I take full responsibility. For over a week, I had known about Johnny Appleseed’s Birthday (today) and that my Kindergartener, Ben, would need to bring his favorite type of apple to school.  Our house usually contains lots and lots of apples, mainly for either baking or Honey Crisp apples, which are far too expensive, but the whole family enjoys eating.  Well, little Ben’s favorite apple is Yellow Delicious, which  we don’t have on stock here at the Paulsen Grocery Outlet.  As a result, I promised Ben that I would take care of it.  I even thought about it yesterday afternoon, but I failed to write myself a note.  Critical error.  The post-school whirlwind hit the house, followed by dinner preparation, furious food consumption, bedtime preparation, and actual kids sleeping.  What did I forget?  The Yellow Apple, of course.

This morning, in an attempt to make all things right, I gathered the kids in the car and drove to the grocery store. The apples are right inside.  They should have been easy to get and still have plenty of time to deliver children to school.  Ben gleefully selected just the right Yellow Apple ($0.86) and then I opened a horrible Pandora’s Box of grocery store inflation.  This was a fun outing, would the kids like a doughnut?  Perhaps an Apple Fritter (just now thought of that, it would have been a nice tie in).  Well, they jumped at the doughnut opportunity and rushed the display case.  10-year-old Jacob took charge (ignoring the “Please, use tissue paper” sign, as is the custom in our mass contagion family).  What doughnut would everyone like?  That one there?  Grab.  No?  Well, you told me that one.  Place back.  Hey, kids hold the phone.  Touch a doughnut, buy a doughnut.  That’s the rule.  I guess dad will eat the less desirable doughnut (4 doughnuts x $0.79 each = $3.16).

Eating their doughnuts, the kids were having a grand old time. Grabbing my free cup of coffee, I was also fully entering the moment.  Kids, we have a little more time, do they have any new Hot Wheels cars?  Heading over to the toy car display perched by the ketchup, Jacob found some cars that were not yet part of the massive Paulsen Boy Hot Wheels Garage.  I tell you, finding new cars for the collection is not an easy accomplishment, considering that our attic looks like a mini version of the Dearborn, Michigan, Ford Assembly Plant.  Dad, would you like one, too?  Sure, why not?  It has become a roving grocery store Johnny Appleseed birthday party (4 Hot Wheels x $1.29 each = $5.16).

Adding 35 cents in tax, our grand total for the apple was $9.53. My failure to purchase the apple in advance, in addition to my desire to make every moment into a grand life event had cost me $8.67.  I am truly a mess.  On the good side, I was helping the economy, my morning coffee had been free, and my boy would have his apple to bring to school.  As Johnny Appleseed would say, “Oh, the Lord is good to me and so I thank the Lord for giving me the things I need:  the sun, and the rain, and the apple seed.  Oh, the Lord is good to me.  Amen, amen.  Amen, amen, amen.  Aaaaamen.”

It was one of those moments that you dread as a parent, I had been entrusted to keep a tradition alive and I was failing miserably. It was a few years back and my son Jacob had lost a tooth.  It was my responsibility to find a dollar coin to leave under his pillow.  The only problem was that he lost the tooth right before bedtime and I could not find a single Sacagawea gold dollar around the house.  I could not even locate one of those ugly random presidential gold dollars.  Not even a lousy Rutherford B. Hayes or James K. Polk.  Nothing.

Worried about my failings, as a parent and a Tooth Fairy, I headed out in the car. Of course, no banks were open and every store I entered had no such coins on hand.  As I pulled into the garage, I was out of luck.  Head down and shoulders slumped, only one option remained:  my boxes.  I have some infamous boxes (six or so copy paper size boxes) that have followed Charlene and I around from state-to-state and move-to-move.  They contain random goodies ranging from baseball cards to newspapers from the day that the boys were born.  Once, they even contained random Lawrence Journal World (Lawrence, Kansas) newspapers that were a few years old and at one time intended to read.  Of course, a random newspaper from a few years ago does not hold much value or purpose, so after being mocked by my spouse (deservedly so) they were recycled.  Somehow, these boxes seem to refill themselves and always contain a random assortment of life’s treasures.  These dreaded boxes were my final hope, because I seemed to remember a coin in one of them.

