“Heaven, help us.” “What is this man holding?” “What madness has taken hold?”
Good people, fear not for I hold in my hands something magical. Something that will bring fame and immortality. I hold in my hand the chilled cookie dough that will some become (insert dramatic music) the first cookie for the County Fair (all the people say, “Gasp!”).
Hang in there, world. This is going to be epic.
Man. Mixer. Mission.
Fail One. Note my fine handiwork, as I park way too close to the curb. Okay, actually up on the curb. Parking Fail.
Fail Two. Looking into my briefcase, I remembered that I had packed a cucumber for a snack. Really? A cucumber for a snack? Is this what I have become? Pitiful. Dietary Fail. Not to mention a fail of mankind.
Fail Three. Heading out for a walk to the library with my 8-year-old son Sam, I grabbed the dog’s leash. Sam turned to me and sharpening his skills as Master of the Obvious asked, “Are we bringing Kirby?” My answer, “Yep”, when it should have been “Nope, this is for you.” Ha! Now that would have been clever, snide, and even a little witty, but no, I whiffed on a fastball right down the middle of the plate. Comeback Fail.
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Superlative Clue… “What do you like ‘best’ about the Goodness?”
For the last few days, a smell has lingered about the kitchen. Sort of a something-died-in-here-but-we-cannot-find-it smell. Sadly, all attempts to locate the source of the smell were unsuccessful.
Well, tonight we had a family road trip. Sadly, the trip involved a detour to Target for cheap hand towels, baby wipes, carpet cleaner, and spray fabric refresher. Yes, we were called into emergency automobile vomit response duty. Needless to say, after that clean up, I figured my night would go smoother from there. Wrong.
Upon arriving home, the smell in the kitchen had become stronger. Much, much stronger. Tracing the odor to its source, I was surprised to find the potato-onion hutch oozing a liquid. Opening the hutch, I found a potato and a few of his buddies, who had gone bad. Very, very bad. I’m talking mafia bad.
So just remember, no matter how safe and sound you feel tonight. Be on guard, because even your friend the humble potato can sometimes turn on you.
BASEBALL OREOS
“Running short on time, but would still like to make a cool looking treat? Well, grab a pack of Oreos. I prefer Oreo Thins, because they will not overwhelm the rest of the cookie. Melt some Baker’s Chocolate (a whole box). Dip and coat ‘em. Refrigerate ‘em. Combine some powdered sugar (1 cup) and milk (about 2 Tablespoons). Add some food coloring (five drops or so). Pipe on some baseball stitching. Chill again and presto! Baseball oreos. Enjoy.”
It all started over 2,000 years ago. A tale of infamy. A tale of footwear.
356 BC – In order to gain notoriety, Herostratus burns down the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
Earlier this week – In order to be featured on my blog, my 6-year-old son Ben places his Batman socks on our basement checkerboard end table.
Ah the Herostratic way, timeless.
Sitting at lunch with my three sons, they bantered away. Giggling and carrying on. Meanwhile, I focused on the task at hand. I ate.
Finishing my lunch, I looked up to see 6-year-old Ben holding court and sitting back in his chair. During the time it took me to clean my plate, it appeared as if Ben had eaten a single garbanzo bean from his pasta salad. This was going to take a while, perhaps until dinnertime.
I glanced to my left and saw 11-year-old Jacob making progress, but in no way was he quickly finishing lunch. Jacob’s plate was still piled high with food, a healthy amount for a growing boy that looked in no hurry to finish.
Trying to busy myself, I took my empty plates to the kitchen. Upon my return, which I swear was about 45 seconds later, I once again glanced at Jacob and his (gasp!) half eaten plate of food. In that short amount of time, it looked as if 11-year-old Jacob had inhaled most of his lunch. No dog to be found under the table. No little brothers ratting him out. Just young Ben contemplating if he should eat a second garbanzo bean and Jacob continuing to attack his food.
Extremes in eating? Yes, but somehow everything appears to be right on track.
[Author’s Footnote: 8-year-old Sam, while not fully embracing the pasta salad, did manage to eat most of his meal at a slow and steady pace. Way to go, Sam!
Author’s Footnote, too: “I did not woof down my food,” says highly defensive Dave. I simply focused on my diet sized portions and consumed them with a starving man’s enthusiasm.]
Regret. Sometimes it sneaks up on you from behind. Sometimes it sneaks up on you from behind and then slams right into your heel. Regret. Regret is allowing your 8-year-old and very enthusiastic son to push the shopping cart. It does not appear immediately. Not even after the first time he runs into your feet from behind. Sure, there are some early inklings of regret, but not a full-fledged “I really should not have done that” feeling. Then it happens. You can hear the shopping cart accelerating behind you. You hope he has control. Then you feel it. That sharp impact as the cart slams into your heel for the second time.
