Chick Wit

Place Your Item in The Bagging Area

by Lisa Scottoline

In these difficult times, it’s important to savor the victories.

And folks, we won!

What am I talking about?

That self-service checkouts are going to be scrapped at Walmart, Costco, and Wegmans.

We did it, gang!

We defeated Big Machine!

According to a news story I read, major chains are beginning to phase out self-service checkouts.

I’m declaring victory for all mankind.

Or at least people who never got the hang of self-checkout, like me.

There’s not a single time I’ve used self-checkout that I have not had to call over a cashier.

And believe me, I try to do it myself. I swipe my barcodes and look through twenty pictures of oranges to figure out the produce code for the ones I got, but it never works. And I get cranky, but try to hide it from the people in the line who are getting cranky but not trying to hide it.

They’re mad at me, and so am I.

Self-checkout breeds self-loathing.

Sometimes I avoid buying produce so I don’t have to look it up.

The day Bartlett pears grow barcodes, I’m in.

Plus I always wonder why we don’t just type in what we bought?

Like why give produce a number code when it already has a letter code, which is what we used to call a word.

After all, I can type ICEBERG before I can find 1928290.

Then nobody would have to remember anything.

But what do I know?

I’m just glad it’s over.

Goodbye to all that.

Because I always struggle with self-checkout, and in time I’ll give up and hit the REQUEST HELP button.

I love to REQUEST HELP.

I wish life had a REQUEST HELP button.

I’d REQUEST HELP all day.

And then I wait for the cashier, always a ponytailed high-schooler trying to deal with middle-aged women who have plenty of agita but are dangerously low on estrogen.

Nowadays, I beat the system.

I hit REQUEST HELP as soon as I pull up.

It’s just more efficient.

I know I’ll need HELP, so why wait?

I eliminate the middle man.

Or the middle robot.

And then I slow-walk finding the code for broccoli rabe until the child cashier materializes and rattles it off.

This is why she has estrogen.

She needs to memorize produce codes.

Me, I have better things to do.

Netflix isn’t going to binge itself.

In the news story, it said that the stores are phasing out self-checkout because it has increased theft.

That’s surprises me.

If I’m going to shoplift, the shop is Cartier.

Tomatoes, I’ll pay for.

Reportedly, the reason they started self-checkout in the first place was because of Covid and also not everybody liked interacting with another person.

I don’t get that, either.

I love talking to people in stores.

My entire social life is Wegman’s.

At Costco, I hang out at the samples and pretend I’m at a cocktail party.

And the other day at CVS, I struck up a conversation with the guy at the self-checkout next to me.

I will not be defeated.

And neither will you.

We win!

Copyright Lisa Scottoline 2023

Column Classic: Pasta Impasse

by Lisa Scottoline

You know how on Facebook people say their relationship is complicated?

Well, my relationship just got complicated.

I’m talking about my relationship with pasta.

Let me take you back in time to the dark ages when we didn’t even use the word pasta.

Back then, we called it spaghetti.

And growing up in a household of The Flying Scottoline, we had spaghetti every night for dinner.

I’m not even kidding.

I have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating.

We thought spaghetti was what you had for dinner.

Sometimes we had it with meatballs, sometimes with chicken, but always spaghetti. You would think this got boring, but it never did. All my friends wanted to come to our house for dinner.

Why?

Because we had spaghetti.

On holidays we had ravioli or gnocchi, but even then, we still served it with spaghetti.

Yes, we had carbohydrates with a side of carbohydrates.

And we were as happy as clams.

Spaghetti with clams.

So naturally, I grew up loving spaghetti, and it’s still the food I crave. I would eat it every night if my jeans would permit.

My sweatpants are fine with it, however.

Then, in the evolution of spaghetti history, everybody started calling it pasta, which enabled restaurants to charge three dollars more.

At about the same time, I started reading about how you should eat whole-wheat pasta because it was made of healthier ingredients.

Like you didn’t have semolina.

Until then I didn’t know that regular pasta was made of semolina, which sounds like a last name.

