I was so prepared.  I had packed up my gym clothes.  I was all ready to go to spin class at lunch.  So prepared, indeed, at least until I got to work.  I got to work and realized that I forgot to pack a water bottle.  A water bottle, which is a critical part of spin class.  An element, which is crucial to my survival.

Ah, but I am a problem solver and the solution was close at hand.  In the basement of our office building is a communal break room.  A land where vending machines dwell and water bottles are to be found.  I rarely go into the break room, but with coins in hand, I felt pretty confident that I would be exiting with some bottled water.

The break room is divided into two parts.  The first is a small room containing about six vending machines.  The second is a large area containing tables and chairs.  Walking down into the room, I took a hard right into the vending machine area and into total darkness.  Darkness, because they keep the lights off in the vending machine area to save on energy.  All well and good, I love the Earth, too.  Going to a large bank of light switches, I gave each one a try.  None of them worked.  Looking across the darkness, I saw another large bank of light switches.  Venturing across the dark void, I reached the second set of switches that held so much promise.  One after one, nothing.  Again.  Earth be damned, I wanted light!  I hope no poor soul was having their break in the other part of the room, because I’m sure that the flipping of switches put on quite a show.  Sadly, however, there was no light.

One of two huge banks of light switches.  None of them actually provides light.

Bravely, I ventured toward the vending machines.  I found one that appeared to hold beverages.  I plugged in a few quarters guessing on the amount.  I squinted into the glass case, hoping to see my goal.  Water.  All I wanted was water.  Over 70 percent of the Earth is covered in water.  The world’s most abundant resource and I was willing to pay for it, but I could not see it.  So close.  It taunted me.  Looking back at me from the shadows.  I wanted it, but I would have to gamble.  I would have to give my best guess at the right Letter/Number combination, lest I accidently select Diet Squirt.

My senses sharpened.  I punched the numbers.  The machine whirled.  Products moved.  A bottle dropped.  The heavens opened.  Angels sang.  Water, glorious water awaited me.  I had chosen wisely.

Returning to my cubicle, I relayed my story of adventure to a co-worker (that poor soul had to listen to it, just like you, you poor soul that is now reading it).  Then she relayed some simple, but powerful information.  “There is a single switch around the corner that turns on those lights.”  Ah, ha!  Nothing could stop me now.

Behold, the glorious light switch that actually produces light.

A few days later, I was searching for writing material and remembered my journey into the darkness.  Good stuff for a story.  I grabbed my camera and took a stroll to the break room.  Sure enough, there was the single light switch.  Ah, the power it holds.  Hearing some co-workers approaching, I quickly took a photo.  I did not want to look like an idiot taking a photo of a light switch.  Embarrassed?  Perhaps.  All I knew was that I had the photo I needed, no matter how close I had come to looking like a fool.

A photo I took of the floor, as I heard the footsteps of co-workers approaching and panicked.  Sad.  A grown man too timid to admit that he just wants to take a photo of a light switch.  Strange, but understandable given the circumstances.  Given the thirst.

Tune in tomorrow for the exciting (?) conclusion of “Thirst.”  (I know what you are thinking, “Dave, the story is over or at least we hope it is.  What’s up?”  Well, trust me, my friend.  There is more to know.  More to explore.  More thirst to be quenched.)

For whatever reason, this past week, our Preschool Sunday School class had low attendance.  As a result, I was moved up to the Kindergarten class to play the role of teacher’s aide.  Arriving after the lesson, I found the children listening to Sunday School songs and gleefully decorating construction paper hearts in advance of Valentine’s Day.  Recognizing all of the kids as graduates from my Preschool class, I pulled up a chair and began “helping” with the craft.  My “help” consisted mainly of me making small talk and complementing them on their art work.

After a few minutes, I began noticing that most of the children were focusing on drawing, stamping, or gluing as many small hearts as possible onto their primary large construction paper heart.  Considering that it was Super Bowl Sunday, I saw the perfect tie-in.  The opportunity to merge the secular and non-secular, just like the term Super Bowl Sunday implies.  “Hey, kids do you want to guess the over/under for how many hearts are on this big heart?”  After a few minutes, I had the kids guessing pretty accurately.

A little God.  A little pop culture.  What more could you ask for on a Super Sunday?  Well, some chicken wings would have been nice, but that would have been pushing it.