Regret. It can also fade away, as you become thankful that you were wearing high impact loafers.
Fear of heights. I don’t have a bad-crippling type fear of heights, just a mild sort of I’d-rather-not-fall-to-my-death fear of heights. I trace some of this back to Elementary School. There I was shimmying up the rope in gym class. I made it to the top or near the top and for some unknown reason, I let go and tumbled down to the mat. I don’t think I landed on my head, but that would explain a lot. All I really remember is Mr. Good Smile, my gym teacher, carrying me off the mat to safety somewhere. [Editor’s Note: his name probably was not Good Smile, but it was Mr. Good Day or Mr. Good All or Mr. Good Hair or something of that sort.] Perhaps, it was just a sprained ankle, but I still blame this incident for my desire to avoid falling and to avoid ropes hanging from the ceiling in gym class. I was not a monkey. I should not climb.
Flash forward many decades. There I was on the Church Property Committee. This was a generous assessment, because I did little to nothing on that Committee, but I did once help out in changing very high up lightbulbs in the sanctuary. I tell you, these lightbulbs were very, very high up and the church only had a rickety old ladder to get way up there. There were also many, many lightbulbs way up there. Well, we were all taking turns climbing up the ladder. I bravely took my turn and my oh my, my nerves did not enjoy it one bit. I was shaking and sweating like crazy, but I bravely took my turn and climbed back down upon completion to find out that I had sweat through the back of my shorts. Yep, buckets of sweat rolling down my back onto my shorts. It did not look good. It was not a confidence builder.
Flash forward a few years and we reach today. Earlier today at work, there was a rock climbing wall in the parking lot, as a fundraiser. People were gleefully taking their turns. Up 30 feet (pure guess at the actual height) and down again. It looked sort of easy. Lots of people were taking turns. My sons came to see it. We purchased hamburgers to help the cause. That seemed like an appropriate way to help. More people went up and down. More smiles. More people happy. It was contagious. I still resisted and even took to blaming my shoes (I was wearing loafers, which are not internationally accepted rock climbing shoes). Excuses. More people smiling. The event was winding down. People were returning to work.
Then I got just a little brave. I asked my sons if they would like to join me. They showed no interest in potentially falling and instead enjoyed their hamburgers. I persisted. After a half dozen requests, my 8-year-old son Sam offered to accompany me up the wall. This is the same son that once spontaneously joined me to stand at the edge of the all church choir and sing “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” We are not singers, but we helped nail it. Sam is a joiner, he helps build me up.
So there we were, father and son scaling a wall. Dad full of nerves, son of many, many, many years younger (probably about the age that I fell off the gym class rope) bravely tackling the wall. Well, we made it up to the top. I did not particularly enjoy being up there, so I gradually made my way down. With each foot closer to the ground, I grew happier to be on my way toward the ground. Then I had the bright idea to rappel down the wall in one of those jump, swing out, jump off the wall again fashion. Only problem, I have never done this before (obviously) and I am not a super-agent (duh, obviously not). The first jump went fine, but the second was way too close to the ground and “bump.” Flat on my butt. Turns out I now land on my butt, rather than the suspected landing on my head (or ankle, I forget which) in elementary school. Thankful for the harness that fit me like a super snug extra tight pair of underwear, I laid down on the parking lot and starred into the clear blue sky. With the help of my son and some surprisingly effective loafers, I had conquered a mild fear with almost complete success. Although the plop on the butt reminded me to never get cocky when tackling even the most mild of phobias. Just not a good idea to get cocky at the end, although it was a great idea to wait for most of the crowd to clear out just in case I landed on my butt. That was a good move.
Why is a rundown in baseball (when a runner gets trapped between two fielders, while running the bases) called a “pickle?”
This was the question we were pondering in the car, while our 11-year-old son Jacob wrapped up baseball practice. Never one to let a question go unanswered and always answering with a certain sense of authority and confidence, which makes you believe that the answer could be true, our 8-year-old son Sam volunteered an answer.
“It is called a pickle, because it is hard to tell which end you should start eating a pickle. You could end up switching from one end to the other, just like how they throw the ball back and forth.”
Suddenly, I no longer became concerned about Sam’s future. It all became clear. Wikipedia author. Career path, done. Congrats, my son. Now, off to college with you.
(By the way, being in a baseball “pickle” comes from the phrase “in a pickle,” based on “pickling” defined as being in a difficult or troubling situation. My source? Wikipedia, of course. #BelieveItOrNot)
