Fall is definitely here. No, the weather’s not a lot cooler. The leaves aren’t really colored yet. And I haven’t brewed spiced cider. But it’s fall because we had college fellowship at our house last night. About a quarter of our church attendance is college students, and once a month they come to our house for food (lots of food), prayer, and murder. Prayer and murder seem antithetical, but we make it work.
We’ve played lots of games, but the favorite is always Mafia. Maybe it’s the fun of killing as a Mafioso or being killed as a citizen of Dead Town or being executed by your fellow townfolk, but mostly I think it’s the creative narration of murder. The role of the narrator is not only to run the game, but to entertain the masses. Last night we had C4-filled walls exploding with the flip of a light switch. Poisoned cafeteria food. Camera flashed to death. And speaking of cameras, John took way too many incriminating photos of the Mafioso so they strangled him with his own camera strap.
Is it any wonder I decided to write a murder mystery?
Showing posts with label college students. Show all posts
Showing posts with label college students. Show all posts
Monday, September 27, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Cheap Food
Last night was College Fellowship at our house. It includes food (chips and homemade salsa, brownies, French bread pizzas, and soda), prayer, and games. Usually we play “mafia.” If you’ve never played the game, here’s the short version: two people are secretly assigned to be the “mafia.” Everybody closes their eyes, and the mafia kill someone. Everyone wakes up and then we decide who must be guilty. This continues round after round until either the “townspeople” win or the “mafia” win.
Last night in the final round, it was down to Ariel, Tim, and me. I wasn’t a Mafioso so it had to be Tim or Ariel. Tim argued why he wasn’t the mafia. Then Ariel mouthed, “It’s not me, Mom.” I voted against Tim. I lost. Ariel won. Incredulously, I said, “Ar, you lied to me.” She said, “Mom, I played you.”
Normally, my mafia/organized crime instincts are much better; after all, I’ve come into contact with them a couple of times. Okay, I haven’t actually met them (I don’t think), I’ve just come into contact with their money laundering schemes. The first time was in Santa Cruz. Cal and I found this wonderful Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of the city. The first hint should have been the two-way mirrors all over the restaurant. The second hint was when my dear friend (an immigrant to the US who happens to be Chinese) was visiting, we took her there. On the way she said, “Um, I don’t like to eat Chinese food in the US. It’s not very good.” We assured her this would be different. She smiled, politely.
After she tasted the food, she said, “This is amazing. This is authentic. But, it’s so strange because the prices are so cheap—you can’t buy the food for what they’re charging.” On a side note. We asked Ling why the waitresses, who didn’t speak a word of English—when you ordered you just pointed to things on the menu, always rubbed Matthew’s head whenever they walked by the table. Ling smiled. “You have three boys. That’s incredibly good luck—they hope by touching it will rub off on them.” Ariel was duly insulted.) At any rate, the second indication of crime ties was when the ATF shut down the restaurant for one weekend. A small article in a newspaper told us that the restaurant was “the money laundering arm of the biggest gun running operation from China to the US.” Within two days the restaurant was up and running. Why? Walls full of photos of the owner with politicians, including Bill Clinton, seemed to answer that question. Did we continue going? Absolutely. However, Cal couldn’t help but order “gun pow” chicken every time we went. I kicked him under the table and hissed that the restaurant was probably under surveillance. He laughed.
Our second experience was with a wonderful restaurant in New Haven. Imagine a small restaurant whose walls are covered in original art work, where the wait staff only serves a table or two per person, and you get bread, bowls of home-cured olives, salad, tournados of beef tenderloin in Roquefort sauce, etc., and the bill is under $20 (we did have a coupon). Yes, you read that right—under $20. The first time we visited we thought that the restaurant must be going out of business. But, no, we could always find a coupon and the food was always five star quality. We couldn’t figure it out until various politicians were arrested for kickbacks to the mob, etc. In the seven years we were in Connecticut, one governor, two or three mayors, and assorted other politicians all went to jail for “mob relationships.” Right before we moved to Chattanooga, we went to the restaurant one last time.
