November 15, 2005

Oh My Word #1

:: a new but destined to be recurring Beehive feature in which we offer, purely for your verbaceous pleasure, words we like to say for no reason except that we just like to say them ::


shishkabob


kerfuffle


spatula


kumquat


Virtual M&Ms to anyone who constructs a viable sentence using all four of these bodaciously delicious bits of verbage. Double M&Ms for a haiku.

12 comments:

Eugene said...

The kumquat shishkabob caused quite a kerfuffle, even though a spatula was not used during the cooking process.

Headmistress, zookeeper said...

While the kerfuffle raged about me, I nonchalantly used the spatula to put my kumquat on the shikabob.

Larold P. Body said...

Sorry no haiku... but here's a poem!

No reason to muffle,
This sprawling kerfuffle
Of the Spatula King
And his knights.

Since Head Knight ShiskaBob
Is now quitting his job
To cook kumquat
culinary delights.

Great Scot said...

The spatula waits.
The dishes are empty.
The kerfuffle between the shishkabob and the kumquat rages.
The stomach rebels.

Eingelösten Teufelhund said...

The shishkabob chef
raised a kerfuffle with his
kumquat spatula

Dodger of Sheep said...

A great kerfuffle,
The shishkabob through the spatula,
The kumquat's revenge

Owl of the Desert said...

Kumquat in my mouth.
Kefuffle of Shishkabobs.
Spatula in hand.

Elyow'eynay said...

Cooking kerfuffle
Spatula flips shishkabob
Kumquat killers.

Firefly said...

While cooking the kumquat and kohlrabi shiskabob over the coals, there arose such an insufferable kerfuffle I unfortunately allowed the delectible dainty to become quite adhered to the grill and was only able to release it through vigorous use of a special spatula.

How's that? *giggle* Hey, kabob sounds even funnier than shishkabob.

Turtle said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Turtle said...

my shishkabob that had kumquat needed to be fliped by my spatula so it became a keruffle!

polemic turtle said...

Is someone ka-poi-ing my nay-em?

Were my spatula,
Shishkabob covered,
With a mandarin;

On top, like a crown,
I would eat two thirds of it,
and cause kerfuffle.

It was a cold evening; my fire was dead in the hearth, but that hadn't been news for weeks. I was out of a job and needed a case.

Knawing on a spatula, my shishkabob long gone, I studied the upside-down paper on my desk for a moment.

At a sound at the door, I looked up, just in time to see a small mandarin orange fly through the small dirty glass window to the right of the door which I had rented long before I'd rented the office. I stood up, but there didn't seem to be anything following it, so I walked over to the little holiday fruit which had so rudely entered my office without knocking. I picked it up and stared at it for a while. Yup, it was a mandarin orange, a fruit of one of those delightful little trees which the Cantonese called "kamkwat".

I shrugged my shoulders; Mom had usually had other, choicer things to talk about, but once, when I had come home without the box for which I had bid as highly as I had dared to at the auction, she told me, "Sam, when life gives you lemons, make a batch of lemonade."

Now, I was allergic to lemons, but I think I pretty well got what she meant by that, which was simply this: When life gives you lemons, crush them into pulp, add water and sugar, and mix well before serving.

I rarely saw the logic of my Mother clearly, but I just had a good feeling about this, now that I'd thought it through. I bit into the orange.

As you might well remember, if you were there, or imagine, if you weren't, the orange wasn't peeled. Add to that a bunch of glass shards and you will quickly find me on my knees retching a mixture of blood, orange peel, and glass shards into a perfect mess onto the floor. It wasn't pretty, but that's how my life is at times.

Upon my loudly advertised misjudgement, the door opened at the hand of a street sweeper. He stared at me for a while and then at the floor, but I was soon done and back on my feet, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and pacing.

"Who did this? Where did you get your hair cut? Are you from around here? Do you want to clean this up? How is the weather like outside? Who's on first?", I demanded of the man at the door.

"I don't know! You're the detective!", he blurted and then ran. I then remembered the strong possiblity that I might have forgotten to pay my rent and realized that my customary "Orange at the door, to satiate the landlord" had probably not gone over so well this time.

I started to run..