Our 6-year-old Ben has never really shown much interest in sports.  Sure Ben will tag along if one of his brothers is playing in a game and he will reluctantly participate in whatever sport we think might interest him.  Eventually he seems happy to be there.  Just happy to be there.  Bopping along, not a care in the world, or much of a care in the game that’s taking place around him.

At this weekend’s basketball games, I realized some of it might be me.  As a family, watching Kindergarten basketball is a bit (how shall I put this kindly) painful.  Final scores of 4-2.  70% of the kids not getting it…  at all.  Now, as our third child has entered this routine, a bit of parental exhaustion has begun to set in.

To his credit however, Ben does hustle back and forth down the court.  He does not do much when he gets to the other end, besides standing in front of his teammate who has the ball saying “Gimme” with outstretched hands, which seems to be Ben’s entire strategy on offense.  He does however consistently hustle back and forth.  That’s something.  Ben hustle is also more productive than his teammate, who once drove to the basket, shot the ball which hit the rim and bounced straight back, while he fell flat on his back.  As Ben’s 11-year-old brother Jacob would say with great emphasis, “Epic fail!”  This team is not exactly a dynasty in the making.  Plus, Ben’s hustle does count as a type of aerobic activity for the child so skinny that clothing seems to drape over his beanpole frame.  Sort of a jogging scarecrow, that’s our Ben.

Any who, there we were at our youngest’s basketball game and this happened to be the week where they hand out the photos to the parents.  We have gotten pretty good at ordering the standard photo package with the team and an individual shot to place on the mantel until the season is over.  Of course, as soon as we are handed Ben’s photos, a minimum of six hands reached for them.  Ben’s two hands, because he wanted to see how he looked.  The four hands (total, not per child, although I’m sure they would use their feet as hands at the dinner table, if allowed) of his two brothers, who apparently just want to place their grubby fingerprints on Ben’s photos and make sure he does not look better than them.  Also, his brothers, I am sure, just want the sheer joy to removing something from their little brother’s hands.  Eventually someone ended up with the photos and we headed for the coatrack.  Another morning of Kindergarten basketball at the Y Center complete, time for a nap.

Fast forward to Sunday evening, approximately 36 hours after the weekend’s Kindergarten basketball funfest.  Sitting in front of the fireplace, allowing my body to adjust to its large intake of Super Bowl watching chicken wings, I gazed above the fireplace.  There were Ben’s older brother Sam’s basketball photos proudly displayed, but where were Ben’s?  I checked with my wife and neither of us could remember the photos actually entering our house.  After a few seconds of brainstorming, we guessed that the AWOL photos must be resting in one of three places.  1) the car.  The frequent landing spot for things that once interested our children, but lose their shiny glow, when the children realize they must now carry the item of interest all the way into the house.  2) somewhere in a child’s room.  Perhaps stuffed in a closet amongst action figures, shoes, and old Happy Meal toys.  3) at the Y Center.  Sad, neglected, and sitting in a Lost and Found box.  Monday, we vowed to find the answer, as I continued to rest from my chicken wing over indulgence.

Monday morning came.  As I put away clothing, I noticed the absence of any basketball photos hiding in a boy’s room.  Heading to the gym, I looked around inside the car.  Nope, nothing but sundry trash found strewn across the backseat.  After my workout, I headed to get my coat and there, sitting all alone, facedown, abandoned, unloved, were little Ben’s basketball photos.  For 50-plus hours, they had sat there.  Discarded like trash.  Ignored by hundreds of Y Center members.  Overlooked by Y Center staff and volunteers.  Forgotten by their family.  Was this any way to treat my son’s photos?  Lay on the parental guilt.  Lay it on heavy.  I was a bad daddy.  A very bad daddy.

Placing Ben’s photos on the fireplace mantel, I reminded myself that although I am experiencing Kindergarten basketball exhaustion, this is little Ben’s first go around.  Get over yourself dad and make this a special time for your youngest, lest he feel like an abandoned photo package, lost and neglected atop a Y Center coatrack.

On the bright side, I wonder if this is how youngest brother Eli Manning got his start.  Not likely.

Ben.  Perhaps, he could just forget about playing sports and just go into sports modeling, instead.