Meet Lisa Semolina, author, and dog-lover.

But I read that whole-wheat spaghetti was better for you because it had more protein. I compared, and on the box, it said that regular spaghetti had seven grams of protein, but whole-wheat pasta has eight grams of protein.

You might not think that one gram makes a difference, but I never underestimate the power of one.

Not only literally.

Literally, it takes me three years to lose a single pound, so I don’t take one for granted.

So, I made the switch to whole-wheat spaghetti, and I told myself that it tasted the same.

It didn’t, but I lived with it.

I completely replaced my semolina-laden spaghetti with whole-wheat spaghetti and drowned it in tomato sauce.

Or gravy, to those of you who speak the language.

The language being South Philly.

I went happily/unhappily on my way, eating whole-wheat pasta until I saw a different type of pasta that was supposed to be even healthier, called Protein Plus.

Plus is definitely good, right?

Protein Plus pasta seems to be somewhere between whole-wheat pasta and regular pasta, and it has ten grams of protein.

Wow!

That’s three more grams than seven – proof that I can subtract.

Or add.

Or get suckered in by anything.

So, I bought the Protein Plus pasta, drowned that in sauce/gravy, and kept telling myself how much fun I was having.

Until I came across a new kind of pasta that was made from chickpeas, and it had thirteen grams of protein.

In other words, I hit the protein jackpot!

For a long time, I subbed that in, burying it in gravy and also mozzarella.

Obviously, we’re abandoning the calorie count. I needed the mozzarella to smother the taste, which I never needed with regular pasta, which tastes awesome all by itself.

So, I have more protein but also more carbs and fat.

And I have four different types of pasta in my pantry – regular, whole wheat, protein plus, and chickpea. On any given night, when I want pasta, I never know which one to choose.

So, you see why my relationship with pasta is complicated.

But it isn’t over.

Nobody divorces spaghetti.

Copyright Lisa Scottoline 2016

Column Classic: Mrs. Elvis

by Lisa Scottoline

I was just asked out on a date. 

By Elvis. 

For real, kind of. Or, rather, by an Elvis impersonator. 

He may have left the building, but he still has a laptop. 

He had evidently read somewhere that I’m a huge Elvis fan, which is true, and as he is in the Elvis business, he figured I’d be attracted, so he emailed me and asked me out. 

Uh, no. 

But thank you. Thank you very much. 

Not that I wasn’t tempted, but he didn’t give me all the facts, and I wasn’t about to ask. Though he did supply a head shot and he looked so handsome – dark hair, long muttonchops, shiny sunglasses – well, you know what he looks like. 

I never dated anybody on a stamp. 

But he didn’t specify which Elvis he was. If he was young Elvis The Pelvis, we could talk. I would make an exception from my no-younger-men rule and become a cougar. Though I’m guessing that this impersonator is pushing 60. 

It’s an interesting legal question, in a way. If the impersonator is 60, but the Elvis is 22, does that make me a cougar? 

Or just a kooky and fun kinda gal? 

If he was black-leather Comeback Elvis, I’m still listening. Elvis in black leather on his comeback is my idea of a harmonic convergence. The only way to improve that combination is if he was carrying a big piece of chocolate layer cake. 

Don’t be cruel. 

But if it was Karate-Chop Elvis, I’m less sure. Though come to think of it, maybe I could be talked into it. Elvis is Elvis, even chubby. And I like peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Maybe I shouldn’t have said no so quickly. 

I’m all shook up. 

Still, the very notion of the email opened up new vistas for me, love-wise. By which I mean, if I could start dating impersonators, which one would I date? All of a sudden, I wasn’t limited to romance with live men, or even real men. 

Wow! It boggles the mind. My odds of finding new love just skyrocketed. 

Maybe I was being too picky before, limiting my dating pool to the living. True, the dead can be a little dull, but God knows I’ve been there before. 

The only problem is, if I try to remember long-dead pop stars, I can’t think of a single one who does it for me. 

I love to listen to Frank Sinatra, but I’m not sure he’s my type. Also, Mother Mary would never forgive me. She knows they belong together. She longs to be Mrs. Ol’ Blue Eyes. 