We have yet to find a money laundering restaurant in Chattanooga. Consequently, we’re not eating out very much. Maybe someone could start a mob venture down here. I like cheap food.
Last night in the final round, it was down to Ariel, Tim, and me. I wasn’t a Mafioso so it had to be Tim or Ariel. Tim argued why he wasn’t the mafia. Then Ariel mouthed, “It’s not me, Mom.” I voted against Tim. I lost. Ariel won. Incredulously, I said, “Ar, you lied to me.” She said, “Mom, I played you.”
Normally, my mafia/organized crime instincts are much better; after all, I’ve come into contact with them a couple of times. Okay, I haven’t actually met them (I don’t think), I’ve just come into contact with their money laundering schemes. The first time was in Santa Cruz. Cal and I found this wonderful Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of the city. The first hint should have been the two-way mirrors all over the restaurant. The second hint was when my dear friend (an immigrant to the US who happens to be Chinese) was visiting, we took her there. On the way she said, “Um, I don’t like to eat Chinese food in the US. It’s not very good.” We assured her this would be different. She smiled, politely.
After she tasted the food, she said, “This is amazing. This is authentic. But, it’s so strange because the prices are so cheap—you can’t buy the food for what they’re charging.” On a side note. We asked Ling why the waitresses, who didn’t speak a word of English—when you ordered you just pointed to things on the menu, always rubbed Matthew’s head whenever they walked by the table. Ling smiled. “You have three boys. That’s incredibly good luck—they hope by touching it will rub off on them.” Ariel was duly insulted.) At any rate, the second indication of crime ties was when the ATF shut down the restaurant for one weekend. A small article in a newspaper told us that the restaurant was “the money laundering arm of the biggest gun running operation from China to the US.” Within two days the restaurant was up and running. Why? Walls full of photos of the owner with politicians, including Bill Clinton, seemed to answer that question. Did we continue going? Absolutely. However, Cal couldn’t help but order “gun pow” chicken every time we went. I kicked him under the table and hissed that the restaurant was probably under surveillance. He laughed.
Our second experience was with a wonderful restaurant in New Haven. Imagine a small restaurant whose walls are covered in original art work, where the wait staff only serves a table or two per person, and you get bread, bowls of home-cured olives, salad, tournados of beef tenderloin in Roquefort sauce, etc., and the bill is under $20 (we did have a coupon). Yes, you read that right—under $20. The first time we visited we thought that the restaurant must be going out of business. But, no, we could always find a coupon and the food was always five star quality. We couldn’t figure it out until various politicians were arrested for kickbacks to the mob, etc. In the seven years we were in Connecticut, one governor, two or three mayors, and assorted other politicians all went to jail for “mob relationships.” Right before we moved to Chattanooga, we went to the restaurant one last time.
We have yet to find a money laundering restaurant in Chattanooga. Consequently, we’re not eating out very much. Maybe someone could start a mob venture down here. I like cheap food.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Killer Salsa
I love Mexican food. Not Taco Bell. Not the frozen taquitos that you can buy in bulk at Sam’s Club. Not the lard-infused, deep-fried (not that I have anything against greasy food necessarily) Mexi-slop that you get at some dives that masquerade as real Mexican restaurants. But the honest to goodness, fresh, texture-taste layered food that I adore.
When we lived in San Diego, you could get the most delectable swordfish tacos—the fish was firm yet tender with a hint of charcoal and lime. (Okay, I’ve mentioned it before so I'll move on.) But here in Chattanooga, we struggled to get good Mexican food. Until we found a place near the mall called El Meson. Mall-area restaurants tend to suck. But we tried it anyway. They made their own tortillas, always a good sign. The food wasn’t bad, but it was Southern-American Mexican food, i.e. mildly spicy enchiladas, tacos, and burritos. Boring. We noticed a lot of Hispanic people in the restaurant, but they all ate in a different section. Cal said, “I bet they have a different menu.”
