Another year done, and another year older. I get to say that because December 31 is my birthday. My dad refers to me as the ultimate tax deduction which makes my brother who was born on January 7 something close to the Anti-Christ, or a commie tax-raising deficit-spending liberal. (Same things actually. Or so I’ve heard.)
But I digress. For the first time I feel every creak, twinge, and pang of my age. There’s the chronic shoulder/back pain, the nagging toothache from a botched root canal, and the shrieks of protest from my knees as I negotiate the stairs in our house. (Hey, it’s my birthday, I get to complain all I want.) Yes, these can all be cured by going to a doctor and dentist and getting off my butt and perhaps doing some manual labor. But I’d rather just complain about it.
2009 is a year that St. Pauli Girl and I are excited about forgetting. And we have enough wine and liquor in the house to make us forget as we traverse into the new year this evening. We like to play a game: “What Will We Be Doing in Five Years?” That game is immediately followed by “Five Years Ago, Could We Have Ever Imagined Where We Are Now?” And the latter game always makes me wonder why we play the former. It’s mind boggling, the changes that can happen in five years--let alone sometimes in just one year. Yet, highly trained journalists can sum it up in top ten lists.
On January 1, 2009, I sat on a dock on a lake in 75 degree weather bragging to my brother on the phone. I remember thinking that life is good. I also remember thinking, “We’ll close the restaurant next year on January 1 because everyone stays home and watches football.” Turns out I don’t have to worry about that. And so I sit in a ridiculously cold house today, aching for spring because I’m now an old weenie who can’t handle 40 degree weather. Is life good? Our dog sleeping soundly out in the sun seems to think so.
But I am lucky. I’ve never much cared about my birthday (if you wanna toast or blame someone, toast or blame my parents!) But St. Pauli Girl does and tonight I will enjoy an amazing home-cooked feast of homemade bread, a sweetbreads appetizer, smoked prime rib, hand-rolled gnocchi, and a chocolate chip cookie stack with homemade ice cream (Hey it’s my birthday, I can have whatever I want!). Then we have promised ourselves we will actually stay up until midnight this year and pop the champagne that will wash away 2009. We hope we can stay up that late. Four months ago, we went to bed after midnight every night, but now by the time midnight rolls around, we’ve been snoring for hours. Perhaps we’ll pretend we live in New Brunswick and celebrate the new year at 10:00 p.m. local time.
St. Pauli Girl and I came up with our own little saying that I can’t exactly share here, but it essentially means that life is what you make of it. Or, the best things in life are free. And so tonight we will live the life we want with good food, good drink, and good times. 2009 is gone, the future is ours, and we know from experience that it will be full of odd twists and turns, heartache, and a lot of love and laughter. My body may have odd creaks and groans but no one has it as good as I do. (Well, I used to think Tiger Woods may have it better than me, but you know . . . .)
So to paraphrase REM: It’s the end of the year as we know it … and we feel fine.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Cool Hand Leach
Today we’re going to drop in on Texas Tech football practice and see how things are going:
The players, dressed in identical uniforms, come through the chain link fence to the practice field. The assistant coaches order them to count off. Each player shouts loud enough for the coaches to hear, until all 105 have counted off. The head coach rises from his rocking chair on the porch just outside the field. An assistant coach calls out to him, “105, zero in the box, one transfer. All 106 accounted for.”
Nodding, the head coach comes out in front of the players who are now lined up in several rows on the field. “James, step forward,” he yells.
Two assistant coaches escort James from the ranks toward a small wooden building the size of an outhouse. Behind a short wall, James removes his uniform and puts on a flannel dress.
The head coach addresses the team. “When a man’s head ain’t right, he gets a little rabbit in him. It’s my job to set his head straight.” He nods toward the coaches, who lock James into the small box.
The rest of the players break down and split into their various position units. The offensive linemen go through drills to get loose and practice their basic footwork. A big powerful lineman yells out, “Takin’ it off here, boss.”
“Take it off, Luke,” the coach responds.
The lineman takes off his shirt, his hard sweaty body glistening in the hot sun. Further down, a thin wide receiver who’s been standing around juggling footballs says, “Takin’ it off here, boss.”
The assistant coach just stares him down and slowly shakes his head. The head coach catches the assistant’s eye and makes a slashing gesture across his throat.
“Taylor, step out,” the assistant barks at the juggling receiver. He escorts Taylor toward the sand pit where the receivers practice their footwork. He pushes Taylor face first into the sand. Another assistant throws a shovel in the sand next to Taylor.
“Son, why is your sand in Boss Leach’s sandpit?”
Taylor just looks at him, confused.
The assistant kicks the shovel up against Taylor. “Get your sand out of Boss Leach’s sandpit.”
Taylor stands up and begins to shovel the sand out of the sandpit.
Further down the field, the defensive and offensive linemen are squaring off against each other one-on-one. A huge chiseled fifth-year senior goes against an underdeveloped freshman. The freshman comes charging in and the senior drops him to the ground with a forearm to the head. The freshman gives his head a shake, gets to his feet, and charges again. With beefy paws, the senior picks him up by the shoulders and holds him up for a second. “Stay down,” he whispers to the kid before throwing him back into the crowd of linemen. The linemen try to hold the kid down but the kid shakes them off and busts through toward the senior again. This time the senior lowers his shoulder into the gut of the freshman who gasps and hunches over. The senior lifts him over his shoulder and carries him to the side of the practice field.
Back at the sandpit, Taylor leans on his shovel after successfully removing all of the sand from the pit. An assistant coach walks up. “Why you got your sand on my practice field?”
Taylor stares at him. “Well, I had to get it out of--”
“Shut your mouth, boy! Get your sand off my practice field. Now!”
