The Wabasso Triangle

 

It should not have happened, but one thing is certain: it did happen. Defying Parkinson’s Law, the Second Law of Conservation of Ravioli and the speed limit in Melbourne Beach, the Wabasso Triangle has struck again.

Anthony Chianti, Licensed Private Eye and Indian River Community Pasta Detective, reporting:

It was Monday. Again.
Didn’t we have one of those last week?

I’d been hard at it all day, bashing away until I felt like one of Steven Reich’s marimbas. But at last I’d cleared up the backlog – both crosswords were finished. So what’s next?

Who was I kidding?
This is Florida, and at this time of year there’s only one subject: Grapefruit.

I checked the garage – they were all full, only two empties and no lids. So I rushed to the store for some more mason’s jars. Anyway, even giving the stuff away I was still backed up three years. But the remainder of this year's crop had to go somewhere, so there I was, at it again.

The recipe is simple enough: grapefruit, sugar, boil for a while, stirring carefully for incredible homemade marmalade. This time, instead of glueing up the range and spending two weeks scraping the sticky mess off the kitchen floor, this time I had a much better idea:

Two hours later, the range was still clean, and I was in the garage carefully stirring the balance of this year's grapefruit together with thirty-eight pounds of sugar, all neatly contained in my neighbor's wheelbarrow. Any mess and I could just hose it down, straight out the door. Probably good for the lawn, as well.

Anyway, it was just coming to the boil, thanks to the electric hot water heater, which fitted exactly inside the wheelbarrow, when I accidentally banged the heater with the broom handle.

Unfortunately, as the heater wires touched the side, the entire wheelbarrow became live. I jumped back from the shock as the lights dimmed and it slowly slid away, buzzing and sparking, towards the garage door.

Fortunately, I breathed a sigh of relief, the garage doors were closed, and the wheelbarrow, which had been picking up speed, stopped instantly as it hit the doors, swaying and sparking. Didn't spill a drop – neat work, Anthony.

At this point it occurred to me that the entire front of the two-car garage was now at 220 Volts but then – OH NO! – I was horror-struck as I realized the full extent of the problem: The bar that goes to the garage door opener was also live and, as you know, that's where Eric, my pet sloth, spends the night.

I've never seen poor Eric move as fast as this. He ran backwards and forwards (or whatever it's called, hanging upside down), his hands sparking, before emitting a muffled yelp and letting go.

I realized what was about to happen and quick as a flash spun around and hit the garage door switch – us Community Pasta Detectives are trained to have quick reactions. The door started to move up. Unfortunately Eric landed with a dreadful splash in the wheelbarrow, showering me with boiling marmalade just as the door creaked open. The wheelbarrow started down the driveway but about halfway down the slope slowed as the heater cable stretched. I rushed to help and as I reached the doorway the heater came loose and flew back into the garage, flooring me with a blow to the forehead.

By the time I had recovered Eric had cleared the end of the driveway and was now sitting up, perched in the wheelbarrow as it gained momentum. I ran after the wheelbarrow and shouted for help, but the few passers-by scattered. They probably took one look at Eric and thought it was just another batch of Squirrel Marinara gone astray.

Picking up speed, he was nearly at US1 when the wheelbarrow hit a curb and catapulted poor Eric high into the air. As luck would have it, he managed to land safely on the windshield of a passing patrol car.

Perhaps it was the sudden shock of having a 200lb sloth and sixteen gallons of red-hot marmalade come through the windshield, or maybe it was the color. By now, Eric, who had a very expensive visit to the groomers only last week, wasn't that delicate off-white any more. By now he was looking more like a caramelized Orang-Utang.

Whatever it was, for some reason unknown to Gourmet Science, and probably to the man that makes up Jeopardy questions – (shouldn't that be answers?) Anyway, for some reason, the Police car, instead of braking, suddenly accelerated, turning right across the median and into an apartment complex. Not far into the apartment complex, as a low brick wall ended that little ride. But not, unfortunately, Eric's, who shot back through the windshield, high into the air and landed in the pool.

Personally, I think they over-reacted, and anyway that couple shouldn’t have been in the pool after Labor Day. Or, at least, they should have been wearing something. The Policeman, on hearing all the screaming, scraped off some of the marmalade and unloaded a clip in the general direction of the thrashing orange hairball that was my Eric.

Anyway, they were pretty good about the whole thing. The Med-Evac soon got poor Eric out of there and he was nearly in Orlando when they realized that he wasn't a homicidal maniac dressed up as a gorilla-with-a-bad-hair-day-in-jello and diverted the helicopter to the veterinary unit at Gainesville.

Poor Eric took a while to recover. They weren't sure if it was the electrocution, extensive glass lacerations, third degree marmalade burns, internal injuries, seven bullet wounds or drowning, but he soon used up the $500 veterinary insurance.

I suppose he was glad to see me. Eric often has a hard time showing affection, but that was the first time he actually attacked me.

Well, amazing but true, and it can only have happened here. That’s about it for this month’s update from the Wabasso Triangle. 

Anthony Chianti, Indian River Community Pasta Detective, signing off.
Bed 327, Indian River Memorial Hospital.


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