It was Summer.  It was night.  It was Minnesota.  Stopping at a highway rest area on our way home, the boys pranced toward the bathroom.  That’s when we noticed one of them, a large bug.  The boys were convinced it was a hornet, I had my doubts, but I was not overly concerned.  Keep our distance and everything should be fine.

Returning to the car, we headed on our way.  Then after five minutes, my 6-year-old son Ben shouted, “Dad, there’s a bug in the car!”  Really?  Screaming about a bug?  A little bug?  Just as I was about to minimize his concerns, I felt a heavy thud in the back of my neck.  The suspect bug was indeed big.  I guessed about the size of a golf ball, perhaps larger.  Maybe gerbil sized.  Certainly something from long ago.  Yep, it could well have been a Jurassic bug.  Fear seized me.  My right hand swatted at the back of my head wounding the massive insect, who retreated somewhere toward the passenger side of the car.

Convinced I had mortally wounded my insect foe, we continued on our drive, until my 8-year-old son screeched.  The bug had returned and was venturing in and out of his “trash bin” (the area in the car door closest to his seat, where he places his trash).  Gum wrappers.  Broken crayons.  Rocks.  They all end up in that door.  Now the trash heap contained a huge buzzing beast of an insect.  Smart bug.  Good cover.  Pulling off the highway, I bravely thrust my hand into the trash bin.  The bug, tetanus, rodents, they were all of concern.  Thankfully none were found.

As large trucks zoomed past me, I reentered the car and continued on our voyage.  Uncertain of the monster bug’s location, we all fearfully listened.  Waited.  Cowered.  I placed a baseball cap on my head with the anticipation that I would need to use it to swat at the flying adversary.  Suddenly, gasps and terror filled the car.  The leviathan bug had returned.  He was perched on window ledge of the passenger door window.

His silhouette against the backdrop of a recently set sun, the enormous bug appeared to a flying hamster.  A wicked creature borne from the very bowels of Hell, it had only one mission:  the complete destruction of our family.  Out of my reach, I saw only one option.  A terrifying prospect.  Roll down the window and release the furry of the passing wind upon the nightmarish critter.  Fumbling for the master controls, I saw the Devil’s spawn glance into my eyes.  Opening the air hatch, I saw him struggle to hold on.  Hearing the beast let out a buzz that seemed to curse mankind, he leapt into the air.  His goal was my death, but the roaring speed of our car took hold.  I glanced back toward the road and quickly returned my gaze at the passenger window.  The flying rodent was gone.  Either vanished into the night or hiding in the shadows of the glove compartment.

Rolling up the window.  Hearing the muffled rush of wind past the car.  We listened for the buzz.  The buzz that carried fear.  We sat in silence.  We listened.  We waited.  It was all we could do.  The miles rolled by, but the fear remained.  The fear remained.

“ER” is no longer and George Clooney is married, so you’re gonna have to settle for this.

Bummer = Strange looking toe with a suspected infection.

Bummerer = Suggested sending a sample to the lab.

Sad Slow Realization Bummer = Sample will involve a scalpel.

Painful Bummer = Localized anesthesia injected with the pain of a thousand wild hornets.  Okay, how about an ornery one?

Gross Bummer = Seeing a chunk of your foot exit into a baggie.

Even Slower Realization Bummer and a Bit Morbid = Wait, why is sending a sample to the lab necessary?  What?  Am I dying?  Oh, dear.

Burning Flesh Bummer = Cauterize.  You never want to hear that word associated with any future action on any part of your body.  Cauterize.

Fading Bummer = Wandering out of the clinic slightly regretful that you made the initial voyage.

Postscript Bummer = Nothing to worry about.  It was not toe cancer.  The lab results say that it is just an ugly toe.  “Ugly toe,” turns out that’s the official medical term for it.

Painful Day After Bummerest = Having your 8-year-old son accidently step on your freshly cauterized foot.  Bummerest, indeed.

