Saturday, May 31, 2008

I read this article in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution the other day and thought it was interesting.

Quitting a comfortable position as the owner of a public relations firm to become a cheesemaker? It seems too risky for anyone to even consider. But Sumter County resident Margaret Raynor has done just that.

Margaret achieved great success with her firm Raynor & Associates but decided to put all of her energy towards another passion of hers: making artesian cheeses. “Since I was successful in my first endeavor, I think I’ve got a good shot at this one,” she says.

She worked for almost two years to achieve state certification to sell her homemade cheeses. She and her husband, Greg, have operated a small goat farm for the past twelve years. She’s only the third licensed artesian cheesemaker in Georgia. “It feels great to finally be able to share my cheese with everyone,” she says.

“She’s worked so hard,” says her husband.

Margaret plans to sell her products at Steve's Farmer’s Market in Tucker each Tuesday. She produces two types of cheeses, feta and chevre, which is similar to mozzarella. Each sells for $5 per half-pound. “I love these cheeses and just hope others will as well,” Margaret says.

Jessica Spreewell of Marietta sampled some of Margaret’s cheese at the market last Tuesday. “It was disgusting,” she said. “Once my cat ate some chocolate and had runny diarrhea and some of it got on my lip and this cheese tastes like that.”

Looks like success in public relations doesn’t translate to success in cheesemaking. Better luck next time, Margaret Raynor.

Friday, May 30, 2008

Listen up, because I’m the richest man in the world, you know? This one time I had to stop to eat breakfast at this cheap little restaurant and this waitress, what a character she was, asks me what I want to drink and I say, “What’s the most expensive liquid you’ve got?” and she says, “Well we have gasoline here,” so I say, “Give me a gallon of diesel.” It was cold in that dump so I ask my assistant, my main man Carlito, “Hey Carlito, get me my fur coat,” and he says, “Which one?” and I say, “The warmest one,” and he says, “But they’re all so warm, sir,” and I say, “Give me the one lined with Marie Antoinette’s pubic hair,” and he did and boy oh boy was that thing nice. So the waitress comes back to the table with my gallon of diesel and says, “What do you want to eat?” and I say, “I want some eggs,” and she says, “What kind?” and I say, “Give me a god damn Faberge.” She tells me they only got Grade A Jumbos and Carlito tells me my jet is all fueled up so I told the waitress I had business to attend to and got my diesel in one of those to-go thermoses and left a T206 Honus Wagner card as a tip and busted outta that place. So get this while we were all on my jet Carlito leans over to me and says, “Sir, do you know how much money you have?” and I say, “An absolute shit load of money,” and he says, “No, sir, you should check the accounts. You’re bankrupt,” so I tell him, “Why don’t you buy me some more money?” and he says, “Sir, you can’t do that,” and that’s why I work at Applebee’s.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Here's a message I found scribbled down on a magazine subscription card in a field in Louisville, Georgia. It was signed by Miss Scarlett Walton. I asked local estate owners about her and a Mr. Green told me she is a very Southern Debutante with a thick drawl who comes from a long line of plantation owners. These may have been her final words. No one has seen her since the night she wrote this.

Oh my stars. What on God’s green earth have I done? I can’t even believe what’s happened to me tonight. I was tempted by the sweet nectar of sin. And I bit! I can’t be sure how I even got to this empty field out here in the middle of the night. There ain’t a cow for miles out here! I’ll do my best to tell ya’ll what happened.

Earlier today I walked into my basement only to find my boy Jimmy, my very own child, playing that awful video toy Grand Theft Auto. Oh my lord! How I screamed! I screamed so loud I think a few of my Bibles fell off the shelf! I knew from all the people on the television that that game contained nothing but moonshine and balderdash! “How dare you!” I yelled. “How dare you bring such filth into this home!” Jimmy was so startled he leapt a cat’s tail high and ran right into his room. “No gizzards for you tonight!” I yelled up to him.

For the next hour or two I sat at the kitchen table in a rage. I knew that game was just poison for his young mind. How could he have brought it into our home? When I caught him he was driving a car right over some older gentlemen. “Stop!” I yelled. “That looks like Mr. Green!” You see, Mr. Green is our neighbor. He’s a very nice man, although he is a racist. But Jimmy shouldn’t have been running over anyone. When I went to bed I was so steamed I could hardly get in a wink of sleep.

And then, oh, forgive me, Lord! I was so tempted. Just what was in that game that he wanted so much? It lured me as if the Devil himself were offering a sweet pecan pie. It’s hard for me to admit this, but I got out of bed, put on my corset and laced up my fine midnight gown, and went to the basement to give it a try.

Now please remember this: I did not want to enjoy it. I wished only to discover what Jimmy liked so much. But, I have to say, when I first capped a Middle Eastern man in the knee I felt happiness like I haven’t experienced since Donnie and Marie came to town. Just when I was enjoying the game in silence the door creaked open and Jimmy walked downstairs.

This is where everything gets a bit fuzzy. All I know is that he asked me what I was doing and I yelled, “Nothing!” I was so scared I leapt up and ripped all the cables out of the television set and spilled my fresh homemade sweet tea all over the carpet. And somewhere in there I was so startled that I cancelled my Ladies Home Journal subscription, threw away all of our fresh fruit, and took the car keys and drove out here. I don’t know where I am. I don’t have Heaven’s guess as to how I’ll get back. And I really must find out how to re-subscribe to Ladies Home Journal. I am nothing without my Ladies Home Journal.

Here's a letter I found in the school cafeteria on the last day of school. I don't know if it ever reached the intended recipients.

Dear Lunch Table Behind Me,

Your antics have gotten, I’m sorry to say, old. You are noisy and boisterous and you interrupt my dining experience daily. It seems that each time I try to take a bite of my tuna sandwich I am hit with a projectile that was launched from your table. I do not enjoy being the one who ruins your fun, but I feel as though I must put my foot down. The time you mixed together the table’s beverages and added a handful of bees before serving it to that unsuspecting young boy was more disgusting than humorous. When you had the battery eating contest I spent the entire lunch period shaking, worried to death that one of you would be killed. I could hardly begin to eat my egg salad. Each time I try to begin a homework assignment during a brief period of quiet you launch some sort of raccoon at my face. How odd it was to explain to Mrs. Thomas that I could not complete her assignment because the students seated behind me were tickling my neck with a very long peacock feather. And for the love of God, I urge you, please stop aborting babies. The last abortion resulted in a great stain on my fabulous new blouse. Last week I tried to begin a conversation with my best friend Margaret about fabric patterns but she could not hear a word I said due to the noise from your abortion.

I wish you the best and hope that we can one day dine in peace.

With respect,

Ruth Henderson