Driving home, I asked our boys where they would like to live, when they are older.  Without hesitation, my 6th Grader Sam replied, “In a mansion on the Moon.”

We looked puzzled, which provided Sam with an opportunity to launch into a 30 minute dialog about what he would like to accomplish.

– Amend the Constitution and become President, before turning 20-years-old.

– Solve Global Warming.

– End World Hunger

and my favorite…

– Gather a sufficient number of asteroids and create a Second Earth.

Then he was going to follow it up by writing a book, “How to Earn Trillions of Dollars and be Awesome like Me.”

Just a word of advice, son.  With an imagination like that, start with the book.

 

Time for a Summer highlight or was it a low light?  Debatable.  Feel free to make the call.

You see, Charlene and I have been taking boxing classes for over a year.  No one ever hits back.  It’s just us hitting punching bags and getting a nice workout.  Well, Charlene seemed to be enjoying it, so I had purchased a punching bag for her, as part of a birthday gift, and we set it up in the garage.

“Wait!,” you are saying.  “You purchased your wife a punching bag?  For her birthday?  She should have punched you for being so stupid.”. Hey, I got her other nice stuff, too.  So back off and please let me finish.

Considering that I was also taking the class, I was allowed to use her gift and every now and then I would let off some steam in the early morning and knock the bag around.

Me with Charlene’s punching bag, during a peaceful moment.

So you know that feeling you get when you hit a golf ball perfectly?  Or that feeling when you hit a baseball just right?  There is a certain sound.  A “pop” and a nice fluid movement throughout.  Then there is the satisfaction.  A powerful feeling of knowing that you really connected.  Well, I had started a workout with the punching bag in the garage.  I was going through a routine, when I landed a solid left hook.  I mean it was perfect.  The “pop” was there.  The contact was solid.  It was beautiful.  I wanted that feeling again and I formed a quick plan.  I would follow with a right hook and then land another perfect left.  It was going to feel great.  It was going to be epic.

Turns out that it was never going to be.  I reared back and unleashed my right hook and “snap!”  The bag drooped over to the left.  The post had been cracked in two.  Now, I had previously been accused of breaking a punching bag at the YMCA.  I had claimed innocence.  My theory being that these bags are built for humans a lot stronger than me.  It would be impossible for me to break such a bag.  Well, I guess I was wrong.  I guess I was now to blame for two snapped bags.  I guess I should either register my arms as weapons or turn myself in as stupid.  Probably both, but most likely the later.

I gently set the busted pieces of Charlene’s former birthday present on the garage floor and hurried to my smartphone.  Before the hour was out, I had ordered a replacement part for $20.  It would arrive in a few days.  I just needed to make it a few days without Charlene noticing my path of destruction and all would be fine.  No harm, no foul.  The bag certainly was not going to talk.  It knew what I could do to it.  It was scared.  It should be.

So the next day, I was loading the family into the car to head for church and one of my children asks, “What’s wrong with the punching bag?”  Damn it!  I had been thrown under the bus by my own devilish little spawn.  Busted not even 24 hours after my crime.  A sin of being a beast.  A sin of not knowing my own power.  Okay, there were a few sins of exaggeration there.  Really, it was a sin of breaking my wife’s birthday present.  Now, that’s a deadly sin, if there ever was one.

 

Jødekager

a.k.a. Beer Cookies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“When my friend at work, Michele, told me about an old recipe card she had discovered, I could hardly believe my ears.  The family recipe combined beer and cookies in a wonderful blend.  I was convinced that I had been delivered a road map to Heaven.  Thin and crispy, with a magical hints of lemon and beer, this treat tastes like a cookie that has been kissed by angels.  Try one and you too will believe.  Enjoy!”

PS – What’s not to like about a cookie that features beer, has Danish roots, and includes this wild letter ø?  Nothing, that’s correct.  It’s all good, buddy.  Certainly good enough for a postscript.

1/2 cup Butter

1/2 cup Sugar

1/2 teaspoon Lemon Extract

1 Tablespoon Beer (I prefer Lakemaid Beer, my favorite lager.  Plus, it reminds me of Summer and the mermaids that live in Minnesota’s lakes, also a magical pairing)

1 cup Flour

1/2 teaspoon Cream of Tartar (I just like saying the word, “tartar.” It sounds very fancy, especially when you say it with a fake French accent.)

1 Egg White

Sugar for sprinkling

 

Cream the butter and 1/2 cup sugar.

Mix in the lemon extract and Lakemaid Beer (You can use another lager, but you’ll be missing out.)

Mix in the flour and Cream of Tartar (Sounds like Tartar is a wondrous land and the cream is its mysterious elixir.)

Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and cool in the refrigerator for two hours.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Roll dough thin (about 1/8th inch thick) and cut into circles using a two inch diameter biscuit cutter.