Strange Blessing Bummer = My toe actually looks better with a band-aid covering 40%, as opposed to the pre-cauterized strange looking toe with a suspected infection.

Extra Postscript Bummer = After a road game, my 11-year-old baseball playing son just stepped on the famously cauterized toe.

Final Good News Bummer = At least he was no longer wearing his cleats.  #Thankful4theLittleThings

Monday was my 6-year-old Ben’s first day of “Kinderball” practice.  “Kinderball” is the Little League equivalent of baseball for Kindergarteners.

For the first day, they had the kids cycling through stations.  Batting, pop flies, fielding, and pitching.  Arriving at the pitching station, Ben began throwing the ball through a target, which is a canvas catcher with a square hole to represent the strike zone.  Ben was doing well and seemed to be at a level equal to his kindergarten peers.  Then Ben reared back and released a ball that struck the target below the strike zone.  Laughing, Ben shrieked with glee, “I hit the catcher in the wiener!”

Um, son, that is not a good thing for oh so many reasons.  Plus, remember that the catcher is your TEAMMATE!  This is not how you treat your teammate.  I think we can safely say that a career in pitching does not appear to be in Ben’s future.  Also, if you find yourself on Ben’s team make sure to wear your cup.  You’ve been warned.

Ah, I see that 8-year-old Sam’s socks have an early start on the library’s summer reading program.  I can visualize sock puppets having eyes, so having Sam’s gym socks sit down to read a good book is not too far of a stretch.

Go ahead, feel free to put your feet up on the couch or at least your socks.

NUTMEG SHORTBREAD

“Lookin’ for love?  Lookin’ for shortbread?  Lookin’ for both?  Look no further.  This shortbread features a delightful nutmeg (the baker’s aphrodisiac) pop and a sugar/nutmeg topping that provides a delicate crunch.  So heat up your summer night, because shortbread and nutmeg were meant to be together.  Enjoy.”

Shortbread Ingredients

½ cup Butter

5 Tablespoons Sugar

1 Egg

1 1/3 cups Flour

¾ teaspoon Nutmeg

Topping Ingredients

1 Tablespoon Sugar

¼ teaspoon Nutmeg

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Cream butter and sugar.

Mix in egg.

Mix in flour and nutmeg.

Press dough into a 9” (diameter) round pan.

Use a knife to score the dough into 8 pie shaped pieces.

Combine the topping’s sugar and nutmeg.  Sprinkle onto the top of the dough.

Bake for 40 minutes or until shortbread has lightly browned.

Place the pan of shortbread onto a cooling rack.

Cut into wedges.

Let shortbread cool completely within the pan.

Makes eight shortbread wedges.

Revised Source:  “Nutmeg Shortbread” recipe from www.foodandwine.com.

 Another satisfied customer.

After seven long years of resisting a cell phone, I have given in.  Yes, as my job as called me ever more into the field, it has become more of a necessity than a perceived nuisance.  Stop the presses, with my addition, now everyone in America officially owns a cell phone.

Yes for seven long years, I staunchly resisted the idea of a cell phone.  More than anything, I did not want to become that annoying guy, who is chatting too loud in the grocery store, but my societal obligations have finally made my resistance silly.  Plus, my wife has promised to only text me in the grocery store.  I can live with that.

For the record, I have not always been a staunch neo-luddite.  Although the thought of a “Google” car gives me the creeps, I was actually up-to-speed with a coolio Palm Pilot in 1999.  I even knew the shorthand.  I was something.  Now I live in a world, where my sausage fingers are almost too large to operate my new machine.

Well, any who (an old man phrase?), today was a big day.  Sitting at a train crossing in Clearwater, Minnesota, I witnessed a boy in a hot dog costume promoting food sales at a butcher shop’s outdoor grill.  Snap.  Photo.  Mission accomplished.  I had added to the general wealth of societal knowledge.  Maybe this whole “Welcome to 2015 thing” is going to work out okay for me.  Maybe.

A boy.  A hot dog costume.  A photo opportunity too good to pass up.  Welcome to the modern world, Mr. Paulsen.  We have been waiting for you.