You will have to forgive me.  I was a little upset.  Hearing that there would be another six weeks of winter was very sad news.  I know I should not blame the expert.  The groundhog doesn’t create the weather, he just prognosticates.  I’m sorry little woodchuck, I was just a little sad.  Oh well, there’s my shadow, time to crawl back into my burrow and dream of summer days.

If I’m not mistaken, that’s Twins second baseman Brian Dozier and child film star Macaulay Culkin (I’m surprised he’s not taller, since he is now 34-years-old) peeking out onto 5^th Street to see how the snowmen are doing.

On this post-Super Bowl morning, we all have second thoughts.  What would we have done differently?  How would we have acted, if given a second chance?  I for one would have passed on a second helping of pigs-in-a-blanket and focused my efforts on a second helping of wings.  Ah, you live, you learn, you forgive yourself.

As for my socks, they were discovered this morning by the coffee pot, waiting for that first hot cup of early morning kick to get things started. 

Way to set a good example, Dad.  What’s next?  Socks:  the Perfect Dish Towel Substitute?  My guess is that they were just waiting by the “water cooler,” eager to discuss the Big Game.

Looking for a super treat for the big game?  I have just the thing.  These simple little bites of safe cookie dough (sans raw eggs) are sandwiched between small pretzels and partially dipped in chocolate.  The perfect balance between salty and sweet.  This tasty treat is sure to score.

Plus, Cookie Dough Pretzel Dips are the best example of why I am not on Pinterest.  I would be spending even more time on the Internet.  Sure plenty of yummy treats would result, but less time to bake.  Now that would be a tragedy.  Oh, the dilemmas we face in life.  So keep on sending me delicious looking cookie recipes you see on Pinterest and I will gladly give them a try.  Thank you for helping me limit my time online, fuel my baking addiction, and serving as my portal to Pinterest yumminess.  Much appreciated!

– Cookie Dave

 These cookie snacks look good even under the partial eclipse of my planetary-sized head.

COOKIE DOUGH PRETZEL DIPS

½ cup Butter

½ cup Brown Sugar

¼ cup Sugar

2 Tablespoons Milk

1 teaspoon Vanilla Extract

1¼ cups Flour

1/8 teaspoon Salt

½ cup Mini Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips

100 Small Pretzels

1½ cups Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips

1 teaspoon Shortening

Line a small baking sheet with wax paper.

Cream butter, brown sugar, and sugar.

Mix in milk and vanilla extract.

Mix in flour and salt.

Stir in ½ cup of mini semi-sweet chocolate chips.

Take a small ball of dough (about 1½ teaspoons in size) and sandwich it between two small pretzels.

Repeat for the remainder of the cookie dough.

Place on the wax paper lined baking sheet and chill in the freezer for 20 minutes.

Mix together the 1½ cups of semi-sweet chocolate chips and 1 teaspoon of shortening.

Microwave for about 90 seconds, while stirring every 30 seconds.  Remove the chocolate, when fully melted.

Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.  Set aside.

Remove the cookie dough sandwiched in pretzels from the freezer.

Dip half of each cookie dough sandwich in the melted chocolate and place on the parchment paper lined baking sheet.

When you have finished dipping all of the cookie dough sandwiches in melted chocolate and placing them on the parchment paper lined baking sheet, put them in the fridge, until the melted chocolate has set (a minimum of 10 minutes).

Store these treats in the refrigerator.

Makes about 50 cookie inspired treats.

Revised Source:  “Cookie Dough Pretzel Bites” on www.sallysbakingaddiction.com.  Plus, special “cookie finder” thanks to Caryn Marcus.  You really discovered a true champion in this cookie inspired treat.  Today, you are the undisputed Pinterest MVP!

Our 11-year-old son Jacob loves playing baseball.  In the summer, baseball is his primary activity.  Then autumn fades into winter and the kid does not really have a cold weather sport.  We tried out basketball.  He liked it well enough, but it just was not his thing.  Ditto for swimming.  Ice skating, uh no.  There goes hockey, too.  So he waits.  Waits for the snow to thaw and the sound of baseballs springing off bats and the comforting smell of a glove’s well-worn leather.  Jacob is a boy of summer.