Brush on egg whites.

Sprinkle with sugar.

Place on parchment paper lined baking sheets.

Bake for 8 minutes or until lightly browned.  Keep a close eye on these bad boys.  They are thin cookies and will burn easy.

 

Makes about 36 cookies.

Revised Source: one of the most talented bakers that I know, my friend, Michele Hoeschen.

 

 

Walking through the kitchen, I eyed the dinner Charlene was fixin’ (note, the cheap sorta rhyme there).  There was some rice with meatballs and some kind of topping, which included sesame seeds.  It looked yummy.  I continued on my way.

The family gobbled up the tasty dinner and settled in front of the television for a show.  It had been a good night.  I stretched and ran my fingers through my hair.

That’s when I noticed something out of place.  Something that didn’t feel right.  There was something in my hair.  Something small and rock-like.  Also kind of wet.  It startled me.  It disgusted me.  It made me jump into action.

I headed straight for the bathroom.  I managed to pull the intruder from my hair.  I looked.  A sesame seed.  Now, why was that up there?  I’m not in the habit of rolling my head around on my plate.  I don’t have an intimate relationship with my food.  It must have been a rebel sesame seed.  A rough.

Consider yourself warned.  Either those sesame seeds can jump or I use the strangest of hair gels.

 

I workout during my lunch hour.  I know, I know, “How do you do it, Dave?” Well, truth be told, I am a Lunchtime Workout Unicorn.  There, now you know the truth.

Don’t get me wrong, being a Lunchtime Workout Unicorn has its disadvantages.  You need to scarf down your lunch in your cube.  You also get sweaty.  So sweaty that you need to shower before returning to work.  Today, that shower involved a lot of suspense.  Yep, edge of your seat level suspense.

As I hobbled to the shower (being a Lunchtime Workout Unicorn makes you sore), I heard water running.  Ah, another unicorn was taking a shower.  All well and good, but which of the six showers was occupied?  I could not tell.  I did not see feet.  I did not see water splashing down.  I could not tell for certain which shower was making the noise.  My heart raced.  I would need to guess.

I picked the middle.  Odds are that other unicorn went to one side or the other.  I reached for the handle.  I hesitated.  A giggling handle would be creepy.  I reached for the top of the door instead.  I should have hesitated, because a hand grasping the top of a door is probably more creepy.  I took my chance.  I pushed.

The door flung open and…  the shower was empty.  This unicorn had survived another lunchtime at the gym.

I am glad I did not see that other unicorn.  For lots of reasons, I am glad about that.  Most of all however is that we unicorns like to be unique.  Oh, how sighting another would remove that shine.  I survived another day.  Another day of being special.  Another day being a Lunchtime Workout Unicorn.

 

I was feeling pretty slick.  I got something done at work.  I helped the kids with their homework.  I baked some zucchini bread.  Pretty slick, indeed.

Settling down to watch Netflix, I was shocked to find that it listed me as a 95% match for “Mamma Mia!” What?!? 95%?!?

Then I find out that my wife is more of a “Pierce Brosnan” girl than a “Colin Firth” girl.  Really?!?  I had always fancied myself more like Firth.

Giving it a try, I kind of enjoyed the lighthearted ABBA romp.  Dear God, it was no longer 95%, I had gone to 100%.

The day was going so well, then came Netflix.  My Waterloo?!?

 

Mark it down, folks.  9:17 pm, September 3rd (First Day of School Eve).  The first official “Forgotten Homework Save” of the year.

Assignment (should you choose to accept it): Bring in a photo of yourself.

 

Fourth Grader Ben at the State Fair

Nice selection, Ben.  Now, let’s aim for a sub-9pm time.  That is all.  Goodnight.

 

 

 

It was all going so well.  We were at the Minnesota State Fair.  I was taking photos.  Some were really good.  I was on fire.  Well, as much as a dad can be “on fire.”

Any who, we arrived at the MPR (Minnesota Public Radio, geesh) booth.  Long story short, recently there was a raccoon that climbed a building across from MPR headquarters.  Everyone fell in love with the raccoon.  The raccoon survived.  Now, the “MPR Raccoon” is a thing.  Well, the MPR booth had a fun MPR Raccoon display.  Needless to say, I geeked out and wanted a picture with the display.  That’s when this happened…

Yes!  Complete belly exposure.  Not ab in sight.  Ugh.  It was all going so well…

#WatchWhereYouPoint

#RaccoonRaccoonsCanBeBashfulToo

#SPAM #ItIsAMinnesotaThing

#DoesHeWearThatShirtForAllOutings #Yes

 

Really?  What kind of man am I to judge my new friend’s facial hair and dress?

May life bring you joy.  As much joy as a 9-year-old who gets the final piece of grocery store free sample cheese.  Now, that’s joy, dairy style.