Taylor obediently starts shoveling the sand back into the sandpit.
On the other side of the field, Boss Leach watches the offense go through its game plan. On one play, a receiver streaks straight down the field. The quarterback steps back and launches a long heave just as the receiver stops and breaks toward the sideline. The ball falls easily into the hands of a defensive safety who returns it for a touchdown. Boss Leach throws down his clipboard, saunters over to the receiver, and stares at the receiver through sunglasses. “Son, what we have here is a failure to communicate. I said X-Down-Go, not X-Up-Stop!”
Back at the sandpit, an exhausted Taylor continues to shovel the sand back into the pit. A coach approaches. “Taylor, I thought I told you to get your sand out of Boss Leach’s sandpit?”
“But, but--Boss Sadler said not to put it on his field.”
“I don’t care. Get your sand out of Boss Leach’s pit.”
Taylor drops to the ground and starts crying. “I want to move my sand, just tell me where. I can’t take it. I’ll do anything you want. Just let me be. I’ll take care of the hounds if you want me to. You’ll see, I’ll be the best, most obedient football player you’ve ever seen. Please, please just let me be.”
The assistant sighs. “Hit the showers, Taylor.”
A garbage can is banged loudly from the side of the field. Boss Leach tells the players to bring it on in. Once again, they count off as they go through the fence toward the locker room. After they are through, the assistant yells to Boss Leach, “104, one in the box, one transfer. All 106 accounted for.”
Boss Leach sits in his rocking chair and sips a glass of iced tea. He points toward the box then pushes up the edge of his hat with his glass. An assistant lets James out of the box.
Back in the locker room, the players quickly shower and head toward the chow hall. En route, a player is overheard saying, “I swear I can eat 50 eggs in an hour.”
The players, dressed in identical uniforms, come through the chain link fence to the practice field. The assistant coaches order them to count off. Each player shouts loud enough for the coaches to hear, until all 105 have counted off. The head coach rises from his rocking chair on the porch just outside the field. An assistant coach calls out to him, “105, zero in the box, one transfer. All 106 accounted for.”
Nodding, the head coach comes out in front of the players who are now lined up in several rows on the field. “James, step forward,” he yells.
Two assistant coaches escort James from the ranks toward a small wooden building the size of an outhouse. Behind a short wall, James removes his uniform and puts on a flannel dress.
The head coach addresses the team. “When a man’s head ain’t right, he gets a little rabbit in him. It’s my job to set his head straight.” He nods toward the coaches, who lock James into the small box.
The rest of the players break down and split into their various position units. The offensive linemen go through drills to get loose and practice their basic footwork. A big powerful lineman yells out, “Takin’ it off here, boss.”
“Take it off, Luke,” the coach responds.
The lineman takes off his shirt, his hard sweaty body glistening in the hot sun. Further down, a thin wide receiver who’s been standing around juggling footballs says, “Takin’ it off here, boss.”
The assistant coach just stares him down and slowly shakes his head. The head coach catches the assistant’s eye and makes a slashing gesture across his throat.
“Taylor, step out,” the assistant barks at the juggling receiver. He escorts Taylor toward the sand pit where the receivers practice their footwork. He pushes Taylor face first into the sand. Another assistant throws a shovel in the sand next to Taylor.
“Son, why is your sand in Boss Leach’s sandpit?”
Taylor just looks at him, confused.
The assistant kicks the shovel up against Taylor. “Get your sand out of Boss Leach’s sandpit.”
Taylor stands up and begins to shovel the sand out of the sandpit.
Further down the field, the defensive and offensive linemen are squaring off against each other one-on-one. A huge chiseled fifth-year senior goes against an underdeveloped freshman. The freshman comes charging in and the senior drops him to the ground with a forearm to the head. The freshman gives his head a shake, gets to his feet, and charges again. With beefy paws, the senior picks him up by the shoulders and holds him up for a second. “Stay down,” he whispers to the kid before throwing him back into the crowd of linemen. The linemen try to hold the kid down but the kid shakes them off and busts through toward the senior again. This time the senior lowers his shoulder into the gut of the freshman who gasps and hunches over. The senior lifts him over his shoulder and carries him to the side of the practice field.
Back at the sandpit, Taylor leans on his shovel after successfully removing all of the sand from the pit. An assistant coach walks up. “Why you got your sand on my practice field?”
Taylor stares at him. “Well, I had to get it out of--”
“Shut your mouth, boy! Get your sand off my practice field. Now!”
Taylor obediently starts shoveling the sand back into the sandpit.
On the other side of the field, Boss Leach watches the offense go through its game plan. On one play, a receiver streaks straight down the field. The quarterback steps back and launches a long heave just as the receiver stops and breaks toward the sideline. The ball falls easily into the hands of a defensive safety who returns it for a touchdown. Boss Leach throws down his clipboard, saunters over to the receiver, and stares at the receiver through sunglasses. “Son, what we have here is a failure to communicate. I said X-Down-Go, not X-Up-Stop!”
Back at the sandpit, an exhausted Taylor continues to shovel the sand back into the pit. A coach approaches. “Taylor, I thought I told you to get your sand out of Boss Leach’s sandpit?”
“But, but--Boss Sadler said not to put it on his field.”
“I don’t care. Get your sand out of Boss Leach’s pit.”
Taylor drops to the ground and starts crying. “I want to move my sand, just tell me where. I can’t take it. I’ll do anything you want. Just let me be. I’ll take care of the hounds if you want me to. You’ll see, I’ll be the best, most obedient football player you’ve ever seen. Please, please just let me be.”
The assistant sighs. “Hit the showers, Taylor.”