I can’t remember any other long-dead pop stars, and the only other singer who really does it for me is Bob Dylan, but he’s not dead yet. Though I bet there are tons of people already impersonating him. 

Hmm. 

Gentlemen, send me an email. 

Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right. 

Hell, come to think of it, I can do a decent Dylan impersonation, so maybe I should start dating myself. 

Except I already am. 

I wouldn’t mind dating an impersonator of historical figures, however. I always had the hots for George Washington. 

Chicks dig power. 

I could be First Lady, even though I’d be First Dead Lady. I could overlook his wooden teeth, and we could share a blow dryer. 

Plus, I had a thing for Robin Hood. I love all that derring-do, with the arrows shooting and the horseback riding, and the helping the poor. 

And the codpiece. 

What a guy! I would date Robin Hood in a second. I got so excited, I called Daughter Francesca to tell her all about the Elvis email and that her new stepfather would be wearing green tights. 

She laughed. “Mom, Robin Hood wasn’t real.” 

“Yes, he was. I saw the movie. In fact, two movies. One with Kevin Costner, and one with Errol Flynn.” 

“Who? 

“He was real.” 

“He wasn’t.” 

I considered this. It was possible she was right. She often is, and she sounded it. “But I bet people impersonate him.” 

“Maybe.” 

“So, I could date the Robin Hood impersonator. What difference does it make if the person they impersonate is real?” 

“You mean like a fake of a fake?” 

“Exactly. I could do worse.” 

“It’s a point,” she said, hanging up. 

© Lisa Scottoline 

Column Classic: The Fixer

By Lisa Scottoline

You may remember that I’m in Home Improvement Frenzy. Aluminum siding is coming off, cedar shakes are going on. Working at my house today are stonemasons, roofers, and carpenters, but none of them is single. 

It gets worse. 

Yesterday morning after it rained hard, a stonemason hurried in to tell me that my levee was broken. He was upset. So was I. I didn’t know I had a levee. I didn’t even know what a levee was. All I knew about levees was that somebody “drove his Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry.” 

“How bad is a broken levee?” I asked. 

“Very bad.” He told me that when my levee broke, my springhouse got flooded, and because I have a well, that probably meant I had no running water. 

“Really?” I crossed to the faucet and turned it on, but only a tiny stream of water came out. “Uh oh.” 

“You need an excavator.” 

You can imagine how this news delighted me. I was already fixing everything that could be fixed on the house, and I had been so worried that I would be limited in the amount of money I could spend on home repair. I didn’t realize that I could spend money fixing the ground, too. 

Yay! 

My ground was broken, and suddenly the possibilities were limitless. I could spend and spend and spend, especially if the next thing to break was the sky. I could hire carpenters to build a wooden frame and support heaven itself. And after I had repaired the earth and the sky, I could move on to the sea. 

I hear the tides need holding back. 

So, to come back to the point, I learned that a levee is a mound of dirt that holds water in a channel, to control the runoff.  If you live in the suburbs, you know about runoff.  Runoff belongs with words like aggravated assault and tax increase. Runoff can make even sane citizens take up clubs, and if you start a conversation with a suburban type on the subject, be ready to settle in for the duration.  Ranting will be involved, fists shaken, and development decried. Also, revenuers, then gov’mint in general. 

I had to get my runoff under control, and fast. One of my contractors knew a guy who knew an excavator, so the excavator came and gave me an estimate to repair the levee. It would cost $10,000. 

Ouchie. 

I gazed at my broken levee, wondering if I could get a shovel and do it myself. 

As far as I could tell, a side of a hill had washed away, and the dirt had to be dug out and piled back up again. It wasn’t rocket science. I could make a gutter, like in a bowling alley. Or like the moat around a sandcastle, at the beach. I mean, how hard could it be? 

But my assistant Laura reminded me that I have a job and told me to get another estimate. 

“Do I have to?” I asked her. 

“Of course.” 