My new Smart Phone and Me.  I like to call him “Fred.”  I appreciate the fact that he has made a button for my blog.  We are beginning to grow on one another.  Can true love be too far behind?

What madness dwells in the heart of this man?

What art will burst forth?

What cookies will be baked?

Soon all of life’s questions will be answered.  Well, not quite.  Not even close, but it will be yummy.  It will be new.  It will be a great day for a cookie.

Coming very, very soon, a joint The Goodness Coffee House and www.CookiesbyDave.com production.

The Blogosphere will never be the same.

This morning, I would like to present to you a rebroadcast of one of my all-time favorite Facebook posts.  Although some of the details remain a subject of debate, I say, “The winner gets to write the history,” and in this case, I was the big winner.  Fist full of ham and all.  Enjoy.

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“FIST FULL OF HAM” – A Cookies by Dave Classic

Anytime you go to an event and don’t know anyone, it can make for an anxious outing.  That was how I found myself on the afternoon of Sunday, June 5th, 1994.

I arrived at former Professor Daicoff’s home for the “Welcome New University of Kansas Public Administration Graduate Students Picnic” or something similarly titled event.  Exchanging pleasantries, I soon found myself in the backyard, where the new students were milling about and introducing themselves to one another.  That is when I first saw her.  Standing poolside on that warm Kansas day was a vision of beauty chit chatting with some other students.  I knew immediately that I had to say hello.

Walking quickly across the pool deck, I approached the group and extended my hand to introduce myself.  Mistake number one.  Never attempt to shake someone’s hand, when they are already holding a pop in one hand and a small plate of appetizers in the other.  Looking slightly perplexed at my misguided attempt to say hello, she simply shrugged.  No, “Wait a second, while I set these down.”  No, “How silly of me, you are the most polite boy in ages.”  No, “Wow!  You are one handsome stud.”  None of that.  Just a shrug.  So much for first impressions, but I knew I could recover.

Continuing to converse with the poolside beauty, whose name was Charlene, I launched into a dialog about the difficulty of shopping for shorts.  You see, I was from Michigan and my needs were simple.  Kansas is hot and I didn’t own many shorts, so all I needed were a few pairs to get me started.  Beat the heat.  Avoid heatstroke.  Stay cool.  You get the idea.  So I continued with my story about how sales clerks make this transaction needlessly complex.  I don’t need to see the different options, “Shorts.  I just need shorts.”  This is how the story goes.  Mistake number two.  Whenever introducing oneself to a beautiful woman, never launch into a story, which makes you appear to be a backwater idiot.  Save that for conversation three or four, once your wit and good looks have become overwhelmingly apparent.  Never use the new “backwater idiot” material to start.  Just not a good idea.

Well anyway, the pretty lady managed to extract herself from the conversation and I at least had the common sense not to cling to her side.  Good move, slick.  Fortunately, I was lucky enough to strike up a conversation with the hostess, Mrs. Daicoff.  Turns out, the Daicoffs were also from Michigan, so there, I was not entirely alone.  Things were looking up.

During the conversation, it was announced that the new students could walk through the buffet line first and fill their plates.  Good logic.  Judging from my inexpensive “University of Michigan” mass produced polo, I needed a good meal.  Hey to my credit, I had enough common sense to wear a collared shirt, so back off.  Well, I continued chatting with Mrs. Daicoff as we entered the buffet line.  Mistake number three.  When you generally have trouble concentrating, don’t try to accomplish too many things at once.  Say for instance continuing a conversation, while also trying to fill your high quality picnic buffet paper plate.  Chatting away, I thought I was doing well.  I had managed to select a tiny dinner roll, which was intended to hold deli meat for a sandwich, while still chatting with the hostess.  I was golden.  Rolling along, I spotted the shaved ham.  Now, I am not a big ham fan, but occasionally it can complement a lovely meal, so I reached into the catered warming tray and grabbed a handful.  Then I saw Mrs. Daicoff’s face turn a ghostly shade of white and you could see the wheels spinning in her head.  “What kind of beast child did we invite into our home?”  Confused, I looked away and everything became clear.  At once, I saw the unused tongs, as well as my fist full of ham.  Yes, I had reached directly into the warming tray and snatched an entire handful of ham with my grubby mitts.  I was disgusting.  I was repulsive.  I was holding a whole bunch of ham and I don’t even really like ham.  Mrs. Daicoff’s mind kept spinning, “It is going to be okay.  Have the tray removed.  Call the caterer.  Get some new ham.  Have someone else babysit ape-boy.  It is going to be okay.”  To my credit, I placed the three pounds of ham onto my little dinner roll and decided that I would pass on the rest of the food.  I just looked like a really must enjoy ham.  Enjoy it so much in fact that I could not wait to get my hands on it.  Yum!  Ham!

