Today was my turn to clean the office coffee pot.  I composted the coffee grounds, rinsed out the pot, went to dry out the inside with paper towel, and…  I was stuck.  Panic washed over me, as my big mitt was stuck deep in the pot.

I pulled, nothing.  I took a deep breath, nothing.  I cried softly, nothing.

Then dread washed over me.  The coffee pot was so precious to the office, they would need to cut off my hand.  Obviously the only option, because harming the dear pot would be out of the question.  The coffee pot was a provider and I was a taker.  I knew where I stood and it was not good.

Fearing the worst caused my blood to cool and amazingly my hand shrunk just enough to pop out.  I was free, but the terror remained etched in my soul.  Careful in cleaning the coffee pot, because they aren’t just for your pleasure.  Oh, no.  Sacred vessels come with both risks and rewards.

This evening, our 7th Grader Jacob approached Charlene and me for some homework assistance.  “Do we have any books of poetry?  I need one to bring in as an example for my Language Arts class.”

As Charlene pondered a question as challenging as the Kobayashi Maru, my mind jumped into warp drive.  The answer would require nothing as challenging as a Mind Meld.  I raced to the bookshelf, well outside of the Neutral Zone.  All of the universe seemed to align.

I proudly turned around and presented my prize, Leonard Nimoy’s book of poetry, “Warmed by Love.”

My dear son looked confused.  My wife looked fearful.  I looked giddy.

Charlene redirected the conversation back to the question, “I’m sure we have another book of poetry.”

Humph.  Alright, if my family is going to be that way.  “How about the Book of Psalms?  That’s poetry,” I reluctantly offered as an alternative.

If it’s not going to be Vulcan, at least it can be the Word of God.  I guess I can live with that.

Eggnog Madelines

“Tormented by your leftover Holiday eggnog?  Well, finish off that pesky Christmas drink in mid-January style with these delicious cakey breakfast cookies.  Just the way to start your MLK Holiday.  Enjoy!”

3/8 cup Butter

3/4 cup Sugar

1 Egg

1/4 teaspoon Vanilla Extract

1/3 cup Eggnog (preferably leftover from the Holidays)

1 cup Flour

1/4 teaspoon Baking Soda

1/4 teaspoon Salt

1/4 teaspoon Nutmeg

OPTIONAL TOPPING INGREDIENTS

2 Tablespoons Eggnog

1/2 cup Powered Sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Cream the butter and sugar.

Mix in the egg, vanilla extract, and eggnog.

Mix in the flour, baking soda, salt, and nutmeg.

Drop by teaspoons into a madeline pan that has been greased with butter and dusted with flour.

Bake for 12 minutes or until the edges are lightly brown.

Remove from the pan and cool on a wire rack.

After fully cooled and If desired, drizzle with the eggnog and powdered sugar.

Makes about 20 madelines.

Revised Source:  “Eggnog Madeleines” recipe on cookiesonfriday.blogspot.com.

You’ve been warned.  This is shocking.  Prepare yourself.  Here it comes.  Get ready.  Egad!  This is it…

A clementine with a mouth!

Now that you’ve seen everything, sleep well.  Goodnight (assuming that you will ever be able to sleep again).  Sorry about that.

Standing in my bathrobe and staring at my dresser, I contemplated what I should wear for the day.  My wife scurried around in my proximity, as she got ready for the day on her parallel path.

I opened the top drawer and I suddenly realized the clothing that would make everything right.  There was a new pair of boxer briefs that I had recently purchased.  Fresh.  Navy blue.  Never worn.  Just the thing to jazz up my day.

I smiled with satisfaction, knowing that I had just made myself happy with the simplest of life’s finds.  That’s when I shared my revelation with my wife, “I am going to wear a new pair of underwear today!”

A bit taken back, my wife expressed a suspicious concern, “You should wear a new pair of underwear everyday.”

Uh, yeah.  That’s right.  I do.  Oh, never mind.