A garbage can is banged loudly from the side of the field. Boss Leach tells the players to bring it on in. Once again, they count off as they go through the fence toward the locker room. After they are through, the assistant yells to Boss Leach, “104, one in the box, one transfer. All 106 accounted for.”
Boss Leach sits in his rocking chair and sips a glass of iced tea. He points toward the box then pushes up the edge of his hat with his glass. An assistant lets James out of the box.
Back in the locker room, the players quickly shower and head toward the chow hall. En route, a player is overheard saying, “I swear I can eat 50 eggs in an hour.”
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Obligatory Christmas Blog
I admit I like Christmas. Not in the sense of running down the stairs and tearing open presents, or wassailing, or listening to Vic Damone Christmas carols, or presenting little black fur-covered boxes of jewelry to St. Pauli Girl while trying to stand on ice skates. (St. Pauli Girl will definitely attest to that last statement.) Rather, much like the pagans of yesteryear, I’m a big believer in celebrating the winter solstice, that joyous shortest day of the year when you realize that the following day, the days start getting longer and warm weather is just around the corner. Which is true if you live in central Texas or south Florida. The preparation for Christmas takes your mind off the colder, shorter days for about 4 to 5 weeks. Or three months, if you follow the retail stores Christmas campaigns.
So today, just like the “Twelve Days of Christmas” song, I offer twelve tips/suggestions for the better enjoyment of Christmas:
1. When you create your Christmas wish list, only list things that can be ordered online. I’m not going near a mall from mid-November through late January. (Or January through December, for that matter.) If I can’t order your gift online, consider yourself on Santa’s naughty list—i.e., no presents for you.
2. Keep decorating to a minimum. Convince your wife that it’s okay to leave those unsightly hooks over the gutters year-round. Better yet, put your house on the market during the holidays so you don’t have to decorate at all.
3. I’m sure “The Twelve Days of Christmas” was a very nice and pertinent song when it was written in what must have been about 1754. But enough already! Nobody wants those gifts! (With the possible exception of days 8 through 10.) Nobody even knows what Twelve Days of Christmas means! Nobody wants to hear a new version with a humorous modern take! The song was officially wrung out after the Bob and Doug McKenzie version from the 80’s. Listening to this song is the equivalent of listening to “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” six times a day for six weeks. So please: write to your congressman to have this song removed from the Christmas song repertoire.
4. Make shopping fun! Here’s what I do: I enjoy watching drivers inch their cars through the parking lot looking for the absolute closest parking spot, so I like to slowly—slowly—push my cart as a car follows me. Then when I stop at a car in a great spot and pretend it’s mine—and the driver turns on his blinker to claim it—I slap my forehead, turn, and snake my cart between cars to the next row. I usually get a one-finger wave at that point. Sometimes a new hopeful driver will follow me in Row 2. So I get to my actual car and slowly—slowly—unload the cart. I close the trunk. I notice the driver’s face light up as she gets ready to claim my spot. But first, I must return my cart to the cart corral. S-l-o-w-l-y. This driver gets angry, slams on her horn, and squeals her tires trying to get to another spot. Very amusing. A Christmas treat, if you will.
5. Like most kids, I never wanted clothes for Christmas. There was nothing more deflating than squeezing a package and realizing it was a shirt. But times change. Now I only want clothes, and golf balls. That’s it. A.) I hate shopping for clothes myself and B.) I’m terribly unfashionable. If I don’t have color-coordinated Garranimals outfits, I need St. Pauli Girl to help me dress. C.) I always need golf balls. Because, like beer, you never really own golf balls, you just rent them.
6. The Leon Redbone/Zooey Deschanel version of “Baby It’s Cold Outside” should also be banned from the radio. At best this song is about a guy trying to seduce a woman. At worst, he’s slipping a mickey into her drink as a prelude to date rape. The Leon Redbone version really scrapes the bottom of the barrel: it sounds like a drunken 65-year-old uncle cornering a teenage great-niece in the kitchen during a family Christmas gathering.
7. Savor the magical moments. Like this one: During the holidays, St. Pauli Girl has the radio playing nothing but Christmas songs all day. One time, when the Chipmunks Christmas song came on, I brushed past St. Pauli Girl as we both sang in our best helium voices, “Me, I want a hula hoop.” Hooooo-lah hooop. Together, in perfect Chipmunk harmony. Priceless.
8. Always keep a set of battery-operated light-up antlers around for pets and unsuspecting relatives. It goes without saying to keep the camera handy as well.
9. The “Little Drummer Boy” is another pox on the holidays. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard every time I hear an adult sing, “Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.”
10. Anyone on a diet should be granted a brief moratorium during the holidays. Short, cold days are bad enough without subjecting yourself to rice cakes and raw broccoli while others are noshing cookies and fudge and guzzling eggnog.
11. When in doubt, go to Las Vegas, the happiest place on earth. During the holidays, the hotels are cheap and the gaming tables are always welcoming and uncrowded. Nothing screams “Merry Christmas!” like ringing slot machines, saying “hit me!” to the blackjack dealer, or throwing a seven the hard way.
12. And finally: women everywhere should wear only sexy Santa outfits during the month of December. (Hey, everyone’s allowed one Christmas wish, right?)
So today, just like the “Twelve Days of Christmas” song, I offer twelve tips/suggestions for the better enjoyment of Christmas:
1. When you create your Christmas wish list, only list things that can be ordered online. I’m not going near a mall from mid-November through late January. (Or January through December, for that matter.) If I can’t order your gift online, consider yourself on Santa’s naughty list—i.e., no presents for you.
2. Keep decorating to a minimum. Convince your wife that it’s okay to leave those unsightly hooks over the gutters year-round. Better yet, put your house on the market during the holidays so you don’t have to decorate at all.