Finding a spot at a poolside table, I realized that my luck was again turning.  I had sat directly across from the previously mentioned poolside beauty, Charlene.  Now, I was too far away to really carry on a quality conversation, but I figured that I would try.  What did I have to lose?  I had already been brushed off by her and my initial attempt at a conversation was an epic fail, although I still think the “shorts” bit was promising, it just needed work.  A lot of work.  Mistake number four.  Never try to carry on a conversation too far across a table.  It just does not work.  Too much cross noise.  Too many distractions.  Take for instance the fact that I had an enormous ham sandwich in front of me that I would be nibbling at for the duration of the afternoon into evening.  Too much to overcome, but I tried.  Why not?  She was cute.  I was breathing.  I had a chance, right?  Not so much.  After a few exchanges, a professor came up to introduce himself to Charlene.  At that point, it was all over for the Daveman.  She held up an index finger, as if to say, “Just a second, please, ham-boy” and she turned away.  At least I had my sandwich.  Now, that was an impressive accomplishment.  Never before had one guest piled so much ham, so high, on such a tiny dinner roll.

Leaving the picnic alone, I figured life was not too bad.  After all, I did have a full belly.  I had met some nice folks.  I certainly needed some polishing around the edges and my chances with the poolside babe Charlene were nonexistent, but the weather was warm and I owned some new shorts.

Twenty-one years later, looking back, things had taken a turn by the Daicoff Family pool.  My life now headed in a new direction down a blessed path.  Sometimes first impressions can be overcome.  Sometimes the awkward guy, who is babbling on about purchasing shorts, ends up with the pretty girl at the party, but in this instance it would have to wait for another day.  A day when I would marry Charlene.  Days when we would together face life’s joys and challenges.  Days when we would raise our three treasured boys.  Days that all found their start poolside, with a fist full of ham.

 Yep, this handsome dude turned out to be the big winner.  He got the girl and an epically large ham sandwich.  Win, win!

My sister Kathy’s house has always had a cool bar in the basement.  In addition to having a cool bar, she has always had fun decorating it.  Well, when I was in college, I thought it would be funny to have a photo the Vice President displayed above Kathy’s bar.    Yes, my sense of humor has always been a little off, but considering that the Vice President was Dan Quayle (remember him?), it really was sort of a funny idea.

I ended up writing to the Vice President asking for a photo and he fulfilled my request with an autographed photo that was proudly displayed in my sister’s basement.

Administration’s changed and at my request, Al Gore sent Kathy a photo that she proudly displayed.

Administration’s changed again and even in the midst of the anthrax scare, Dick Cheney continued my bit of playfulness with my sibling.  By the way, across parties, across administrations, they always sent me a photo.  Make the people happy.

Well for whatever reason, I was slow to get Joe Biden’s photo.  Really, really slow.  About six years slow.  Not that I would not think about it.  For months, maybe years, I had a Post-It Note above our home computer that simply said, “Biden Photo,” but I never finished the job.  At work, there was an old conference room once used by the IRS, where a photo of Biden was left behind.  He would look down on me with a grin, as if to say, “Go ahead and write the letter.  You can do it, big guy.”

