Oh no — not another damn April Fool's column

This isn’t an April’s Fool column. I wouldn’t dream of writing two April Fool’s columns in one lifetime. Besides, it’s not April until tomorrow, and by the time my next column appears, April Fool’s Day would be old news. In the newspaper biz, old news is used to wrap fish and chips.

No, I’m going to write about spring, which is only a few days old. Since it may not last much longer, I’d better do it while I can.

The Vernal Equinox, as it’s also known, used to be my favorite time of year. It used to be the season of light rains that gently nurtured the tender shoots, saplings, buds, and blossoms, all coming back to life after the cold, unforgiving bleakness of winter. But no more. Today spring is the beginning of the thunderstorm season, which generally lasts until the end of next winter, but began its five-month-long peak season a few weeks ago.

When I was a kid I loved thunderstorms. They were so infrequent that they were a novelty, an adventure and a treat. They never happened in the spring — they were reserved for Aug. 14 — so they never caused the power to go out while school was in session.

You can’t imagine how glad we were about that. We would have hated missing school.

It’s entirely possible that I would still retain my childlike affection for thunderstorms were it not for their tendency to destroy the delicate electronics upon which my livelihood has depended for so many years — about as many years as we’ve been suffering from such chronic thunderstorms, now that I think about it.

I should really stop being a gloomy Gus about spring. After all, I do have surge protection, and if I’d thought to invest in the company that manufactures the ones I buy, I’d be a rich man today.

And believe me, they do help — except when they don’t, which is sometimes. And it’s not like they’re going to warn you with something like “Help — I’m wearing out . . . replace me.”

But what am I saying? The last two memorable weather events that somehow destroyed one perfectly good monitor and ended the life of one uninterruptible power supply happened not in spring, not in summer, but in that formerly quiet season known as fall. And on both occasions it was a gust of wind.

Now you remember the old saying, don’t you? “In like a lion, out like a lamb”? That’s supposed to mean March, not the entire year.

In the world of weather, lambs seem to have become extinct.

I don’t know what’s going on. Well I do, but I’m not going to go into it here. It would sound too much like a high school science class, assuming high schools still teach science. Does anyone know?

Let’s just say that things have changed climactically.

Contact Robert Rufa at rhrufa59@hotmail.com.

Did you hear the one about the rutabaga?

It keeps happening. People stop me in Ingles and tell me they enjoy my column. “Keep it up,” they say. “I’ll try,” I tell them, “but I have an expiration date.”

It happened again on Feb. 18, someone stopping me and saying my column made them laugh.

Inspired, I thought, Maybe I should write a column about Thurber as I motored over to the rutabagas.No, I already did a Thurber column. I mulled over the possibilities as I mulled over the rutabagas. Yeah, I can multi-task. There has to be a column here. I chose a big fat rutabaga and put it in my basket.

As I wove through produce, I pondered other ways to fix rutabaga. I knew exactly one way — simmered in a little no-salt-added chicken broth (oh, don’t get me started on canned chicken broth) until soft and mashed with butter — and maybe Google could offer up some suggestions.

I’ve always been afflicted with a quirky sense of humor, and people don’t always get me. That happened last year, after my column on Columnism appeared and someone said, “I didn’t get it.” But I try not to let a little negativity bother me, and I got over it after a few months of therapy.

I was rolling by the deli counter as I pondered the possibilities of getting a column out of this, wondering simultaneously if I could roast the rutabaga. “Google roast rutabaga” I wrote on the back of my shopping list so I wouldn’t forget. Maybe I should write a column about my failing memory, I thought. No, wait — did that too, pleased that I remembered, and as I browsed the hummus I decided I was lucky to live in a town where not everyone thought humor died with Henny Youngman.

I cruised over to the antipasto rack and grabbed a jar of my favorite marinated artichoke hearts. I’d made up my mind long ago that I’d never tell anyone I ate marinated artichoke hearts, and yet here I am spilling the beans. I suppose I need a “Real men eat artichoke hearts” bumper sticker now.

After picking up some tomato puree and unsalted chicken broth — homemade tomato soup, minus the turmeric, curry powder, sugar, and lemon juice — I headed to register 6 to check out, where I shared my secret tomato soup recipe with Jully, my regular cashier. She and I have an understanding — I won’t check out at another register, and she won’t bean me with a rutabaga.

To my surprise, Jully jotted down the ingredients. But then she has a good sense of humor too, so maybe she thought she was going along with a joke. But it’s no joke — this is my favorite tomato soup, and if I’m feeling really energetic I make it completely from scratch — a few overripe tomatoes, a chicken carcass, wilted aromatics, and garlic. That’s like making something out of almost nothing.

Which, now that I think about it, is a lot like writing a column.