3. I’m sure “The Twelve Days of Christmas” was a very nice and pertinent song when it was written in what must have been about 1754. But enough already! Nobody wants those gifts! (With the possible exception of days 8 through 10.) Nobody even knows what Twelve Days of Christmas means! Nobody wants to hear a new version with a humorous modern take! The song was officially wrung out after the Bob and Doug McKenzie version from the 80’s. Listening to this song is the equivalent of listening to “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” six times a day for six weeks. So please: write to your congressman to have this song removed from the Christmas song repertoire.
4. Make shopping fun! Here’s what I do: I enjoy watching drivers inch their cars through the parking lot looking for the absolute closest parking spot, so I like to slowly—slowly—push my cart as a car follows me. Then when I stop at a car in a great spot and pretend it’s mine—and the driver turns on his blinker to claim it—I slap my forehead, turn, and snake my cart between cars to the next row. I usually get a one-finger wave at that point. Sometimes a new hopeful driver will follow me in Row 2. So I get to my actual car and slowly—slowly—unload the cart. I close the trunk. I notice the driver’s face light up as she gets ready to claim my spot. But first, I must return my cart to the cart corral. S-l-o-w-l-y. This driver gets angry, slams on her horn, and squeals her tires trying to get to another spot. Very amusing. A Christmas treat, if you will.
5. Like most kids, I never wanted clothes for Christmas. There was nothing more deflating than squeezing a package and realizing it was a shirt. But times change. Now I only want clothes, and golf balls. That’s it. A.) I hate shopping for clothes myself and B.) I’m terribly unfashionable. If I don’t have color-coordinated Garranimals outfits, I need St. Pauli Girl to help me dress. C.) I always need golf balls. Because, like beer, you never really own golf balls, you just rent them.
6. The Leon Redbone/Zooey Deschanel version of “Baby It’s Cold Outside” should also be banned from the radio. At best this song is about a guy trying to seduce a woman. At worst, he’s slipping a mickey into her drink as a prelude to date rape. The Leon Redbone version really scrapes the bottom of the barrel: it sounds like a drunken 65-year-old uncle cornering a teenage great-niece in the kitchen during a family Christmas gathering.
7. Savor the magical moments. Like this one: During the holidays, St. Pauli Girl has the radio playing nothing but Christmas songs all day. One time, when the Chipmunks Christmas song came on, I brushed past St. Pauli Girl as we both sang in our best helium voices, “Me, I want a hula hoop.” Hooooo-lah hooop. Together, in perfect Chipmunk harmony. Priceless.
8. Always keep a set of battery-operated light-up antlers around for pets and unsuspecting relatives. It goes without saying to keep the camera handy as well.
9. The “Little Drummer Boy” is another pox on the holidays. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard every time I hear an adult sing, “Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.”
10. Anyone on a diet should be granted a brief moratorium during the holidays. Short, cold days are bad enough without subjecting yourself to rice cakes and raw broccoli while others are noshing cookies and fudge and guzzling eggnog.
11. When in doubt, go to Las Vegas, the happiest place on earth. During the holidays, the hotels are cheap and the gaming tables are always welcoming and uncrowded. Nothing screams “Merry Christmas!” like ringing slot machines, saying “hit me!” to the blackjack dealer, or throwing a seven the hard way.
12. And finally: women everywhere should wear only sexy Santa outfits during the month of December. (Hey, everyone’s allowed one Christmas wish, right?)
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Bachelor Cooking
St. Pauli Girl is the best cook in the world. She’s also my editor, so I think that line will get us off to a good start. Friends and guests always ask why I don’t weigh 400 pounds. That always puzzles me because I weigh about 390. My standard response is that St. Pauli Girl loves to cook, and I love to eat, so we make a perfect couple. Plus she does more of the dishes than I do. I supposed if I worked a little harder in the kitchen, my weight might drop to 387 or so.
The next question I’m often asked is, “Do you cook?” That’s silly; that’s like asking Jon Stewart if his wife ever drives when they’re late to the movies. I meant Tony Stewart. Yes, I follow racing. Anyway, my response has always been, “Well, I used to think I was a pretty good cook until I met St. Pauli Girl.” And it’s true; I had some good reviews back in the day. But I’m also the guy that served Chef Boy-R-Dee pizza to St. Pauli Girl on one of our early dates. But I thought literally outside the box by improvising a bit with some extra cheese and pepperoni (the Chef Boy-R-Dee pizza comes in a box). I can’t help it; even at my advanced age I still love the sauce (probably because it’s loaded with sugar). Surprisingly, St. Pauli Girl was impressed with my efforts or at least pretended to be, and that may have been the last thing I cooked for her.
Yesterday, I managed to find a collection of recipes from my bachelor days. Since it’s the season of giving, I now share them here so that even people who have no Michelin stars to their name can enjoy a nice home-cooked meal.
The Easy, Healthy Chicken Dinner with Easy Clean-up
1. Get a chicken breast.
2. Season with salt and pepper, but mostly pepper. Lots of pepper. Like a handful.
3. Microwave for 5 to 7 minutes until done. Poke it with a fork. If the fork can’t penetrate, it’s done.
4. Get some fresh spinach from the fridge and put into bowl. Cover with Caesar or Ranch dressing.
5. Microwave some frozen green beans then melt some butter over it.
6. Eat.
7. Throw away paper plates.
The Easy, Not As Healthy Chicken Dinner
1. Get a box of chicken-flavored Rice-A-Roni.
2. Fix it according to instructions on box.
3. Get a box of frozen fried chicken.
4. Get 2 or 3 pieces and microwave according to instructions.
5. Place chicken on plate with a heaping helping of Rice-A-Roni.
6. Eat.
The Commercial Dinner (Can be fixed and eaten during a tv commercial break)
1. When you sense a commercial break coming, run to the kitchen and throw 2 hot dogs into the microwave for a minute.
2. Fix a drink while waiting.
3. When hot dogs are done, reach in with fork and pull out a hot dog.
4. (Optional) add a little ketchup or mustard while hot dog is still on fork.