Flash forward to last month, my 11-year-old son Jacob and I were having our usual debate about a 3-0 count in baseball.  I have a strongly held view that you never, ever, ever swing at a 3-0 pitch, because it is your best change at getting on base.  Ever.  Period.  Without doing anything.  Don’t swing!  Jacob however believes that it is going to be the best pitch you will see, so you should swing if it is going to be a strike.  I had just finished reading “Moneyball,” where the General Manager of the Oakland A’s, Billy Beane, goes on and on about the value of getting on base.  Who better to settle our argument?  So Jacob and I sat down and wrote him a nice letter asking him to settle our dispute.

As I printed off the letter, I saw the lonely and neglected Post-It Note saying, “Biden Photo.”  It was time for me to get that latest photo of the number two politician in the country for the number one sister in the world.  It probably took me less than five minutes and the request was off in the mail.

Today, I received a response, not from Billy Beane, probably since the A’s are in last place and he is trying to figure out a way to proceed with the season.  Instead it was a nice envelope that contained a simple photo of a powerful man.  The streak is alive.  Thank you, Joe Biden…  and Dick Cheney…  and Al Gore…  and Dan Quayle.  Kathy, smile, because soon this will need a space in your basement…

Cleaning up after our family’s dinnertime Taco Fest, I was stationed in front of the sink.  That’s when I noticed a buzz in the backyard.  It appeared as if Charlene was taking the boys to the park to play tennis.  I kept on cleaning.  Sudsy bubbles floated over my hands and NPR’s “The World” talked on the radio.  They kept on planning their excursion.  Then as they were about to leave and I was on my final dishes, 6-year-old Ben approached me with a welcoming question, “We are going to play tennis.  Would you like to come?”

Ah, tennis.  A sport of my youth.  Not that I was ever any good at it.  On the contrary, I had a legendarily bad style about me.  In college, my friends captured my style best with the nickname “Downtown Dave.”  Yes, I would hit the tennis ball so hard and with such little regard for the lines on the court that it looked like I was hitting the ball toward “downtown.”  That ball would streak past my opponent and smack into the chain link fence behind the court.  “Downtown,” a great nickname for someone studying city management.  It was clear however that it had nothing to do with economic development know how, but rather my crazed swing.

My roommate Steve also pointed out that I only hit the ball backhanded.  I would watch the ball coming toward my side of the court and then position myself to swat at it with my backhand.  If the ball was moving slow enough, I would even run completely around the ball to whack it backhand.  Strange at best, pitiful at worst.

No, pitiful better described my serve.  In order to get the ball within the white boundaries, I would gently tap the ball.  It appeared as if it was lifted in the air by butterflies and gently delivered by angels.  Graceful at best, but very clearly pitiful, let’s not sugarcoat it.

Any who, I happily drained the dishwater and joined my family.  During the next hour, I realized a few things.  It had been about 20 years since I had played Charlene in tennis and while Charlene has retained her athletic physic and prowess, I appear to have leapt to size XL by eating someone who was wearing a size small.  What kind of monster had I become?  I’ll tell you what, a clever monster.  With my trusty backhand and butterfly kissed serve.  I was able to take home the Paulsen family tennis outing championship.  Now mind you, this feat is sort of like winning “Best Dancer” at the annual gathering of the “Society for the Rhythmically Challenged.”  By the way, I am a member of that group, although I have never come close to winning the title of “Best Dancer” in any way, shape, or form.  Tonight however, I did okay at tennis.

There I was, lumbering about on the tennis court.  Admiring my beautiful wife.  Enjoying the company of my playful children.  Soaking in a lovely summer evening.  That’s when I was reminded that after 20 years, I still love my wife as much as Day One.  Much like one of my favorite quotes from the television show “House of Cards,” “I love her like a shark loves blood.”  Well not in that creepy sort of way, but you get the idea.

There was my Charlene.  Having fun.  Embracing life.  Loving her family.  I smiled at the moment, even as I circled the ball to return a shot with my trusty backhand.