Sitting at dinner, we all patiently listened to 8-year-old Ben finish relaying a tale from school.  At the end of Ben’s monologue, Ben’s fourth grade older brother Sam let out a subtle sigh and transitioned to a new topic, “Any who…”

Wait a second!  My son used the term “any who,” as a conversational bridge.  Only 98-year-old men and me use the term “any who.”  I thought that I was the last of a dying breed, “The Secret Brotherhood of the Men Who Say ‘Any Who.'”  Sure, it’s a strange way to say “any how,” but it fits me and I like it, so there.

Any who, my son said “any who” tonight and the term carries on.  Linguists, I am so so sorry.

Hearing the discussion at work, I thought I could easily summarize the meeting.  Grabbing the back of a file folder, I went to work on a visual.

“You see it’s like an iceberg.  You have the 10% of crucial project elements at the top.”

Nods of agreement around the table.

“Then you have 90% of the elements that make sense for project expansion.”

More nods.  Go Dave, you’ve got this!

“And at the bottom, you have 10% of the features that don’t fit into the project.”

Confused looks, as I summarized.

“And that gives us (pause) 110%.”

Oops.  You see the extra 10% is for you, because this has been such a great meeting.

Nice try Dave, but it certainly is a fine iceberg drawing.  No arguing with that point.

After going to the gym with my 13-year-old son Jacob, we were debriefing with the family around the dinner table.  Oh, the epic tales of weights and cardio filled the air.  Soon however the conversation turned to the inevitable topic of my age.  My age and my crumbling body.  My age and how I have trouble keeping up.  Then Jacob unknowingly ventured into verbally dangerous territory.

My young teen described the situation as follows, “I was getting so far ahead of dad.  Between weights and push ups, he needed to take breaks.  I was almost done with my push ups, before he even started.”

That’s when I pulled back the curtain and revealed the ugly truth.  “Well, I needed to take breaks before push ups, because I needed to pull up my shorts.  If I had gone right into push ups, I would have had a plumber’s butt, right there in the middle of the gym.”

Did that burn your mind’s eye?  Sorry son, there are some things that you just can’t unsee, even when it’s only in your imagination.

When I drive with my teenage son Jacob, I usually allow him to control the radio.  His choices are usually pretty good and surfing the radio makes him happy.  Sure we have our disagreements, but usually he tries to find a song that we will both enjoy.  Overall, it is a model power sharing arrangement.

Tonight, young Jacob was flummoxed.  He was truly having trouble finding a “good” song on the radio.  Finally, he settled on a song and declared it “okay.”  He would wait it out.

Listening to the song, I had to agree.  It was “okay.”  Not good.  Not bad.  I did however find myself beginning to enjoy the chorus.  Turning up the radio louder than I should, I began to sing along.  Sing along louder than I should.

“A-A
O-O
E-E
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh
A-A
O-O
E-E
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh”

Note, these really are the lyrics.  I kid you not.  Poor Capital Cities has done better.  Think “Safe and Sound.”  This song however, entitled “Vowels,” was indeed just “okay.”

I however felt that I was really nailing it.  I dare say that I could belt out vowels in the car with the best of them.  Hold me back or I just may start singing “Old MacDonald.”

Having fun and feeling somewhat proud to be making something fun from the song, I turned to my son.  He was not singing.  He  was looking straight ahead.  Not a look of suffering, although I could understand someone mistaking it for that.  No, this was disdain.  Pure and simple teen disdain.

I had moved the needle from “okay” to “disdain.”  The work of a teenager’s father, well done.

As my 8-year-old son Ben and I prepared to cross the parking lot, I could see that the oncoming car was slowing for us.  Sensing Ben’s hesitancy, I encouraged him to cross with me.

Upon safely reaching the sidewalk, I turned to him and said with a grin, “See how I put you inbetween me and the car?  That’s so I will live to tell your story.” Pausing for a second, Ben suddenly broke into a wide smile.  My boy gets me, questionable sense of humor and all.