Now here’s another thing. I don’t usually get a lot of estimates. I don’t have time, and basically, I trust people. I know that labor costs money and so do materials. Everybody is entitled to make a living, and I have found that people are fair and honest. 

“Get real,” Laura said, so I listened to her, as I do in all things. I called a second excavator, who came over and gave me a second estimate. His cost? 

$1000. 

To review: two excavators, one estimate at $10,000 and one at $1000. For the same job. 

You can imagine how delighted I was to hear this news, which showed me another way to spend even more and more and more money. As much as I was spending to fix my house, I could be spending ten times as much with no extra effort. All I had to do was hire the right contractors. 

I called Laura and told her. “Can you believe it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Now what do I do?” 

“Get another estimate. You need three.” 

“Yes, master.” 

I hung up, excited. Maybe I could get an estimate for $100,000. I wanted a top-quality levee. A prestige levee. One that you’d need a Mercedes to drive to. And it would never, ever run dry. 

So, I went online looking for a third excavator, letting my imagination run free. Outside my window, I noticed that the clouds were looking a little gray. Dingy. They needed a fresh coat of white paint. The cost would be in the prep. Power-washing, burning, caulking, priming. It would cost a fortune to paint the clouds. 

I’m on it, people. 

Copyright 2008 Lisa Scottoline 

Emergency Branzino

By Lisa Scottoline

I look on the bright side of things. 

For example, I went to the ER last night, but at least my socks matched. 

That’s what I mean. 

The number of times I wear matching socks in my life is exactly nil. 

The only reason I was wearing matching socks this time was because I had been visiting Daughter Francesca in New York, and in New York, you have to wear matched socks. 

In Pennsylvania, you don’t. 

Here, all we want is warm feet. 

And not only do my socks never match in color, they’re often different types. 

Like usually I have a sweat sock on one foot and a wool sock on the other. 

Why? 

Why not? 

Who cares? 

I think socks are booby-trapped because they come matched. 

My socks don’t stay with their mates longer than I did. 

Maybe my socks are divorced. 

To return to point, it was after I’d gotten home from New York last night that I ended up in the hospital ER. It all started because I hadn’t eaten dinner and I had a piece of branzino in the refrigerator, which I had bought when Francesca was home. 

I class it up for my kid, too. 

What empty nester doesn’t? 

As soon as she moved out, I segued into oatmeal for dinner. 

And you know what? 

I love it. 

Anyway, I’m a vegetarian and on the fence about eating fish, but this little fish had given its life, so I decided to cook it. I made some leftover rice and steamed some broccoli, then served myself a meal. I was so proud that I took a picture and texted it to Francesca. 

She texted back, Yum! 

I ate some broccoli, which was over-cooked, and rice, which was under-cooked, then I finally had some fish, which had a fair number of bones. 

And one lodged in my throat. 

I wasn’t choking, but I couldn’t get it to go down. 

I drank water, but the bone didn’t move. So I tried to push it down with a toothbrush, then a butter knife. 

Well, people swallow swords, don’t they? 

Anyway, neither worked. 

So, I looked online under “fish bone stuck in throat” and found home remedies like “drink olive oil” or “soak bread in water, then eat it” or “have peanut butter.” 

 I did all those things, but the fishbone still didn’t move. 

So, I drove myself to the hospital, remembering the times I’d been in the emergency room before. One time for falling off my bike and breaking my arm, another time when a moth flew in my ear, and a third time when I drank a water bottle that contained a dead mouse. 

Don’t ask. 

I didn’t see the mouse in the bottle because I was driving at the time and I had left the bottle uncapped in the car. 

Plus, it was Christmas Eve. 

I try to arrange my drama at dramatic times. 

Things happen to me. 

Exciting things. 

Fun things. 

Things that you can write about on a Sunday. 

I’m not accident-prone, but I am incident-prone. 

That’s the bright side. 

Long story short, I got to the hospital, told them the story, and the physician’s assistant looked down my throat with a tongue depressor, which evidently works better than a butter knife. 

Suddenly I felt the bone move, and I swallowed it! 

Yay! 