5. Eat hot dog from fork.
6. Repeat Steps 3-5 for the second hot dog.
7. Drop fork into sink or dishwasher.
Cheap Pizza
1. Call your favorite local pizza delivery company and order a pizza for your neighbor.
2. When you hear the pizza delivery car pull up, step outside and pretend you are going somewhere.
3. After neighbor refuses pizza and slams door, console pizza guy. Offer to take pizza off his hands for a few dollars (plus a dollar tip).
4. Only do this once a month, and frequently change neighbors and pizza vendors.
The next question I’m often asked is, “Do you cook?” That’s silly; that’s like asking Jon Stewart if his wife ever drives when they’re late to the movies. I meant Tony Stewart. Yes, I follow racing. Anyway, my response has always been, “Well, I used to think I was a pretty good cook until I met St. Pauli Girl.” And it’s true; I had some good reviews back in the day. But I’m also the guy that served Chef Boy-R-Dee pizza to St. Pauli Girl on one of our early dates. But I thought literally outside the box by improvising a bit with some extra cheese and pepperoni (the Chef Boy-R-Dee pizza comes in a box). I can’t help it; even at my advanced age I still love the sauce (probably because it’s loaded with sugar). Surprisingly, St. Pauli Girl was impressed with my efforts or at least pretended to be, and that may have been the last thing I cooked for her.
Yesterday, I managed to find a collection of recipes from my bachelor days. Since it’s the season of giving, I now share them here so that even people who have no Michelin stars to their name can enjoy a nice home-cooked meal.
The Easy, Healthy Chicken Dinner with Easy Clean-up
1. Get a chicken breast.
2. Season with salt and pepper, but mostly pepper. Lots of pepper. Like a handful.
3. Microwave for 5 to 7 minutes until done. Poke it with a fork. If the fork can’t penetrate, it’s done.
4. Get some fresh spinach from the fridge and put into bowl. Cover with Caesar or Ranch dressing.
5. Microwave some frozen green beans then melt some butter over it.
6. Eat.
7. Throw away paper plates.
The Easy, Not As Healthy Chicken Dinner
1. Get a box of chicken-flavored Rice-A-Roni.
2. Fix it according to instructions on box.
3. Get a box of frozen fried chicken.
4. Get 2 or 3 pieces and microwave according to instructions.
5. Place chicken on plate with a heaping helping of Rice-A-Roni.
6. Eat.
The Commercial Dinner (Can be fixed and eaten during a tv commercial break)
1. When you sense a commercial break coming, run to the kitchen and throw 2 hot dogs into the microwave for a minute.
2. Fix a drink while waiting.
3. When hot dogs are done, reach in with fork and pull out a hot dog.
4. (Optional) add a little ketchup or mustard while hot dog is still on fork.
5. Eat hot dog from fork.
6. Repeat Steps 3-5 for the second hot dog.
7. Drop fork into sink or dishwasher.
Cheap Pizza
1. Call your favorite local pizza delivery company and order a pizza for your neighbor.
2. When you hear the pizza delivery car pull up, step outside and pretend you are going somewhere.
3. After neighbor refuses pizza and slams door, console pizza guy. Offer to take pizza off his hands for a few dollars (plus a dollar tip).
4. Only do this once a month, and frequently change neighbors and pizza vendors.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Earnest T. Reincarnated
The statute of limitations has passed. It has been several months since the closing of one of our restaurants, and much of the bitterness and depression has passed. Much…. not all—okay maybe not even 50 percent of it. However, we (St. Pauli Girl and I) can now talk about certain episodes and characters that made us laugh.
Running a restaurant means hiring a lot of odd ducks. So all you really care about is if they show up and do some work. You quickly learn to overlook odd traits or quirks of personality. One of our oddest employees was a dishwasher named—oh, let’s call him Cletus.
Cletus appeared straight out of central casting from the Dukes of Hazzard (movie or tv show, doesn’t matter). He had dark eyes, long, stringy blond hair, a goatee, and a rebel flag emblazoned on most of his possessions. He needed a job, so we gave him a chance in the dish pit. He was reliable, courteous, and fairly hard-working, all of which made us quite suspicious of him.
After Cletus had been with us about a month, the building’s caretaker took us into the men’s restroom and showed us some disturbing graffiti. Since this is not an adult- restricted blog, let’s just say that according to the graffiti, “Amber,” (another of our employees who also happened to be Cletus’s girlfriend) was very talented in certain areas and had some large body parts, and men were encouraged to call her at the number scrawled there. The caretaker, a sharp guy, suspected it was one of our employees and told us in so many words to take action. So St. Pauli Girl went through our employee applications and compared the handwriting on several of them to the graffiti. Her CSI findings: Amber’s rude admirer was none other than Cletus himself.
My first thought was, why would anyone write horrible things about his girlfriend in a public restroom? My second thought was, why am I trying to analyze our nutty employees? I had to remind myself that A) crazy people work for us and B) If you accuse a crazy person of a criminal act and then fire them, it just might come back to haunt you. I would, therefore, fire Cletus for being late.
And so we went through our records, and figured out we had a great paper trail for tardiness.
