Easy fella, not everything in Minnesota is evil.

I'm not saying I am little more cautious and un-trusting when I'm in another town for a visit, but judge for yourself.  

I traveled to Minneapolis with my daughter to retrieve a seemingly discarded minivan that had quit running during the winter months.  I had a suspicion the cause for its demise was lack of fuel, but I was assured by her it was something else. 

I've always believed that if you run your vehicle on one-eight of a tank of gas or less it's hard on your fuel pump.  I don't know the science behind it, but it sounds reasonable.  I also believe when this particular child of mine is blessed with an extra five dollars and she has an empty gas tank on her vehicle, one dollar and 26 cents of gasoline goes in the car while $3.74 is needed for six ounces of sweet creamy iced coffee in a bottle.  That's just the way things are.  My thoughts were that she ruined the fuel pump with that type situation.  Never the less, I couldn't let the vehicle sit and become a ward of the state just because it was going to cost a bit of money to haul it home and fix it.  Heaven forbid I should make a phone call and get a local mechanic to do the honors.  He might charge me a little more than reasonable because I'm from out of town, right?  Nope, I had to dedicate my entire weekend, half a paycheck and call in a couple favors to get the flat-bad and truck I needed for the adventure.  

I picked up my daughter in Sioux Falls because I decided she needed to be part of the fun.  She had landed there after leaving Minnesota for reasons I can't remember or make up at the moment.  The father/daughter adventure began just before sundown that summer's eve.  She always was a fun kid to travel with on family trips.  That is if you consider traveling with an upset wolverine high on energy drinks fun.  

We arrived at our destination a little after midnight, not stopping until we got to the correct address.  Her old roommates whom we'd known since grade school were delighted to see us... I think.  They lived in a cute older house so close to downtown St Paul you could hear the screams and gun-fire clearly.  They helped us get the van loaded on the trailer and bid us adiue with hugs and handshakes alike.  

My original plan was to drive straight through the night, but I could already tell that wasn't going to happen.  It had been somewhat stressful of a journey already and to be quite honest, I needed a beer. 

The plan changed to finding beer.  Nope!  Apparently in St Paul one does not simply go to the convenience store and pick up a "six-pack" after midnight at least not on this night which was now actually a Sunday morning.  After some frantic phone calls to her old roommates I learned my best bet was a 24 hour grocery store nearby.  They won't sell cold beer, but you can buy warm beer and put it on ice.  I guess the lawmakers figured if you want to go through all that trouble for your beer, you deserve it.  Grocery store beer there is also called 3.2 beer.  This means it's alcohol content is less than 3.2 percent by volume. 

Now, I realize we live in country of culturally diverse people.  Being the small-town un-worldly boy that I am,  I was a little taken off my game of being the in-charge big bad-guy I like to portray in public when I went into this inner-city grocery store at 1:00am.  Apparently, this area has a large population of people that are all four-foot-ten and look the same age and weight whether they are eight or 80 years old.  That's just my observation. 

What I found most odd was they acted like we weren't there.  No eye-contact or any sign that acknowledged my presence could be detected.  They walked up and down the aisles in large groups and I'm not exaggerating, they wouldn't move out of your way.  They would walk right through you if you didn't move for them.  It was very unnerving.  So, I made my daughter walk in front of me.  She knows the area.  Maybe she speaks their body language or something.  

By the time I arrived at the checkout line I was in full anxiety attack mode.  I didn't have my prescription along for that, but I did have 12 low alcohol beverages that were only seven minutes away from being cold enough to drink.  I sat the box of beer and ice on the conveyor belt of the check-out stand.  The tall blond fella doing the checking smiled warmly at me as I stepped up.  Usually guys look past me to my oddly dressed and overly made-up daughter to present their best smile.  Not Sven as his name tag proclaimed, he grabbed my stuff to ring up and said, "Oh, you look like my kind of guy"  My man defenses immediately went into survival mode and with as manly of a man voice as I could muster I replied, "LOOK BUDDY!  I AM STRAIGHT! I AM MARRIED AND YOU SHOULDN'T HIT ON CUSTOMERS NO MATTER HOW GOOD-LOOKING THEY ARE" 

"Oh, no sir.  I just meant Bud-Light is my favorite beer too", he replied.  

Never look a gift leg in the mouth

After my grueling bi-annual workout last Thursday night, I went home to find my buddy Duncan waiting for me.  He knew I might be hungry so he came over with a package of chicken legs.  So, I turned on my fryer and recipe'd-up my hot sauce that I use for hot wings.  That way we would have a drumstick version of hot-wings.  What could possibly go wrong? 

Once the fryer was ready, I dropped the legs in for their 12 minute bubbling oil-bath.  The fryer is in my garage, which serves as a fully functional second kitchen/dinning room with a big TV and recliners for ....well, you know ... man stuff.  Anyhow, I thought maybe the oil was a little old because there was a tiny hint of pungency in the area when I dropped in the legs.  I just changed the oil last weekend and only cooked a few chicken-strips and homemade fries, so I just figured it was an ambient aroma that garages can sometimes provide.

As the sauce hit a low boil, cooking time for the legs was over, along with the tasting of two tall grain and hops beverages which may have slightly dulled my senses.  I dumped the nine legs into the shake-bucket that I pour the hot sauce into, again picking up a slight stale smell wafted at me from somewhere.  No worries, perhaps the hot sauce was too hot and the vinegar in it had stung my nose a little. 

I mixed the sauce and legs in the bucket like I would the hot-wings I love to make for company and dumped them out on a plate for display and consumption.  Again, a strange smell that I was beginning to recognize hit me.  Is that bad-breath I'm smelling?   My own perhaps? His? It smelled just like nasty coffee/stale bologna breath.

The two hungry fellas began to dine on the feast of meat, hot sauce and blue cheese dressing.  It was cooked to perfection; tender, juicy and steamy on the inside.   But that smell still lingered.  After a couple bites of the chicken that had its flavor masked by a cayenne pepper sauce and blue cheese, I realized it actually was my breath.  At least now after swallowing it, I could taste in my empty mouth what I thought I was smelling earlier.  I was petrified that maybe my buddy had to endure my orally hygienic indiscretion the entire time, but didn't want to say anything.  You know how people are.

I went to the garbage can to throw my first bone away.  As I did, the empty package that the chicken came in was upside-down displaying it's grocery store specific label that I hadn't looked at yet.

I asked Duncan, “Where did you get these legs?”

He replied, “Out of my freezer.  I started thawing them at lunchtime”

“Duncan? WHEN did you get these legs”, I inquired sarcastically.

“I don't know. Not very long ago. They were on sale”, he added. 

I took a deep breath and told him that perhaps the grocery store's label maker was either on the fritz, OR the sale on the package of legs had ended around the time the label indicated: Sell by June 14, 2009.  I didn't feel so good for a few days.