Searching through items such as old baseball score cards and a few college notebooks that contained excellent freehand doodles of Jayhawks, I found it. An Eisenhower Silver Dollar coin tucked in a small manila envelope.  On the envelope, my grandfather, now long since passed away, had written a note, “For David, 1972 dollar coin.”  He had given it to me, when I was young, as a payment for some chore and now it was my ticket out of trouble.  Across time, my grandfather had given me one final gift, the coin so desperately needed by me as a father.  Exchanging the tooth under the pillow, which was under my son’s surprisingly heavy head, for the coin, somehow I had found an appropriate final destination for the dollar, much better than a few more years sitting in a box.

So tonight, as my middle son Sam lost a tooth, I knew right where to head. Over the last year, since my father’s death, my mom has been working to tidy up some of his things.  Among the items were some coins my dad had collected and they now within my boxes.  Looking at the coins, I found the perfect one.  A lone Susan B. Anthony dollar.  Not mint, but still shiny.  A coin a young boy would be happy to stash away in his secret place of treasures.  As I tucked the coin under Sam’s pillow, I smiled.  Once again, I was blessed to share a moment.  A moment with a sleeping son, who would receive a gift from another kind man that we love and miss.  It is within those ethereal thoughts where we are connected with people we love regardless of distance or time.  Thoughts that make a Tooth Fairy smile.

I sat there, so patiently listening to my boys tell me their highs and lows from the school day. Then came 10-year-old Jacob’s turn, “The problem with being popular,” he began.  Oh, I’m so sorry son.  My brain defensively shut down, when I heard you say “problem” and “popular” in the same sentence.  Okay, I’m back in the game, please proceed with your tale of woe.  Troubled young Jacob continued to describe his difficulties, which involved having too many girls want his help on a school project.  Poor, poor Jacob, I will help you, just as soon as I finish the latest chapter in my autobiography, which covers my teen years, “How we formed together as small bands of wandering youth, thereby increasing our chances of believing that we were accepted.”  The end.

Happily sitting at a sports bar chain restaurant, which will go unnamed, but features wings, beer, and sports, I waited for my turn to order. Since I had never frequented this sports bar chain restaurant, I figured I would order some of the wings so prominently featured in the restaurant’s name.  When the waitress came around, I was all set with my order, or so I thought.  Then began a line of questioning that felt more like an interrogation.

Q: “What would you like?”  A:  “Chicken wings, please.”  Yes, I actually said, “please,” which should have gotten me off on the right foot.  Wrong.

Q: “What size order?”  A:  “Small.”  Okay, don’t judge me, I was trying to eat somewhat healthy.

Q: “What dipping sauce?”  A:  “Blue Cheese.”  At this point, wasn’t it obvious that I was a traditionalist, as far as wings are concerned?

Q: “What type of flavor for the wings?”  A:  “Medium.”  The menu described this as the “classic wing sauce.”  Alright, enough already.  Please, leave the table, but wait, one more question.

Q: “Dry rub?”  What?  No, I want a normal everyday chicken wings.  Stop with all of the questions!  Then my mind, numbed by the constant information gathering, blurted out something that made sense to me, but to the rest of the world sounded oh so wrong.  A:  “No, the wet rub.”

Again, what? The “wet rub?”  In some states, I would be arrested for requesting that of a stranger.  Look, all I wanted was a basket of wings, where my fingers would be covered in sauce, when I was finished.  I did not under any circumstances want a “dry rub.”  Although these terms are socially acceptable only between consenting adults in a committed relationship, why was I the guilty party here?  (Well, for one, you are a dope.  How about that?  Now, even my fingers are mocking me, as I type.)

To summarize, what have we learned from this experience? Two things.  First, ordering wings has become way too complicated.  Two, never utter the words “wet rub” and expect to be taken seriously.

Boys, at some point in your youth, you should date an Elsa and an Anna, but never at the same time. Also, if at any time the relationship seems to be frozen, let it go.

My wife strives to stay healthy. This effort takes many forms, including waking up really, really early to exercise at the gym.  Well, much to my pleasant surprise, this morning, my beautiful, talented, and loving wife not only went the gym really early (5AM), but also made some muffins upon her return home, which coincided with my lazy butt rolling out of bed around 6:45AM.

