Duncan's Blog

Maybe you’re not old enough to have experienced the company of insanity. I've seen a broad spectrum of it. But one person who sticks out in my world is a woman who went by the name Ginger Gray.
She's real and I'm certain she is still out there.
I met her in the lobby of an SRO (single-room occupancy) in San Francisco's Tenderloin District. She was smoking her Merit Golds and was reading from the big blue book (not AA, but rather A Course in Miracles).
She seemed to have been well-educated and made reference to her Catholic school upbringing in Newark. "I was a cradle Catholic," she'd say, adding, "and I'd sucka punch any cracker who'd ask me when my family converted!"
We got on like a house on fire (long before the term meant what it does today) and I remember sharing many things with her. I brought her to events, and went to readings in a church that sponsored the Course in Miracles, then would go to dinner with her afterwards.
Unfortunately, she had a condition. The diagnosis was never revealed to me in oh so many ways, but I took it to be manic-depression. And when she was manic, she needed to be distanced from matches and scissors.
She left the SRO for an apartment in the Western Addition. Later she lived in a facility that supported women of color with mental health concerns. I lost touch with her. The facility had a pay phone, but when she left it was just about the time when most people were beginning to use cell phones. She never shared her number.
I used to hope I could find her on Facebook (her family lost touch with her as well), or somewhere on the Internet. Addresses and phone numbers were either out-dated or cancelled, respectively. She has no web presence and her only child died a number of years ago in Brooklyn from the ravages of pulmonary necrosis.
I knew she had undergone some surgeries herself. I tried to find her even on Craigslist, but Craigslist has gotten to be fascistic with its flagging.
So, the current whereabouts of D. Ginger Gray of San Francisco via Newark remains one of those unanswered mysteries in my life.

Taken from : Can Honey Really Stay Good Forever?

Does Honey Expire?
Kelsey Rae DimbergUpdated: Feb. 09, 2023
MATERIO/GETTY IMAGES
Natural honey can change color and crystallize—but does it ever expire? Here's the scoop.
Alongside jewels and wine, ancient Egyptians buried jars of honey inside the tombs of royalty, in the hopes that it would sweeten their passage into the afterlife. Amazingly, when the tombs were uncovered 3,000 years later, the excavated honey was perfectly preserved and still completely edible. Hungry archaeologists immediately slathered it onto their bread.

OK, that last part isn’t true—but the rest of the story absolutely is, as unlikely as it sounds.

So, does honey expire? How about modern honey? Here’s the scoop.

Can Honey Ever Expire?
Technically, all types of natural honey cannot expire because honey doesn’t spoil on its own. (More on why below.)

Honey can and will, however, change. It can change color from pale to dark. It can start clear and become cloudy. And, most peskily, its texture can change from smooth and thin to thick and grainy in a process called crystallization. Thankfully, though, none of these changes make the honey bad or unsafe to eat!

There is an important exception to this rule. If honey is exposed to moisture, it can ferment and spoil, which will be immediately obvious: smelly, sour, moldy and utterly unappetizing.

Does It Make a Difference if Honey Is Raw, Pure, Honeycomb, Infused or Pasteurized?
Less-processed honeys, like raw and honeycomb, will be more apt to darken or crystallize. Many stores sell pasteurized honey, which is honey treated with heat. Treated honeys stay pourable and clear for longer, but the treatment may remove some of the natural antioxidants and health benefits found in less-processed honey.

Watch out for supermarket honeys that dilute pure honey with added stuff, like corn syrup. While they’ll stay good a while, they’re not nearly as good for you.

Why Does Honey Have Expiration Dates?
Plenty of foods don’t need expiration dates, honey included. Stores use them largely to ensure that their stock is fresh. Obviously, they want to sell honey before it shows signs of aging. If your honey’s expiration date is approaching, it’s still safe unless it’s obviously fermented.

Can I Eat Dark or Crystallized Honey?
Yes, both are safe to eat. You can easily restore crystallized honey to a pourable state by placing the uncapped jar in a double boiler or directly into a pan of warm (not boiling) water. Every few minutes, remove the honey and stir it. Be careful to use a clean utensil, and don’t let water drip into the container. Microwaving honey isn’t recommended, as it’s difficult to heat evenly and easy to overheat, which may destroy nutrients.

Why Does Honey Never Go Bad?
Honey is inherently hostile to microbes and bacteria. Honey is a very low-moisture sugar with an acidic pH, yielding an environment in which bacteria literally cannot thrive. Other foods share this description—think molasses—and keep a long time, but not indefinitely. What makes honey so special? The answer is both gross and fascinating, so consider skipping ahead if you’re squeamish.