The next time we went, Cal met the manager. He and Cal lived up near the same place in California. Then, we got a Hispanic waitress who didn’t speak much English. And I asked her, “What do you recommend?” She asked, "You like spicy?" I said, “Of course, we’re from San Diego area—we’ve spent time in Tijuana.” She pointed to Jalisco Shrimp Enchiladas. I ordered it. (Cal ordered something else.) I took one bite (imagine the flavor of luscious shrimp, jalapeños, and fresh veggies—wrapped in a warm tortilla and covered with melted cheese and what I think was a tomatillo sauce) and knew I’d found real Mexican food. I gave Cal a bite. Euphoria. His fork hovered over my food.
Me: “No way.” I pulled my plate out of reach. “Eat your own dinner.”
Cal: “But you always get the good food when we go out for dinner.”
Me: “Yeah, because I always ask the waitress what she likes.”
Cal: “You can have a bite of mine.
Me: “I don’t want yours.”
Cal: “Yeah. It’s not as good as yours.”
Me: “Duh... How about if I give you my leftovers?”
Cal: “Okay.”
The only thing they don’t have is killer salsa. They served two kinds, which were okay—once again Southern-American inspired stuff. Although I did spy a leaf of cilantro, but alas it was the only one. I have a peculiar palate for salsa. It’s got to be fresh with herbs, spices, and freshly chopped cilantro and diced onions. And it’s got to have jalapenos. It should leave a nice sizzle on your tongue. I make homemade salsa every Saturday for taco night at our house. And I make it for College Mafia Night (aka Prayer and Fellowship Time). Once I tried to make something else—there was much groaning and gnashing of teeth among the college students, especially those hailing from California. Never again have I forgotten the Killer Salsa—otherwise I’m sure I’ll be the first one killed off in Mafia. “Mrs. Keller was killed during the night by irate college students who didn’t get their salsa fix!”
When we lived in San Diego, you could get the most delectable swordfish tacos—the fish was firm yet tender with a hint of charcoal and lime. (Okay, I’ve mentioned it before so I'll move on.) But here in Chattanooga, we struggled to get good Mexican food. Until we found a place near the mall called El Meson. Mall-area restaurants tend to suck. But we tried it anyway. They made their own tortillas, always a good sign. The food wasn’t bad, but it was Southern-American Mexican food, i.e. mildly spicy enchiladas, tacos, and burritos. Boring. We noticed a lot of Hispanic people in the restaurant, but they all ate in a different section. Cal said, “I bet they have a different menu.”
The next time we went, Cal met the manager. He and Cal lived up near the same place in California. Then, we got a Hispanic waitress who didn’t speak much English. And I asked her, “What do you recommend?” She asked, "You like spicy?" I said, “Of course, we’re from San Diego area—we’ve spent time in Tijuana.” She pointed to Jalisco Shrimp Enchiladas. I ordered it. (Cal ordered something else.) I took one bite (imagine the flavor of luscious shrimp, jalapeños, and fresh veggies—wrapped in a warm tortilla and covered with melted cheese and what I think was a tomatillo sauce) and knew I’d found real Mexican food. I gave Cal a bite. Euphoria. His fork hovered over my food.
Me: “No way.” I pulled my plate out of reach. “Eat your own dinner.”
Cal: “But you always get the good food when we go out for dinner.”
Me: “Yeah, because I always ask the waitress what she likes.”
Cal: “You can have a bite of mine.
Me: “I don’t want yours.”
Cal: “Yeah. It’s not as good as yours.”
Me: “Duh... How about if I give you my leftovers?”
Cal: “Okay.”
The only thing they don’t have is killer salsa. They served two kinds, which were okay—once again Southern-American inspired stuff. Although I did spy a leaf of cilantro, but alas it was the only one. I have a peculiar palate for salsa. It’s got to be fresh with herbs, spices, and freshly chopped cilantro and diced onions. And it’s got to have jalapenos. It should leave a nice sizzle on your tongue. I make homemade salsa every Saturday for taco night at our house. And I make it for College Mafia Night (aka Prayer and Fellowship Time). Once I tried to make something else—there was much groaning and gnashing of teeth among the college students, especially those hailing from California. Never again have I forgotten the Killer Salsa—otherwise I’m sure I’ll be the first one killed off in Mafia. “Mrs. Keller was killed during the night by irate college students who didn’t get their salsa fix!”