They took an x-ray anyway and the doctor checked me out and the nurses were wonderful as usual, then they gave me some goop to swallow and numb my throat. 

So, I went home, with a vow. 

No more fish. 

But plenty of oatmeal.

Copyright Lisa Scottoline 2023 

Column Classic: Recipe for Disaster

By Lisa Scottoline

Turns out you’re never too old to call your mother about a recipe. 

And regret it. 

We begin when I decide to cook a nice meal for Daughter Francesca, because we’re about to start book tour, where we’ll eat MacDonald’s French fries for dinner and pretend that it’s a hardship. 

We eat French fries for dinner every book tour, and it’s worth writing an entire book for an excuse to eat French fries. 

But if I eat French fries without being on book tour, I start signing things. 

Occupational hazard. 

To stay on point, I decide to make eggplant parm, which I haven’t made in years. Mother Mary, as you can guess, is the Queen of Eggplant Parm, and she has the best recipe ever.  When was in my twenties, I used to call her about her recipes because I’d never made the dish.  But now, in my fifties, I have to call her because I can’t remember if I made the dish, or where my keys are, or what year it is. 

I actually forgot that, yesterday. 

At least I think it was yesterday. 

Back then, in my twenties, my big question was whether you had to preheat the oven. 

Mother Mary always said yes. 

So I did, but now I learned that the answer is no. 

Preheating the oven is as big a lie as the check is in the mail. 

Believe me.  Take risks.  Don’t preheat. 

Anyway, I couldn’t remember the order of business for breading the eggplant slices, whether it was egg, flour, and bread crumbs, or flour, egg, then bread crumbs.  I know it seems obvious, but when I breaded a slice in the logical order – egg, flour, bread crumbs – the eggplant’s surface cratered like bad skin. 

So I called Mother Mary for the recipe, but before I could ask her my question, she asked me hers:  “Did you preheat the oven?” 

I paused.  “No.” 

“You have to.” 

“I will,” I lie. 

“Don’t lie.  Do it now.” 

“Ma, I haven’t even made the eggplant yet.  If I preheat the oven from now, I’ll use up enough energy to bake Earth.  So tell me, what’s the order?” 

“Wait.  The oven has to be 350 degrees.  No more, no less.” 

“Got it.  Now, Ma−”

“Also you have to peel the skin off, did you do that?” 

“No.  I read that it has vitamins.”  Also I’m too lazy. 

“Wrong!  Peel it!” 

“Okay, I will,” I lie again.  “Now, Ma –”

“Did you leave the eggplant slices out overnight, to let the water leak out?” 

I fall silent, trying to decide whether to lie a third time. 

“You have to do it the night before.  You put salt on the slices, lay them flat between two plates, and put your iron on top of the plate, to weigh it down.” 

I’m still trying to decide how to respond.  I remember growing up, I used to wonder about the eggplant slices between two plates, sitting on the counter all night.  By the next morning, about half a teaspoon of eggplant water had dripped into the sink. 

Like it matters. 

So, of course I didn’t take anything out the night before.  I never make a recipe that requires taking anything out the night before.  I never think that far behind. 

Also, I don’t own an iron. 

Other than that, I followed her recipe exactly. 

Mother Mary asks, “Well, did you drain them last night?” 

“Yes,” I lie.  Third time’s a charm. 

“You didn’t, I can tell,” Mother Mary says firmly.  “Salt the slices, drain them, and make the parm tomorrow night.” 

“Ma, tomorrow night I’ll be at a book signing.”  By the way, I could remind her that the book in question, Meet Me At Emotional Baggage Claim, is almost entirely stories like this one, about her, but I’m sensing the irony might be lost. 

Mother Mary raises her voice, agitated.  “Then make the parm the next night.” 

“Ma, I have to make it tonight.  So what’s the order –”

“YOU CAN’T MAKE THE PARM IF YOU DIDN’T DRAIN THE EGGPLANT!” 

So, you know where this is going.  Shouting and fighting, ending in false promises, heavy guilt, and mediocre eggplant parm. 

In other words, dinner, Scottoline-style!