But dishwashers are hard to come by. Not having one can really mess with morale—both yours and your employees. (Mostly whoever gets stuck doing the dishes.) Reliable dishwashers are even harder to find. And who are we to criticize someone who wants to brag about his girlfriend’s talents and . . . such? Cletus stayed.
A week later, hardworking Cletus brought a power hose into the kitchen. He spent an entire afternoon cleaning the floor and everything else he could find with the power hose. We were awe-stricken by the beauty of the pretty floor we’d always thought was dark gray. Hiring Cletus sure was a good idea.
The next day, the caretaker showed us the fence behind the restaurant. Someone had power-blasted (!) the bra size of Cletus’s girlfriend into the wood. Jesus, what was wrong with this guy? Better yet, what was up with Amber? Why would . . . oh, never mind.
Cletus needed to go, but A.) He was a good dishwasher and now B.) since he obviously had a screw loose, I was afraid that if we fired him right then, he and his rebel militia would ride into town and burn the place down. Or burn the bra size of his girlfriend onto the front door.
Days passed. More disturbing events happened but they lacked solid evidence—specifically, any reference to Cletus’s girlfriend. For example one evening the night manager locked up, then went to his car to find four deflated tires. Another time, a small grass fire erupted behind the restaurant—a close call that the caretaker caught just in time.
In the end, if you have patience bad seeds will weed themselves out, and Cletus was no exception. He called in sick on a Saturday night. That’s a big “no” in a restaurant, but it was his first time. We let it slide. But the next Saturday, same thing: Cletus needed to leave--his son was sick. (Son? We didn’t even know he had one!) Next Saturday, he was sick—he had to leave an hour into his shift.
“Fine,” St. Pauli Girl said, “you can leave. Just don’t come back.”
But he had tuberculosis, he insisted. It was contagious; his doctor said so.
“Get in the dish pit,” St. Pauli Girl snarled.
I thought Cletus would ruin his vocal chords with all of the exaggerated coughing emanating from the dish pit. One of the servers then grabbed me and handed me a bottle of medicine and a piece of paper.
“A health department guy came by and left this for Cletus,” she said.
The paper appeared to be a Wikipedia listing for tuberculosis with some sort of state seal pasted on top. “Wow,” I thought. “Instead of shutting us down, the health department is prescribing medicine to sick employees?” Now I’d seen everything.
Anyway, after making numerous threats, Cletus stormed off the job. We quickly filed a restraining order. That night I sat in the office thinking about him. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t quite place it. After an hour or so of wracking my brain, it came to me: Cletus was Earnest T. Bass from the Andy Griffith Show.
Earnest T. Bass was the character who periodically came down from the mountains and caused mischief in Mayberry by throwing rocks through windows and speaking in rhymes, always leaving the scene with his classic, “You haven’t seen the last of Earnest T. Bass.” So, does life imitate art, or vice versa? I don’t know. I just hope I’ve seen the last of Cletus.
Running a restaurant means hiring a lot of odd ducks. So all you really care about is if they show up and do some work. You quickly learn to overlook odd traits or quirks of personality. One of our oddest employees was a dishwasher named—oh, let’s call him Cletus.
Cletus appeared straight out of central casting from the Dukes of Hazzard (movie or tv show, doesn’t matter). He had dark eyes, long, stringy blond hair, a goatee, and a rebel flag emblazoned on most of his possessions. He needed a job, so we gave him a chance in the dish pit. He was reliable, courteous, and fairly hard-working, all of which made us quite suspicious of him.
After Cletus had been with us about a month, the building’s caretaker took us into the men’s restroom and showed us some disturbing graffiti. Since this is not an adult- restricted blog, let’s just say that according to the graffiti, “Amber,” (another of our employees who also happened to be Cletus’s girlfriend) was very talented in certain areas and had some large body parts, and men were encouraged to call her at the number scrawled there. The caretaker, a sharp guy, suspected it was one of our employees and told us in so many words to take action. So St. Pauli Girl went through our employee applications and compared the handwriting on several of them to the graffiti. Her CSI findings: Amber’s rude admirer was none other than Cletus himself.
My first thought was, why would anyone write horrible things about his girlfriend in a public restroom? My second thought was, why am I trying to analyze our nutty employees? I had to remind myself that A) crazy people work for us and B) If you accuse a crazy person of a criminal act and then fire them, it just might come back to haunt you. I would, therefore, fire Cletus for being late.
And so we went through our records, and figured out we had a great paper trail for tardiness.
But dishwashers are hard to come by. Not having one can really mess with morale—both yours and your employees. (Mostly whoever gets stuck doing the dishes.) Reliable dishwashers are even harder to find. And who are we to criticize someone who wants to brag about his girlfriend’s talents and . . . such? Cletus stayed.
A week later, hardworking Cletus brought a power hose into the kitchen. He spent an entire afternoon cleaning the floor and everything else he could find with the power hose. We were awe-stricken by the beauty of the pretty floor we’d always thought was dark gray. Hiring Cletus sure was a good idea.
The next day, the caretaker showed us the fence behind the restaurant. Someone had power-blasted (!) the bra size of Cletus’s girlfriend into the wood. Jesus, what was wrong with this guy? Better yet, what was up with Amber? Why would . . . oh, never mind.
Cletus needed to go, but A.) He was a good dishwasher and now B.) since he obviously had a screw loose, I was afraid that if we fired him right then, he and his rebel militia would ride into town and burn the place down. Or burn the bra size of his girlfriend onto the front door.
Days passed. More disturbing events happened but they lacked solid evidence—specifically, any reference to Cletus’s girlfriend. For example one evening the night manager locked up, then went to his car to find four deflated tires. Another time, a small grass fire erupted behind the restaurant—a close call that the caretaker caught just in time.