Monday, February 23, 2009
Murder, Death, and Mayhem
Once a month, we have an open house for college students (anywhere from 10 to 40 students attend). After a time of prayer and food, the games begin. Sometimes we play a game with paper and pens that leads to peals of laughter—I know that’s a bit hard to imagine, but it’s a P2C2E (a process too complicated to explain).
The other game we play is Mafia. Basically, it involves secrecy and killing people. After each death, the people who are still alive (no doubt Sicilian peasants) decide/guess who the guilty party is and kill them. The game has a “narrator” who explains the details of each murder, which are generally more gruesome than your average murder mystery. The chemistry majors always come up with new explosions. The lit people describe in detail how brakes are tampered with and cars drive off the edge of Lookout Mountain. My favorite death last night was “how Dan was disemboweled and strangled with his own intestines.” A long conversation ensued between the biology people about whether someone would survive a disembowelment long enough to be strangled.
I became the subject of a discussion last night when three people were left alive. I tried to convince Stellie that Duncan was the Mafioso, not me. Stellie said, “But, Mrs. Keller, the last time you were the mafia, you killed off your husband and all your children and you looked innocent then too.” She killed me.
I always love it when one of the college students (frequently Karin) gets a call from her parents.
Cellphone rings.
Karin: Hi, Dad/Mom.
Pause.
Karin: No, I’m at the Kellers.
Pause.
Karin: We’re playing mafia.
Pause.
Karin: It’s a game. I’ll explain later.
After she tells them good-bye and hangs up, she says, “My parents don’t understand.”
Eventually, Karin will graduate, and we will meet her parents. How awkward that might be…
Me to Karin’s mom: Hello, it’s so nice to meet you.
Karin’s mom: So, you’re the people who play Mafia.
Me: Uh, yeah.
KM: So, you encourage our children to dream up all manner of murder.
Me: Sort of. But we pray first.
KM (nods)
Me: Karin really likes my salsa. Would you like the recipe?
The other game we play is Mafia. Basically, it involves secrecy and killing people. After each death, the people who are still alive (no doubt Sicilian peasants) decide/guess who the guilty party is and kill them. The game has a “narrator” who explains the details of each murder, which are generally more gruesome than your average murder mystery. The chemistry majors always come up with new explosions. The lit people describe in detail how brakes are tampered with and cars drive off the edge of Lookout Mountain. My favorite death last night was “how Dan was disemboweled and strangled with his own intestines.” A long conversation ensued between the biology people about whether someone would survive a disembowelment long enough to be strangled.
I became the subject of a discussion last night when three people were left alive. I tried to convince Stellie that Duncan was the Mafioso, not me. Stellie said, “But, Mrs. Keller, the last time you were the mafia, you killed off your husband and all your children and you looked innocent then too.” She killed me.
I always love it when one of the college students (frequently Karin) gets a call from her parents.
Cellphone rings.
Karin: Hi, Dad/Mom.
Pause.
Karin: No, I’m at the Kellers.
Pause.
Karin: We’re playing mafia.
Pause.
Karin: It’s a game. I’ll explain later.
After she tells them good-bye and hangs up, she says, “My parents don’t understand.”
Eventually, Karin will graduate, and we will meet her parents. How awkward that might be…
Me to Karin’s mom: Hello, it’s so nice to meet you.
Karin’s mom: So, you’re the people who play Mafia.
Me: Uh, yeah.
KM: So, you encourage our children to dream up all manner of murder.
Me: Sort of. But we pray first.
KM (nods)
Me: Karin really likes my salsa. Would you like the recipe?
Here are a couple of pictures.
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