As it turns out, honey lasts so long because bees “process” it: they swallow nectar and regurgitate it into combs to make honey. (Yum!) An enzyme in their stomachs breaks the nectar down into gluconic acid and hydrogen peroxide. Does the latter sound familiar? A natural antiseptic, it’s literally sold in drugstores to treat all manner of wounds and maladies. In other words, on top of its natural resistance to bacteria, honey’s hydrogen peroxide repels any microorganism with the temerity to trespass.

This amazing chemical makeup is also why honey has been used for medicinal purposes (like ointments, and to treat burns and wounds) for thousands of years, including by those ancient Egyptians who buried honey in tombs.

How to Store Honey
Store honey tightly covered to keep out air and moisture. The ideal location is cool and out of the sun, probably another reason the tomb honey remained so pristine. In your own home, however, a pantry shelf will work just fine.
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What I find amusing about the question and the answer is that honey has no expiration date, but salt does. Salt that is as old as the earth itself can be pulled from caves, but as soon as it is put into a container, it's given a shelf life.
I think about expiration dates with people, relationships, and the random things that are in the cupboard. Obviously, things that have oils in them will undergo change. No one wants old coffee or tea leaves. Even oils need to be used once they have been opened.
But imagine my surprise when I was in my exam room and was told that we were going to be inspected and that everything with an expiration date that had passed needed to be discarded. Do you know what that included? Gauze, Q-tips, tongue depressors, syringes, needles. Pretty much anything that had been packaged to be sterile had an expiration date. Yes, even Band-Aids.
I'm saddened to admit how many friendships I had made over the years that had turned to acquaintanceship or something worse; termination. I have learned to live with these life occurrences and would shrug my shoulders and proclaim that the person is mentally ill or deficient for making the decision to end a friendship with me.
Language certainly has an expiration date. That's not something that everyone can fully understand or appreciate. I have learned languages both in school and on my own. I have also come to realize that you are only as good as your textbooks. When I learned German, for example, I was using pre-war textbooks. Some that even predated WWI. Many of the words had changed over time. Some did not exist. And some seemed almost exotic. If you were to look up telephone in the English to German section of the dictionary, you would see das Telefon. It would also include Tischtelefon (for desk phone), Autotelefon (for car phone), die Telefonrechnung (for telephone bill), or der Telefonanruf (for a telephone call).
When I learned the word in the 1970s, it was der Fernsprecher (for telephone) or--in fancier times--der Tastenwahlfernsprecher (for push-button telephone). My word is obsolete and anyone who were to hear it would know that my vocabulary had not been updated or would wonder if I were being pretentious.
The same could be said for English. My father used words such as ice-box or Victrola. In my native hometown we had regional words that were not used outside the boundaries such as 'the El' or sliding-pond.
Getting education or educated at an older age comes with a cost. The intended learner has to agree to forget things that had a different name or usage. Some such words are not always clearly accepted in all circles. I was asked by a straight man if he could use words such as fag, twink, or queer. I told him that it depended upon his audience. Personally, I said it would be best if he not self-identify as being heterosexual. People who are of the sub-group are able to take ownership of the words whereas an interloper, poser, or provocateur might not be so well-received were he/they/it/she to take on the language without concern of offense to others.
<SHRUG> We offend one another regardless of our age, gender identification, sexual orientation, or socio-economic status.
Now back to the expiration date. The thought that love might expire saddens me. My maternal grandmother has been gone since 1977. Years before the expiration date, she had obvious dementia. Some 46 years later, I can still see her in my mind and say out loud that I continue to love her and the memory of who she was to me.
There is a difference between expiration dates and things going out of fashion. We older people have an expression used to youth, "I have underwear that's older than you." I can certainly say that about my tie collection. Some of them were from my father's collection and they carry the name of stores that have long since gone the wayside. Still, a silk cravate from Gimbel's can manage to raise an eyebrow.

Merriam-Webster

transitive verb definition number three
to take or make use of without authority or right
natural habitats that have been appropriated for human use

Dictionary.com

verb (used with an object) definitions three and four
to take without permission or consent; seize; expropriate:
He appropriated the trust funds for himself.

to steal, especially to commit petty theft.