Annually here in the Willmar, they have an early summer 4 mile run.  Since Charlene and I can both run long distances, not for speed, but still a long way, we figured maybe another niche for Jacob could be track.  If he started training now in the dead of winter, the 4 mile run would be a perfect target.  Perhaps the right fit to blend cold weather training with a summer activity.

Getting the crew ready to attend his younger brother Ben’s basketball game at the Y Center, I asked Jacob if he would like to run on the track with me, while his brother warmed up for the game.  Considering his other option was sitting on a cold hard aluminum gym bleacher and waiting, he took me up on my offer.  Jogging around the track for 2 miles, he did fine keeping up with his father’s plodding Clydesdale-like pace and even beat me in a final lap sprint.  Maybe track could be his winter activity.

Arriving back at home, the boys all scattered to enjoy their screen time and I settled in to write my blog.  The fire place was inviting and the couch beckoned.  Snuggling in, I prepared myself to write about young Ben’s riveting Kindergarten basketball game, when I reached over to adjust the pillows on the couch.  Lifting up a pillow and scooting over, my hand discovered an unpleasant surprise.  Jacob’s socks.  The ones he had just exercised in.  Crammed into the corner of the couch.

Hum, sweaty socks hidden under pillows.  On second thought, it’s probably okay if Jacob does not have a winter sport.

Now you see them…

Now you don’t…

Vintage Sam, up early and joining us for breakfast on January 30, 2007.

Today, our son Sam turns 8-years-old.  As a middle child, Sam was faced with the challenge of finding his own way.  Sam has excelled in meeting this challenge.

Case in point, his inability to walk in a straight line (well documented in my “Sine Curves and Sidewalks” post).  His inability to sit still at dinner.  His unbounded imagination exhibited in his crossword / connect-the-dot hybrid puzzle (patent pending).  His rapid speech accented with up talk (a.k.a. vocal fry).  His continual attempts to create new jokes, my personal favorite being, “What do you call a pile of cats?  A meowtain.”

Lastly, our Sam loves to talk and tell tales, you can see his mind working as he stalls during a conversation, until a thought can fully form and then, “Bam!”  Revisionist history, Sam style (a.k.a. a “Sam-ism”).

Don’t let reality stop you, here comes Sam!

Sam-ism Samples (and only a very small, random sample)…

“Ben Franklin invented instant replay.”

“Scientists are developing ways to make listening devices out of flowers.”

“The first cars had lots of fires.”

“If rocket ships move at full speed, they could move Pluto, but it would take 20 rocket ships that go the speed of over a million cheetahs, to make it budge one inch.”

“There was only one makeup day (when I was) in Kindergarten and it was January 1.”

“The first song was ‘Rock-a-Bye,’ Mary sang it to Jesus.”

“In really cold places, like Alaska, they don’t make snowmen.  They make snow polar bears.”

I’m unsure where Sam will eventually focus his talents.  Probably somewhere between Wikipedia and “The Onion” would be appropriate.

It may not have been a Cheeseburger in Paradise, but it was lunchtime at Kennedy Elementary School with my wife and our birthday boy.  Paradise?  No.  Cheeseburger?  Yes.  No place I’d rather be.

PS – Here’s a bonus Sam-ism…  “(The song) ‘Don’t stop thinkin’ about tomorrow’ should be ‘You should be thinkin’ about the present.’”

Happy Birthday, Sam!  Don’t stop thinkin’ about the present.

Sam opening his presents at breakfast, under the watchful gaze of his finger-lickin’ chocolate-chip-pancake-eatin’ older brother Jacob.

While cleaning the powder room, something became very apparent to me.  Something I had been overlooking.  Avoiding.  Cleaning around for months.  Something I was trying to ignore, in the hope that denying its existence would somehow eliminate its need.  Refusal to acknowledge leading to nonexistence.  A sound strategy or maybe just a buried desire not to jinx myself.

Whatever the reason, whatever my intent, I had long ignored the “flushable wipes” container perched on top the back of the toilet.  Our youngest child Ben has not needed their services for many, many months having graduated long ago to regular toilet paper.  It has been a very, very long time since I have heard the troublesome words coming from the bathroom, “Dad, I need help wiping.”  Ah, just repeating the phrase makes me shudder.  Typing those words makes me fear their return.