Making some coffee, I joined my boys to eat some of the freshly baked muffins for breakfast, while Charlene showered and got ready for work. As I opened the morning newspaper, my three sons sat at the table and picked apart the muffins.  Their primary concern was that my ultra-healthy wife had prepared zucchini muffins, which they predetermined would not be to their liking.  I scarfed down my muffin, which was rather yummy, but I could not confirm what ingredients they contained.  I had no idea, since I had been sleeping during their preparation.  All I knew was that they were freshly baked, tasty, and there for me to eat.  Why bother arguing under such ideal conditions?

The boys continued to complain about the suspected zucchini content of the muffins and soon went onto less than thrilling breakfast cereal options, abandoning their picked at muffins for me to devour with scavenging delight. If Charlene could make zucchini taste this good, these little boys should be living it up.  Oh well, more for big daddy to enjoy.

Setting down my coffee cup in the kitchen, I encountered Charlene, who was preparing to grab a muffin and finish getting ready for the day. In proud fashion, she asked, “How did the boys like the apple muffins?”  Ha!  They had guessed wrong.  Their ultra-healthy mom had taken a different nutritional route and was serving apples and not the dreaded zucchini.  I was the big winner!  By the way, please keep the lack of zucchini our little secret, at least until I finish off the last apple muffin.

Go ahead, try to spot the zucchini.

“Charlene’s ‘sans Zucchini’ Cheddar-Apple Muffins”

1½ cups Flour

½ cup Cheddar Cheese, shredded

1/3 cup Oats, quick-cooking

2 Tablespoons Sugar

2½ teaspoons Baking Powder

¼ teaspoon Salt

¾ cup Milk

1 Egg, beaten

1/3 cup Vegetable Oil

¾ cup Apple, peeled and chopped

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Grease 12 muffin cups.

Stir together Flour, Cheese, Oats, Sugar, Baking Powder, and Salt with a whisk. Set aside.

In another bowl, stir together the Milk, beaten Egg, and Vegetable Oil.

Make a well in the center of the “Flour mixture.”

Pour the “Milk mixture” into the center of the “Flour mixture.”

Stir until just combined.

Fold in the Apple pieces.

Pour and evenly distribute into the prepared muffin cups.

Bake for 18 minutes or until golden brown.

Place muffin pan on a wire rack.

Put a small slab of butter on the top of each cooling muffin.

Run a spatula around the outside of each muffin to loosen it from the pan.

Wait a bit and remove the muffins to either eat them or let them cool.

Makes 12 muffins.

Revised Source: “Cheddar-Apple Muffins” in Better Homes and Gardens “New Cook Book”

With our dryer broken, I faced a stark reality. There were mounds and mounds of unwashed laundry, I have no choice.  I would need to go to the Laundromat, a world I had gleefully abandoned seventeen long years ago.  When Charlene and I got married, my folks gave us one of the best wedding presents ever, money to purchase a washer and dryer.  It was wonderful the transformation that took place in our lives.  We no longer had any need for the Laundromat, we could do it all at home.  Wash, dry, fluff, fold.  It was all now at our fingertips.  Our lives had changed for the better.  No more coins.  No more tiny boxes of detergent.  No more weekend evenings spent in one of the most unromantic locations possible.  We had forever bid farewell to the Laundromat scene or so we thought.  Marriage bliss was not spelled “honeymoon,” but rather “washer and dryer.”

I rarely gave any thought to the world that I had left behind, but on occasion re-entry was necessary. For instance, eight years ago, we had this big ol’ bed comforter that needed cleaning.  It needed the services of a Laundromat.  After washing the comforter, I placed it in a jumbo dryer and headed back outside to my car to practice answers for a job interview that I had coming up.  As the comforter tumbled dry, I would glance up and rehearse my answers.  Over and over again, I was determined to be prepared (also, I was stuck at the Laundromat waiting for the comforter, so it was good way to pass the time).  Glancing up, I saw something that I hoped was unusual for this location.  There, across the street, standing on his porch in the mid-morning sun was…  a naked man.  No kidding, dude just decided that today was the day that he had had enough of bothersome clothes and he would just stand on his front porch naked.  Irony of ironies, a naked man standing across the street from a building where loads and loads of clothes were being cleaned.  Maybe he had just placed his pants in the washer (I doubt it).  Unsure of how to address this situation, I diverted my eyes and tried not to draw attention to myself.  Funny, the guy who was wearing clothes felt awkward.