© Lisa Scottoline 

Column Classic: Princess Lisa

By Lisa Scottoline

I live a fairytale existence. 

But not in a good way. 

When I was little, I remember reading old-school fairytales, and there was one in which every time a princess spoke, no words came out of her mouth, but only snakes, newts, spiders, and mice. 

Well, it turns out that princess is me. 

And they’re not coming out of my mouth, but they’re coming out of my heat vents. 

Or from under couches. 

Or even from my oven. 

I don’t know where to begin the fairytale. 

Maybe just to remind you that every year in the autumn, I always have an invasion of wolf spiders. 

To be fair, they don’t invade.  They have better manners than that. 

They merely wait for the front door to open and run in, usually in a flying wedge. 

There are NFL teams that don’t have the formations of these spiders. 

Mine are professional spiders. 

I can’t bring myself to kill them, so I try to catch them under drinking glasses, flip the glasses upside down, and throw them back outside. 

I’ve made my peace with the spiders, as I have with the mice that tend to appear this time of year, too. 

I found one in the oven last week, and he wasn’t helping with the cooking. 

So, I set a bunch of mousetraps, because I don’t cut mice the same slack that I cut spiders. 

You have to draw the line somewhere. 

Anybody who has had a mouse in the house knows that the best and worst sound is a snap of the trap. 

Then a few days ago I noticed a horrible smell coming from the wall of my bedroom closet and all the dogs were going crazy every night, at bedtime.  When I couldn’t take the stench anymore, I called a contractor.  The dogs told him exactly where in the wall to dig. 

They’re cadaver dogs. 

Kind of. 

Anyway, in five minutes, the contractor had opened the wall and found three dead mice. 

Presumably they were not blind. 

Still, I can live even with dead mic e. 

I’m not a picky woman, and everybody’s just looking to keep warm for the winter, myself included. 

But just now, I was at my desk working on the computer when I happened to look down and see something dark, long, and skinny wiggling rapidly across the rug. 

All the dogs were asleep. 

Thanks, freeloaders. 

But to stay on point, at first, I thought it was a worm, but it was moving way too fast, and my body shuddered instantly, because it figured out what the thing was before my brain did. 

A baby snake. 

I jumped up and said, eeeeek! 

Because I’m entitled. 

I ran to get a glass, returned to my office, and put the glass down in front of the baby snake, who undulated cooperatively inside. 

Yes! 

I mean yessssssss! 

Then I ran outside with the glass and left the snake in the backyard. 

So, he could be a snake in the grass. 

It seemed only natural that there should be a living cliché in the backyard of a writer. 

I thought it was over until this morning, when I saw another baby  

snake crawling out of my heating vent in the floor. 

Eeeeeekkkkk! 

And now enough is enough. 

I can put up with spiders and mice, but I can’t put up with snakes. 

I thought instantly of the princess in the fairytale, but I want my happy ending. 

Which means that I won’t wait for a prince to save me. 

Because I might be waiting a long time. 

I can’t even get a dog to wake up. 

I’m going to find an exterminator. 

And I’ll live happily ever after. 

© Lisa Scottoline 

Column Classic: Scrambled Eggs

By Lisa Scottoline

The hits just keep on coming at the Scottoline farm, where the animals outnumber the people.

They like it that way.

I don’t, especially when I wonder who’s running the joint. The only thing I’m sure of is who’s paying the bills.

Right now the chickens are in charge.

Because bottom line, they’re not producing any eggs. 

Neither am I, but that’s another subject. No one’s counting on me for breakfast.

The chickens have no excuse. They still have estrogen. 

By the way, my chickens might not be laying eggs, but my snakes are.

Ssssssensational.

In fact, just today I found a molted snakeskin in the garden.

Don’t you hate it when your snakes leave their clothes around?

To return to story, one day my chickens stopped laying eggs, which bugged me.

Ingrates.

They have it great, in that they’re a small flock of fifteen and they live in a big wooden coop.

For free.

They also have a large outdoor run, so they can exercsie.

Like a gym that you actually use.

