Nothing particularly quirky goes on around my household. As a matter of fact, not much goes on at all. I don’t live with a quirky partner who has quirky habits. I don’t have dogs or other pets that do quirky things. If I have any quirky habits, there is no one living here to observe them. And, I am probably too close to the subject to be aware of anything out of the ordinary. So, I guess that I’ll relate a few quirky things that I or close friends have observed elsewhere.
I once knew a couple of guys who lived in an apartment not far from here. They invited me and a few others over for dinner. The self-designated head-chef had decided to make cheese fondue his main course. He never had prepared fondue before. I am told that no host should experiment with his guests. Apparently, he did not know that fondue, or heated cheese dishes of any kind, needs to be prepared over slow, low heat. Otherwise, the cook will “vulcanize” the cheese, turning it into a tough, hard lump – – which is exactly what he did. We guests in the living room began to hear increasingly loud exclamations emanating from the kitchen, and we went to investigate as to the cause of the chef’s frustration. We arrived just in time to witness the angry chef ramming the hardened glob of cheese down the garbage disposal. Our quick advice not to do so obviously was not quick enough, for the chef flipped the switch. The garbage disposal started up, made a loud groaning noise, and then self-destructed, thoroughly plugging up the drain. We enjoyed the dinner out at the restaurant despite the occasional grumbles from the disgruntled, would-be chef.
A friend of mine once lived in Houston, a city that does have some cultural advantages such as their opera. He, being the handsome, charming, erudite gentleman that he was, hobnobbed with financial-social elite. Frequently, a wealthy couple of gentlemen would invite selected friends to their elegant home for an après-opera dinner. All the gentlemen, dressed in their fine suits would stand about with their cocktails, chatting amiably with each other until dinner was served. Apparently, one of the hosts had a habit of imbibing regularly in the kitchen, where he insisted upon preparing by himself one of his specialties.
Now, I know enough about alcohol not to find addiction or abuse in itself funny. I have to admit, however, that on occasion, circumstances can catch one as somewhat amusing, especially when remembered retrospectively or if pretended, as in the case of Foster Brooks or the Carol Burnett Show. I suppose that what occurred next was made more amusing by the fact that all these gentleman held themselves in high regard. At least, their expensive suits indicated that belief. After all as Mark Twain once said, “Clothes make the man.” A large apron or even a wet-suit might have been more appropriate for the co-host. Once everyone was seated and the several bowls of food were being passed around, the inebriated gentleman distinctly began to feel the effects from his time in the kitchen. He did manage to wait until the large bowl of mashed potatoes appeared right in front of him, whereupon he chose that moment to pitch forward, face-first, right into the mashed potatoes. His friend hurriedly assisted the host into an upright position. The guests momentarily were stunned observing the host’s potato-covered face, which had a remarkable resemblance to an ancient Greek theater mask. The embarrassed friend realized that, as the mashed potatoes began to slither down upon the host’s fine suit, that the host appeared to be incapable of removing the potatoes himself or preventing their further spread. Two of the guests, having recovered from their initial surprise, volunteered to help the friend carry the host into the bedroom where they removed the potatoes and the dinner jacket. Fortunately, the host eventually recovered; and the guests complemented him upon the delicious specialty that he had prepared, although none said anything about their having declined the mashed potatoes.
And last of all, here’s a quirky tale of a very different nature. How many of you have seen a big, old, Victorian mansion, an Adams-Family-style house. My roommate did when we were freshmen in college. He lived back East. His great aunt lived alone in just such an “Adams” house in Marietta, Ohio. She told him that, as long as he was passing by on his way to college, he could stop by to see her and spend the night. He agreed to.
After supper, they chatted for quite a while and eventually retired to their separate rooms. His bedroom was rather large and with a high ceiling. The bed was a big four-poster sitting on a wooden-plank floor. At the foot of the bed was a large seaman’s trunk. Late that night, he began to hear strange noises. Eventually, the sounds became so unsettling that he turned his light on several times to see what might be causing those peculiar sounds. He never saw anything that would explain the noises. When he was about to fall asleep, he suddenly heard a very loud, extended scraping noise. Terrified, he turned on his light and immediately saw that the seaman’s trunk now was on the complete opposite side of the room. That was absolutely enough for him. Without further thought, he immediately threw his clothes on, grabbed his bags, and without saying a word to his great-aunt, fled the house. He preferred driving throughout the night to the college rather staying a moment longer in that house. Now that is one quirky house!
© 03 February 2012
About the Author
I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