After a few minutes, the naked man across the street decided he was tired and lay down on his front porch (still naked) to take a nap. Was the porch wooden?  Splinter danger?  Had the World gone mad?  Could I sneak back into the Laundromat unnoticed?  Fortunately, all of these questions never needed to be answered, as a neighbor soon came over with a blanket and the police arrived to address a violation of Heaven only knows what ordinance.

After that experience, my suspicions were confirmed. I had outgrown Laundromat style excitement, but I also learned that somehow this weird mixture of interview preparation combined with public nudity landed me a job offer.  Coincidence?  Perhaps.  Shocking turn of events?  Certainly.  Not only had I outgrown this type of drama, my family had grown much, much too large for the Laundromat.  Instead of the two machines that Charlene and I used to occupy, now our family dominates a line of seven machines.  An impressive show of Laundromat force.

Contemplating all of the quarters I had just sunk into the machines, enough for a down payment on a new dryer, I glanced at the floor behind the washing machines. There on the floor, in a trench like structure, was gallon upon gallon of soapy water running past.  Sort of the River Styx of my laundry independence.  Divert my eyes, because soon, very soon, our new dryer would arrive, but by no means soon enough.

My three sons have never been a fan of my fingernail cutting technique. Way too close for their liking and every blue moon, I will accidently draw blood.  I believe this technique was developed during their ultra-wiggly years, when you had to make every fingernail cutting moment count.  Plus the shorter I cut ‘em, the longer until they would need cuttin’ again.

The other night, 7-year-old Sam needed his nails cut, preferred not to try it himself, certainly did not want me to help, and logically turned to his second choice of mom. There I sat, rejected, and on the receiving end of many a comment about my bad fingernail cutting skills and the blood I would draw (honest, it was not every time).  Soon 5-year-old Ben joined in on the mockery and I had enough.  With a straight delivery and bitterly deep voice, I said, “I like to watch my kids bleed.”  Unfortunately, my sarcastic defense was soon turned against me, as 5-year-old Ben started to giggle and say, “Dad, likes to watch us bleed.”  Oh dear, not what I like to hear out loud.  Not good.  As is often the case, it looks like my sarcastic remark would have been best left unsaid.  I had better adapt or else the teen years will be especially rough for this sharp tongued daddy, especially when they no longer need me to cut their nails.

This evening, I am going to report on a cookie doubleheader. The first batch of cookies, I prepared for our church’s Sunday School parents, who patiently wait down the hall for class to finish.  I used the “Oatmeal Raisin Cookies” recipe that can be found on page 14 of my cookie cookbook, “Today is a Great Day for a Cookie.”  The cookbook is available for free download at http://cookiesbydave.com/today-is-a-great-day-for-a-cookie-my-original-cookie-cookbook/.  The only change I made (a significant one) was that I substituted ¾ cup semi-sweet chocolate chips and ¾ cup white chocolate chips, in place of the recipe’s 1½ cups of raisins.  I tell you, the wheat germ really gives this cookie a special flavor.  It is also one of my favorite cookies to turn to in a pinch.  Easy to make and yummy, too.

Photo (albeit poor quality photo, because they are yummier than they look here) of “Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies,” using revised “Oatmeal Raisin Cookies” recipe.

The second half of the cookie doubleheader features Molasses Cookies (found on page 33 of my cookie cookbook referenced above). I made this batch for the parents and relatives sitting out in the chilly wind at my son’s baseball doubleheader, this afternoon.  Such a great cookie for the Fall and perfect to make during the long break between a “noon-late-afternoon” doubleheader.  The only change I would recommend to the recipe is reducing the baking time to eight minutes (a correction that I missed in the second edition of the cookbook).

In total, 99 cookies and some fine cookie baking. The only problem, there is not a photo of the Molasses Cookies to accompany this post, but why?  Well, let me tell you, I forgot the photo, but there is a good excuse and cookies came to the rescue.  I was placing the last batch of Molasses Cookies into the oven.  Note (this is very important), I was finished with the cookie preparation, when this occurred, no worries for you the reader or possible cookie consumption party, as the story continues.

