sit at her table and talk to her husband, neighbor Dan. Within minutes she will be offering you a plate of what ever the 'food du jour' was. If you politely decline when the unfed, hungry husband of the good friend and neighbor arrives to find his wife, he will also be offered the 'food du jour', the 'dessert du jour' and/or any and all leftovers in the Frigidaire. He eats it all and takes some along for his lunch tomorrow. Que sera, sera.

When you get right down to it, there is nothing at all wrong with these recipes. If everyone cooked this way the world would be a much better place. Glad we could be of service. -DD

PS - Upon arriving home from his annual doctors check-up, George Burns was asked, "What did the doctor have to say?" His reply, "He told me not to buy any green bananas."