Today, however, was going to be different.  I would confront my long buried fears and heavily entrenched superstition and finally remove the Kandoo brand flushable wipes container from the bathroom.  You are no longer needed.  I’m not afraid of you.

Exiting the bathroom and holding the plastic container in front of me, I bravely said to Charlene, “I think we can safely dispose of the Kandoo wipes.”  Smiling, Charlene confirmed our safe arrival at a new stage in life, “Yes, it’s a big day for us.  Everyone in the house can now wipe their own bottom.”  Yippee!  A new day has officially dawned! 

The Kandoo Frog giving his thumbs up of approval, as he waits in the garage with all of the other plastic recycling.

“Good job, Mom and Dad.  Congrats on your official graduation from potty training.  Ribbit.”

At work, I am the only man in my block of cubicles.  Being of average height for a man, this means that I stand a little taller than the co-workers in my immediate vicinity.  Here comes the disadvantage, my eye level can see just over the top of the cubicle shelving and see if it is dusty up there.  My co-workers are able to continue life as normal, but every time I get up, there’s that dust staring back at me.  Not a lot of dust, but just enough to motivate me, after seeing it dozens of times.

So as I went home for lunch to let the dog out, I grabbed a can of lemon scented Pledge and headed back to work.  Mind you, I hate dusting at home, but this seemed to be for the greater good of the office.  I could be a hero.

Arriving back at work, my co-workers seemed skeptical and it turns out for good reason.  Sure when I sprayed the top of the storage shelves it helped clear away the dust, including the “Dust Me” comment that some wisenheimer other than myself wrote up there, but it also spread a fine layer of dust particles throughout the office.  I was a walking contaminant.  Also, when I reached to get to the back of the shelves, my undershirt became untucked under my sweater.  Now, there I was a well-meaning-but-poorly-executed no-so-do-gooder who was being inundated with a strong artificial lemony scent, while standing in a haze of dust with my shirt untucked.  Good Lord, the definition of a walking disaster.

Calling it quits after about three storage units, I could claim partial success.  The tops of the units were now clean, but I also looked like a mess and there was no appropriate place to retuck without making a trek out to the restroom.  Ugh, such good intentions gone awry.  Memo to self, next time I get all Martha Stewarty in the office, make sure to wear an extra-long t-shirt, lest I continue to come up a little short in the shirt department.

 Sorry about the lousy photo.  I have them all neatly prepared to bring to a meeting for work and they looked all beautiful on their tray and I forgot to take a picture.  As a result, tonight’s photo features the sad left behind Brown Sugar Shortbread Puffs.

BROWN SUGAR SHORTBREAD PUFFS

“Did your day come up a little short?  Do you need a little pick me up?  These simple, but tasty cookies are a little shot of happiness.  Plus, the drizzled icing even makes them look a little classy.  Pop one in your mouth and feel your day start to turn around.  It’s okay, you can thank me later.”

Cookie Ingredients

1 cup Brown Sugar

1¼ cups Butter

1 teaspoon Vanilla Extract

1 Egg Yolk

2¼ cups Flour

Icing Ingredients

1 cup Powdered Sugar

2-3 Tablespoons Milk

1/8 teaspoon Clear Vanilla Extract (I like the clear vanilla to help keep the icing as white as possible)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Cream brown sugar and butter.

Mix in the vanilla extract and egg yolk.

Mix in the flour.

Drop by rounded tablespoons onto parchment paper lined baking sheets.

Bake for 14 minutes or until golden brown, you will want to make sure that the interior fully bakes.

Let cool completely.

Combine the icing’s powdered sugar, milk, and clear vanilla extract.  You will want to gradually add the milk, until the icing becomes the proper consistency to drizzle over the cookies.

Drizzle the icing over the cooled cookies.

Makes about 40 cookies.

Revised Source:  “Brown Sugar Shortbread Puffs” in the Pillsbury “Best Cookies Cookbook.”

PS – I was so proud of my 11-year-old son Jacob, when I brought out desert to the dinner table and announced that they were “Brown Sugar Shortbread Puffs,” he got up to start playing “Brown Sugar” by the Rolling Stones on his tablet.  Way to go!  Such a proud papa, that’s my boy.

“Brown sugar, you know you taste so good.  Brown sugar, just like I knew you would.”  Way to go Mick, thanks for the baking accompaniment.