Also it takes work to keep chickens, in that their coop has to be cleaned, and they have to be fed and given fresh water, so the least they could do is squeeze out an egg or two every day, like they used to before they started slacking.

By the way, don’t get the idea that I do all the work for the chickens, because I hire someone to do that, as I am too busy and/or lazy, and if you think it’s easy to pay people to do all the work you are too busy/lazy to do, you need to think again.

But then one day, I went to the coop, noticed some broken eggshells, and realized that the chickens were laying eggs – but eating them themselves.

They were the Hannibal Lecters of chickens.

Hennibal Lechters!

This had never happened before, and I had no idea what to do about it. I started checking the coop twice a day, trying to beat the chickens to the eggs, but they won every time.

I can’t outsmart a chicken.

Still wanna read my books?

I did some research online, and it said that chickens could develop a habit of eating their own eggs and the only way to break them of it was by mixing some eggs with Tabasco sauce, pouring the eggs  back into an eggshell, and returning it to the henhouse.

So I did that.

Yes, I made eggs for chickens.

I made food for what other people think is food.

Plus I delivered it to them like room service.

Remind me again who’s ruling the roost.

Anyway, it didn’t work. The chickens ate even more eggs, and I got the distinct impression that they would’ve also enjoyed a side of home fries, buttered wheat toast, and a cup of hot coffee.

I went back the Internet, where it said you could also try training them not to eat their eggs by replacing their eggs with golf balls.  

Fore!

So I dug up some of my golf balls from last year’s lessons and put them in the coop, but the next thing that happened was that the hens began fighting over which one got to sit on the golf balls.

News flash, chickens like club sports.

The hens sat on the golf balls all day long, and I couldn’t get the balls from them without being pecked, and when I succeeded, the balls were so hot they were practically hardboiled.

Yum. Cooked Titleist.

Yet again, I went back to the Internet and found out that you could buy a fake wooden egg that was guaranteed to train chickens out of eating their own eggs, so I ordered a few.

And it worked!

Today my fake egg yielded a real egg.

Evidently I tricked my chickens.

That makes me the trickiest chick of all.

© Copyright, Lisa Scottoline

People People

by Lisa Scottoline

I love people.

I’m what people used to call a people person.

As in, I hug you whether you want me to or not.

And lately, everybody wants to be my friend.

Normally this would make me happy, but not this way.

Let me explain.

Like everybody, I’m on various apps for various reasons. For example, I have a Peloton and when the weather’s too crummy to go outside, I hop on my Peloton bike and pedal away, listening to a twenty-year-old instructor yell “put on your crown, girl!”

Which I find surprisingly encouraging.

And the Peloton screen has so-called leaderboard that has a list of people in order of who’s working out the best.

I’m usually number 2038487392033.

I’m not exercising to compete.

I’m exercising to stay alive.

The only person I want to beat is the Grim Reaper.

Sometimes, somebody will give me a virtual high five, so I give a virtual high five back.

Peloton wants me to add this person as a friend but I don’t.

Because I don’t want to compete with a friend.

That would make me their enemy.

Duolingo is the same way.

Duolingo is an app I’m on to learn Italian, since I’m about to start a novel set in Tuscany, so I’m going there soon for research.

Nice work if you can get it.

And you can get it if you try.

I mean, if I can, anybody can.

Anyway, I’m learning Italian before the trip because it would be nice to be able to ask for the bathroom in Italian.

That’s all a middle-aged woman needs to know.

I don’t care about the train station anymore.

There’s only one room I’m interested in.

Il bagno.

I got on the Duolingo app because Daughter Francesca told me about it and she really loves it. She already speaks Italian and French, but got on Duolingo to learn Spanish, so right there, you know that mother and daughter are different.

If I knew Italian and French, I’d say, enough already.

I don’t need that many words.

I’m good with spaghetti, couch, and book.

Okay, dog, cat, and pony.

Plus bathroom.

Francesca added me as her friend on Duolingo, so I added her back as my friend, only because I actually gave birth to her.

They don’t have a section for that, but they should.

They could call it the C section.

