Greece, Day 16: Janitorial Engineer

If you had asked me to predict the top 5 things I would be spending my time on…
no, the top 10 things…
heck, if you had asked me to list my job responsibilities until late into the evening, the point of the day where you get silly, get creative, think outside the box…
even in this moment I would never have predicted that the most critical,
most time-consuming,
most obnoxious part of my days would center on my unplanned role as a Janitorial Engineer.

Imagine you’re a Syrian for a moment.
you make your journey through Turkey,
pay your money to a fly-by-night boat sales company,
land in a strange land, full of an even stranger assortment of Westerners, half hippy, half evangelical, half professional disaster-chasers,
get pulled out of the water,
grab a change of clothes,
get a banana, water bottle, and HEB (high-energy-bar),
and finally sit down for a moment to relax,
to breath in the safe air,
an incomplete trip to be sure, but one that has crossed a critical juncture,
and you close your tired eyes, relax, and breath.

Until your bladder interrupts. Or even worse, your colon.

You get up, take your bag of belongings with you,
and find the loo.
What is that!?!
How does it work?
Do I climb up on it?
Surely they don’t expect me to put my arse on it!?!

I don’t actually have video evidence to corroborate what is occurring behind closed doors, but I believe it involves something along the lines of this:

Which is not as easy at it looks,
as found out through the various broken parts and pieces damaged on our watch (well, not ‘watch’).

I’m not even going to mention the introduction of toilet paper, which, let me tell you, isn’t as intuitive as you may assume.

And given that our toilets are trailer-park quality plastic (literally a single wide of toilets), it doesn’t take much to break them.

Imagine if you had a giant box of cereal with a give-away plastic toy inside, except that the toy was a CPT (cheap plastic toilet).
You love cereal, so you eat lots of it.
You keep collecting these CPTs until they fill a corner of your house, 12 of them,
and finally your mom nags you to get rid of them,
because, seriously, why would you need 12 CPTs in the first place? Three, maybe four at the most.

So you donate your CPT collection to an Assembly Camp that has 1,000 plus different people each day run through the property,
people who have never seen a western toilet,
who have GOT TO GO, but don’t know how…

It is not difficult to predict how things turn out for the CPTs.
They are quickly reduced from the pride of one serious cereal-eating fool,
to a series of daily repairs,
daily phone calls from a dozen volunteers to the one person they know who loves toilets: their Uncle Alan.

So here I am, me and my WASH team, fixing what we can, ignoring what we can get away with, trying to keep the trailer park of CPT’s functioning, which turns out to be a full-time job for a Helluva Janitorial Engineer.

And as I write this, a newly-arrived refugee is opening a Western-world toilet stall door for the first time to find an elevated toilet. They will pause, decide if they really need to go, and be forced by the natural functions of their body to make do, climb aboard, and take aim.

Don’t worry, we’ll be there tomorrow morning to fix it.

sok's attempt to burn his hands

Finished my first generation of hot sauces...

I haven't named them yet. I'm looking to include a reference to my Mexican grandma, a personified jalapeno, maybe a burning ass... but I haven't quite decided on my motif. 
Inspiration for said venture must be given his due, in my almost always willing to try anything son Garrett. He generally tilts his head down, looks to see if I'm about to steer him wrong, and then dives right in, part food-adventurer, part machismo in a world of NYC-salsa sisters.

One sensory-overwhelming trip to the Dekalb Farmers Market later, a few glances at online recipes, a bit of this and that, and we've created the first generation of hot sauces. Three versions, using Cayenne (recipe A), Poblano (B), and Anaheim Green chiles (C). 

Each of the kids, in turn, responded that the results looked more like salsa than hot sauce. They were not pureed fine enough for their FDA-labeling standards. Told them to 'shut-it', and enjoy the taste. 

The Poblano is the best-tasting. With this one, I roasted the skins ahead of time. I don't know if the roasting or the chile put it ahead, but it is rather enjoyable. It will be a staple at the table for while it lasts.

Time will tell if we enjoy or ignore this adventure. It was a fun afternoon with Garrett, and I was able to experience burning fingers for the next 36 hours; that's got to be worth something.

PS - do not confuse the Anaheim Green with the New Mexico Hatch Green. Or, if you do confuse it, don't confess such to me. I don't want to be party to the heresy.

sok's Certified Fair Trade aftershave

Tonight I mixed the 2nd generation of my elixirs. My first attempt is transcribed here. 

I have both learned lessons from the previous efforts, and been guided by my enduring need to mettle with recipes. For posterity (and to serve as an easy way to find my recipes), I introduce:

The Shop v2, my attempt to capture the soul of a proper barber shop: 1 c white rum, 6 whole allspice, 1 stick cinnamon, 5 drops of orange essence. 

The Shop v3, in my controlled experiment, I added 5 drops of Bay Rum Leaf essence to the above. Traveling to the Caribbean and finding out the historical connection between Pimenta racemosa and Barber Shops in their 1920's glory is what started me on this adventure. This recipe mimics one published in a circa 1860's book and mentioned on the Art of Manliness.

     I should be using orange zest, but I was too lazy to go to the grocer's. 

 

Whiskey Jack v1: ½ c Kentucky Whiskey, ½ c witch hazel, 1 tsp glycerin, 3 cloves, 3 whole allspice, 1 stick cinnamon, 5 drops of orange essence.

Whiskey Jack v2: the above, with 2 pinches of black pipe tobacco. If it works, I shall name it "Grandpa Jack"

 

Mint Tea v2: ½ c white rum, ½ c witch hazel, 1 tsp glycerin, 5 drops of peppermint essence, 10 drops of tea leaf essence.

 

I shall cover with a rag and shake daily for a few weeks. Then I shall bottle and attempt to pawn them off on unsuspecting relatives. 

First Generation

Maggie gave me a wonderful Christmas present a few years back: Portland General Store Whiskey Aftershave. It is truly lovely.

Being a full-time tweaker, I've ventured into the world of homemade aftershave, and am introducing sok’s Made in the USA, never tested on animals, GMO-free aftershave products. Introducing them, actually, on unsuspecting male family members and a few close friends this Christmas. My adoring wife Maggie has signed off on their quality; a sign of her affection for me or quite possibly her appreciation for their bouquet.

Introducing the following first generation products (with anticipated future changes in red):

The Shop, my attempt to capture the soul of a proper barber shop: 2 c vodka, 8 tsp dark rum, ½ tsp ground Allspice, 2 sticks cinnamon, 2 orange zests.

Open Field: 2 c vodka, 1 c witch hazel, ¼ c glycerin, 20 10 drops of peppermint, 20 drops of eucalyptus, 30 drops of lavender.  

Mint Tea: 1 ½ c white rum, ¾ c witch hazel, 3 tsp glycerin, 20 10 drops of peppermint, 30 drops of tea leaves.

Old Town: 6 tbl apple cider vinegar, 3 tbl witch havel, 1 tbl glycerin, 1 stick cinnamon, 6 whole allspice, 10 drops of orange essence. This went putrid towards the end, and was never bottled.

My muse, Whiskey Jack: ½ c Kentucky Whiskey, ¼ ½ c witch hazel, 1 tsp glycerin, 5 3 cloves, 5 3 whole allspice, 1 stick cinnamon, 10 5 drops of orange essence.

Mix in Mason jar, stirring daily for two weeks, while keeping in the dark. Not sure why in the dark; I think it has something to do with cutting off then end of the Christmas ham the way my grandma always did it.