MORE LATER

Later is now. I seldom write something without finishing it here. I don't mind so much if it's in a composition book, but here, for some reason, it's different. I have an ersatz audience. And lately the verb 'appropriate' has been gnawing at me.
I have participated in rituals from other places and cultures. I belong to a witch and pagan network even though I am neither. I do not have a path and I do not seek followers. So why do I go? They have rituals (and potluck) that are usually good. They are events and celebrations that have and bring meaning to life. So where does this ire of mine come from.
I belong to a U-U church and the minister (who was once married to a ''reform' rabbi) puts on holidays that are Hebrew celebrations. I went to one and I felt extremely uncomfortable. As is often the custom over time (and with reform-inspired theology), new context was added to the service (generally a marginalized female subjugated victim). This was not the original theme of the story. The story was changed to fit the whim of the hostess.
I was raised with the old Hebrew stories. And while it might be considered a good deed to invite a non-Hebrew to the table and to tell/share the story, it is not considered honorable to take the story and the ritual and the order and make it one of your own. It is a ritual for a People by a People and of a People. It's not for export.
I had a chance to talk to the U-U minister's ex-husband (the reform rabbi) who once told me of his 'take' on appropriation. I think it was about a time when a Caucasian was caught wearing a djellaba which is a kind

of loose cloak with a hood, worn by men especially in North Africa and the Middle East. The person was criticized for appropriating clothing worn by a People. I laughed at the notion since clothing (unless it is ceremonial or uniform) is international. I then asked him about a building I had been to in New York City that designed by a German architect in "Moorish-Islamic Revival" style. Said building was a synagogue for central and eastern European Jews. Appropriation? He didn't seem to think so.
The wiccans and pagans that I know don't seem to worry where you go with what you learn along the way (as long as you do no harm). Some paths are divergent. I argue that my Hebrew roots limit my willingness to explore the male and female deities. For me, there is only one. I did study mythology and think of the stories as nothing more than what it is; the stories of polytheists during the age of antiquity.

Where the f**k does one begin?
Sometimes I experience something likened to a flashback, or a rêverie, or a conscious meditative thought
about how and where I grew up and about how wild things were and how glad I am that i have managed to pull myself through that era without disease or deformity.
The worst things that ever happened were body lice and a curable infection.
But meeting, and dating and first base, second base, third base and the exchange of pleasantries was different for me because at an early age I knew that I would not be comfortable conforming to the hetero-normative patriarchal paradigm. I have enough trouble deciding whether to check the top or bottom option. I wonder if you can say you're versatile if you mean that you can say no to either option with equal facility.
The picture I chose is one of two men who are possibly going to meet for the first time. The man on the left received a very angry phone message from the guy on the right. The guy on the right sent a smiley emoji to someone whom he thought was going to be the love of his life. But the emoji never got responded to. So the angry writer picked up the red phone and dialed the lover and gave him a good what-for. Unfortunately, the recipient of the angry message was a wrong number. Yet, he seemed intrigued.
The story deals with difficulty in communicating how one feels vs what one feels comfortable revealing to another. What if I reveal my heart and the recipient laughs at me. Or steps on my heart. Then there is the matter of not being intellectually equal. The professional man speaks like a snob. And the young man in the bar likes to talk about his workout in the gym.
What is family? One of the men refers to his relationship with his family as complicated. The other has a mother who dotes on him. His mother lives by the credo is something to the effect of: As long as I live, you will always have family, you will always be loved, and there will always be a place for you at the table. Who wouldn't want that?
My dreams are not within the realm of possibility. One fine day, I hope to meet someone who would agree to be a long term friend and love me for who I am, a man who lives outside the hetero-normative patriarchal paradigm.

Some jobs and co-workers are such horrifying representations of humanity that it's difficult to believe they were ever loved or liked. I worked with such a(n) one when I lived in San Francisco. She was an anorexic and the wife of a coast guard captain. She was also a hillbilly bookkeeper. Her name was Patty Ann.
Her natural hair was thin, long, and straight. We had never seen the natural color since she had it frosted and took a curling iron to it every day. She would only WISH that she were as pretty as an Irish Setter (she claimed that her natural color was likened to that of the breed).
She was nasty. The kind of person who could never say things like, "I'm sorry," "I misspoke," or "I was wrong." Such people like that could never be trusted, in my opinion. Yet, she wore this behavior like a badge of honor and would even tell folks that her maiden name was Wright. I told her that saying you're sorry is not a sign of weakness and that admitting that you are wrong can actually be humbling. She sneered at both of those comments.
So, one day I randomly looked up her name online and saw the word obituary next to it. She stopped using the curling iron and replaced it for spikes held up with mousse. Her face got fat and her lips remained like two thin horizontal pencil lines. She was the first (and possibly only) person I had met who had exposed mandible teeth when she spoke. She never sported the upper chompers. I thought I might have been happier to see the notification. I just shrugged.
Fortunately there are very few people like that in my memory. Oh, I've worked with some nasty people in my day, but no one that I would ever wish dead so that I could spit on the grave. Now... who cares?