As I placed the last batch of cookies in the oven, my 7-year-old son, Sam, emerged from the basement to report that the toilet was overflowing. Oh, goodie, but nothing I could not handle.  I raced to the basement toilet, halted the flow of water, and limited the damage.  In an attempt to quickly clean the mess, I hustled into the storage room to grab some spare bath towels (a.k.a. rag like old bath towels).  The storage room is accessed through the laundry room and in an attempt to multi-multitask (baking cookies, saving basement from toilet flood, and now do laundry), I decided to move a set of bed sheets from the washer to the dryer.  One problem, our dryer, that admittedly is old and admittedly on its last legs, decided to die.  Enter setting, press start.  Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Dead.  Ugh, must march onward.  Racing back with bunches of rag like old bath towels to clean newly formed Lake Toilet, I paid my last respects to the recently deceased dryer.  We had a good run together.  I had stretched out its life, as long as possible.

Mopping up the yucky water and getting the toilet operational once again, I washed, washed, and rewashed my hands (very important to note and easy any concerns). Bounding upstairs, I found a few seconds left on the oven timer and soon I was greeted by Molasses Cookies fresh from the oven.  It truly is amazing, how a day-gone-to-Hell-in-an-instance can be turned around by tasty cookie goodness.  All I forgot was the photo.  Oh well, in the grand scheme of things, the photo ended up being a minor concern.  So, I leave you this Sunday evening, with this simple blessing, “May all of the challenges you face today be met with a freshly baked cookie in your hand and a smile on your face.”  With a slight bow and hands pressed together, I say “Namas-tase-tay” (translation, “I bow to the divine smelling cookie in your hand”).

During my junior college days, I worked in the mailroom of the Battle Creek Equipment Company. Thinking of that job brings back fond memories of should-have-been carefree days, which were instead sprinkled with needless school related anxiety (really, if I had ever finished a paper more than ten minutes before it was due, my stress levels would have been greatly reduced).  I used to help distribute mail and cleaned the offices.  Pretty straight forward part-time work.  Plus, whenever I cleaned one particular office, the occupant would say, “Dave, you’re a star.”  I really liked this and later tried to replicate it at a job, where my direct reports absolutely hated it and asked me to stop.  Oh well, apparently “you’re a star” is not a universal compliment.  Who knew?

As a part-time college kid, I kind of floated around, oblivious to the rest of the company’s functions, however one day an invitation was extended. An offer to become part of the larger community.  An entryway into adulthood.  I was invited to the “Holiday Employee Lunchtime Potluck” (or some similarly named event).  When the big day arrived, I gleefully prepared a crockpot full of sweet and sour meatballs (most likely with the help of my mom, although I don’t remember how the meatballs magically appeared in the crockpot) and headed out the door to join my co-workers, while carrying my mom’s crockpot.  It was early Winter in Michigan and a particularly cold day.  I walked oh so carefully to my car, so as not to spill any of the precious meatballs, which would be my ticket to potluck goodness and fellow employee acceptance.  Placing the crockpot full of meatballs on the floor of the backseat, I carefully drove to work.  Turning into the parking lot, I felt the car swing a bit.  Not much, but just enough.  Just enough for the crockpot full of hot meatballs to tumble over.  As if that was not tragic enough, I also heard a “pop,” a horrible “pop,” which I soon discovered was the sound of the scalding hot glass lid of the crockpot shattering upon impact with the still very cold floor of my baby blue 1983 4-door Ford Escort hatchback.  The scene was tragic with gooey meatballs and shattered glass slathered across the baby blue carpeting.

Good thing I helped clean the offices, because I knew right where to find rags, which would help dispose of the steaming hot ill-fated potluck contribution. Unfortunately, no amount of scrubbing and air freshener would ever be able to remove the light brown stain from the matted semi-frozen baby blue floorboard.  Days would pass and other jobs would be pursued, but on certain early Winter days, when the temperature was just right and the sun angled through the rear windows of my Escort, the smell of sweet and sour meatballs would fill the car.  The smell of humiliation floating from the backseat.

A young version of myself celebrating a moment of triumph on top of my beloved baby blue Ford Escort.