I didn’t want to compete with her, because I love her.

Also, I knew I’d lose.

I raised her to be diligent and hardworking.

Unfortunately, she is.

Francesca’s on Duolingo practicing Spanish every single day. In fact, she’s currently on a 113-day streak.

My streak lasted 2 days.

It ended when I found out where the bathroom was.

But since I added Francesca as a friend, she can send me a virtual “nudge” to get back on the app.

Which I “ignore.”

I used to check on whether she was doing her homework.

Now she’s checking on whether I’m doing mine.

If that wasn’t bad enough, I’m getting email from Duolingo: “Hi Lisa! Keep your two-day Italian streak going!”

I didn’t answer, so they sent another email:

“Hi Lisa! Duo missed you yesterday!”

It took me a minute to realize who Duo was, then I realized it was the corporate owl.

He’s never going to be my friend.

I don’t give a virtual hoot.

Copyright 2023 Lisa Scottoline

Column Classic: You Say Tomato

by Lisa Scottoline

Did you hear about this?

I read in the newspaper that somebody noticed that red tomatoes sell better than greenish ones, so food engineers started changing the genetic makeup of tomatoes to make them redder, except that it also took out the taste.

I learned so much from this that I don’t know where to begin.

Number one, food has engineers?

I thought trains had engineers, and food had cooks.

I just went from choo-choo to chew-chew.

In fact, I thought you had to have an engine to have an engineer, but no.

If you ask me, this opens new job opportunities for engineers. For example, I see a lot of trees that could use a good engineer. They aren’t green enough, especially in fall, when they turn a lot of crazy colors that don’t match.

I mean, let’s be real. Yellow and red? Nobody looks good in yellow and red, except Ronald MacDonald.

He’s single for a reason.

Worse, in winter, the leaves on the trees actually fall off. That’s definitely an engineering problem. I feel pretty sure a tree engineer would fix that, no sweat.

Also, the sun. 

Don’t get me started on the sun. It’s supposed to be yellow, but it’s too bright to tell the color. In fact, it’s so bright that we have to buy dark glasses to even be around it.

Also, the sun is hot, which can be a bummer. It makes us feel listless and uncomfortable, then we have to turn on the air conditioning, or at least decide whether or not to, which can be a problematic choice for certain people, involving money and self-esteem, oddly intertwined.

Not that I know anyone like that.

And also in winter, the sky could use a good engineer. There are times when it changes from blue to a very boring whitish-gray, then actually breaks up and falls to the ground in tiny, cold pieces that we all have to clean up.

Needs work.

Sky engineers should get on it. It’s like the sky doesn’t even stay up, which is a major engineering defect. Cantilevers, buttressing, and scaffolding may be required, and lots of it.

Really, lots.

Or worse, sometimes the sky loses its blue color, turns gray, but doesn’t break up and fall to the ground, right after I spent hundreds of dollars on a green machine to help me clean up the pieces.

That’s a lot of green, even for a green machine.

Who knew that colors required so much engineering? If you ask me, green is the color most in need of engineering. I wish those engineers who were trying to fix the tomatoes would fix the economy, but never mind, what do I know?

Let’s move on to my second point.

Having been astounded to learn that tomatoes have engineers, I was also amazed to learn that they had genes, too.

Who knew tomatoes were so busy?

I grow tomatoes, and I haven’t given them the credit they deserve for their rich inner lives.

To be honest, I had no idea that food had genes, at all. Just like I thought you needed an engine to have an engineer, I thought you needed, like, blood and a heart to have genes.

It’s hard enough for me to remember that a tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable, but now I’m expected to know it has DNA, as well?

Bottom line, I’m bad at biology. Anyone who’s slept with me will tell you that.

But now we know that tomatoes have genes, this opens up new job opportunities, namely for actors. Think of all the new TV shows this could create, like CSI: Tomatoes, where they collect tomato DNA to catch the killer tomato.

In fact, we could have murders for every fruit, then spin it off to vegetables, too.

To Catch A Salad Shooter. 

© Copyright Lisa Scottoline