In the end, if you have patience bad seeds will weed themselves out, and Cletus was no exception. He called in sick on a Saturday night. That’s a big “no” in a restaurant, but it was his first time. We let it slide. But the next Saturday, same thing: Cletus needed to leave--his son was sick. (Son? We didn’t even know he had one!) Next Saturday, he was sick—he had to leave an hour into his shift.
“Fine,” St. Pauli Girl said, “you can leave. Just don’t come back.”
But he had tuberculosis, he insisted. It was contagious; his doctor said so.
“Get in the dish pit,” St. Pauli Girl snarled.
I thought Cletus would ruin his vocal chords with all of the exaggerated coughing emanating from the dish pit. One of the servers then grabbed me and handed me a bottle of medicine and a piece of paper.
“A health department guy came by and left this for Cletus,” she said.
The paper appeared to be a Wikipedia listing for tuberculosis with some sort of state seal pasted on top. “Wow,” I thought. “Instead of shutting us down, the health department is prescribing medicine to sick employees?” Now I’d seen everything.
Anyway, after making numerous threats, Cletus stormed off the job. We quickly filed a restraining order. That night I sat in the office thinking about him. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t quite place it. After an hour or so of wracking my brain, it came to me: Cletus was Earnest T. Bass from the Andy Griffith Show.
Earnest T. Bass was the character who periodically came down from the mountains and caused mischief in Mayberry by throwing rocks through windows and speaking in rhymes, always leaving the scene with his classic, “You haven’t seen the last of Earnest T. Bass.” So, does life imitate art, or vice versa? I don’t know. I just hope I’ve seen the last of Cletus.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Checking My List
Add Denver Omelet to the list. That’s the note I made to myself at 3:30 a.m. as I hunched over the toilet and regurgitated the last of my stomach contents. The list, of course, is the "Things That Give Me the Flu or at Least Cause Me to Be Violently Sick."
As of December 2008, I hadn’t thrown up in 20 years (although figuratively I’d probably thrown up a thousand times during that span). This was a Joe Dimaggio streak. But records are meant to be broken and so roughly a year ago, I awoke in the middle of the night and raced to the bathroom where with one heave, my record spewed apart. The next morning, having gotten that out of the way, I looked forward to twenty more vomit-free years. It’s also when I added to the list "enchiladas from a certain Mexican restaurant."
When I awoke the other night with a gurgling, churning stomach, I could only lament how unfair it was. How could this happen two years in a row? After 20 good years? A whole generation of not vomiting. Was I even sure I remembered how or when it was coming? No need to worry; the body remembered.
The next morning it was time to diagnose myself. Was it a 24-hour bug, the flu, or maybe swine flu? On the positive side, my body was empty. There was nothing else left to come out of it, so I had that going for me. Turns out, you can’t be tested for swine flu until after you are dead. Therefore, if I die this week, then it was probably swine flu, and with all the media hype surrounding it, I may as well file my will. On the other hand, at 3:30 a.m., I was ready to die.
But as the following day drew to a close and I seemed to have no more desire to vomit, I ruled out flu and officially diagnosed myself with a 24-hour bug. A nasty, virulent, hope-I-never-meet-it-again bug. Unless I die this week, we’ll chalk it up as another successful diagnosis by Dr. Me.
For future protection and vomit prevention, it’s time to record the list of things to avoid in order to avoid vomiting:
Things That Apparently Make Me Sick
Recent Years
Denver Omelets
Enchiladas from a certain Mexican restaurant
Previous Decades
(based on fuzzy childhood memories)
Hostess Cupcakes (partially frozen)
Canned Mexican Corn
Brussel Sprouts
Mushrooms
A Happy Meal left in a sweltering car all afternoon
Raw Frozen Pretzels
Strong Possibilities
The Titanic Movie (actually I’ve never seen it, but I’m pretty sure I’d vomit)
Rum (this might have been my fault—but it could have been the rum’s)
On the positive side, I lost 6.5 pounds this week!
[Some people still need to learn how to be sick. First, you don’t have to help it along by screaming at the same time. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen whether you protest loudly or not. Plus, there’s already enough noise just from –well, the normal noise reverberating in the toilet. Second, rinsing your mouth, washing your hands and face with a cool rag after—these things make you feel better. Finally, if you have even the slightest notion you might be getting sick, arm the bathroom with a freshly sanitized toilet and a clean washcloth.—Editor.]
Thursday, December 3, 2009
A Handful of Fritos Diet
It’s one thing to wake up and find your pants are a little tighter than last week and quite another to climb in bed and realize the sheets and blanket don’t exactly cover you anymore. So yes, this is the obligatory Thanksgiving/Diet blog.
The wife, who I will hereafter refer to as St. Pauli Girl, and I started a diet early in the month, November 10 to be exact. Maybe not the best timing with an upcoming holiday feast including a gaggle of guests who would try to set the world record for most pumpkin pies on one table.
Of course, the diet began with the obligatory weigh-in which wasn’t nearly as exciting as a prize fight weigh-in. There was no media or audience, just me bleary-eyed, fresh from bed and a scale that noticeably braced itself as I approached. Gadzooks! No wonder people were shifting uneasily and staring at the load limit when I stepped on an elevator. But it was a happy day to realize that it was the most I would ever weigh. Except that I thought that in 2004. And 1998. And probably 1988 for that matter.
I went into the diet unconcerned. We had decided on a low fat, low carb diet, nothing crazy, and St. Pauli Girl is one of the best and most creative cooks around. I knew that just cutting portions would set me on the path of a helium balloon due to my already religious workout schedule. ("Fanatical" workout schedule may be the better term, as I rarely go 30 days without a workout.)
After one week, St. Pauli Girl noted that she had only lost 1.5 pounds while I celebrated (and flaunted, maybe just a little bit) a 5 pound loss due in no small part to the aforementioned fanatical workout schedule. It was at this point that I realized I could probably be a little more liberal in my eating. About this time, also I noticed an open bag of Fritos from pre-diet days in the pantry. As St. Pauli Girl got ready for bed, I ate a handful of Fritos. And so it began. Every night, after I had checked to make sure she was going to be occupied for a few moments ("you better put the chickens to bed!") I snuck into the kitchen and grabbed some Fritos. Sometimes two or three handfuls.
Later that week, I noticed that the bag closure was not on the bag. Aha! I confronted St. Pauli Girl, who said with a sideways glance, "Mmm-hmmm. Looks like someone has been getting into the Fritos."
When I accused her (offense is the best defense, right?) she just shrugged. "Actually, the closure popped off while I was standing there. But--I did notice the bag has become noticeably smaller. Come here. Let me smell your breath."
Backing away, but honoring my marriage vows, I did not lie. Plus, I’d lost 5 pounds! "I may have been grabbing a handful every now and then," I mumbled.
"What?" She came toward me ready to punch me in the shoulder.
"It’s an economics thing. We can’t just throw food out."
"Yes, you’re right, that 60 cents could very well wipe us out."
Thanksgiving week finally came around. It would be our toughest time on the diet with so many guests in town all week, most of them carting in bags of chips, cookies and pies. But I had swagger; I was down 7.5 pounds. I could do it. And I did very well through Wednesday, eating only what was on our diet, declining sugary treats and snacks--save for the handful of Fritos before bed.
On Thanksgiving, I still felt strong, despite the piles of food on the table. I confess I’d never much liked turkey or really most of the Thanksgiving side dishes. This would be a piece of cake. Besides, our diet also allowed us to go off on holidays, so I felt no shame in sampling three different pies.
Pie/sugar is a funny thing. With one bite, the strength, swagger and resolve of my diet faded away. Really fast. Some sort of force came over me. It pushed me toward the bag of potato chips, and my hands kept diving in for more as if they weren’t a part of me. After a twenty-second feeding frenzy, I emerged from the kitchen with potato chip crumbs all over my face and shirt. I still don’t know how they got there. But it didn’t stop there. On that glorious day stuffed with turkey, dressing, green bean casseroles, mashed potatoes, and pies, I had to go to the cookie jar too. I just had to try the chocolate chip peppermint cookies that St. Pauli Girl had made two days before. "That’s good," I thought after eating one. "I wonder if they are all as soft…. Yep, that one was…. And that one….Mmmm, they’re all good." Within two minutes, I had scarfed down 8 cookies.
The next day (on the road), I ordered just a medium order of fries with my cheeseburger. I had decided not to be a hypocrite pretending to be on a diet while chomping on chips and cookies (at least that’s what I told myself. Note the gallantry of avoiding the large or even super size.) And by the following Monday, we were back on the diet full force, with a nice serving of soup and a side of boiled cabbage. Tuesday was weigh-in. I wasn’t worried; after all, how much weight could a few fries, Fritos, and cookies put on, especially with my strenuous workouts?
About 4 pounds, apparently.
Dejectedly, I reported the results to St. Pauli Girl who had managed to gain nothing over the holiday. She feigned concern, pretending to sympathize for a moment. Then she smiled, patted my cheek, and said, "Too bad, Frito boy."
The wife, who I will hereafter refer to as St. Pauli Girl, and I started a diet early in the month, November 10 to be exact. Maybe not the best timing with an upcoming holiday feast including a gaggle of guests who would try to set the world record for most pumpkin pies on one table.
Of course, the diet began with the obligatory weigh-in which wasn’t nearly as exciting as a prize fight weigh-in. There was no media or audience, just me bleary-eyed, fresh from bed and a scale that noticeably braced itself as I approached. Gadzooks! No wonder people were shifting uneasily and staring at the load limit when I stepped on an elevator. But it was a happy day to realize that it was the most I would ever weigh. Except that I thought that in 2004. And 1998. And probably 1988 for that matter.
I went into the diet unconcerned. We had decided on a low fat, low carb diet, nothing crazy, and St. Pauli Girl is one of the best and most creative cooks around. I knew that just cutting portions would set me on the path of a helium balloon due to my already religious workout schedule. ("Fanatical" workout schedule may be the better term, as I rarely go 30 days without a workout.)
After one week, St. Pauli Girl noted that she had only lost 1.5 pounds while I celebrated (and flaunted, maybe just a little bit) a 5 pound loss due in no small part to the aforementioned fanatical workout schedule. It was at this point that I realized I could probably be a little more liberal in my eating. About this time, also I noticed an open bag of Fritos from pre-diet days in the pantry. As St. Pauli Girl got ready for bed, I ate a handful of Fritos. And so it began. Every night, after I had checked to make sure she was going to be occupied for a few moments ("you better put the chickens to bed!") I snuck into the kitchen and grabbed some Fritos. Sometimes two or three handfuls.
Later that week, I noticed that the bag closure was not on the bag. Aha! I confronted St. Pauli Girl, who said with a sideways glance, "Mmm-hmmm. Looks like someone has been getting into the Fritos."
When I accused her (offense is the best defense, right?) she just shrugged. "Actually, the closure popped off while I was standing there. But--I did notice the bag has become noticeably smaller. Come here. Let me smell your breath."
Backing away, but honoring my marriage vows, I did not lie. Plus, I’d lost 5 pounds! "I may have been grabbing a handful every now and then," I mumbled.
"What?" She came toward me ready to punch me in the shoulder.
"It’s an economics thing. We can’t just throw food out."
"Yes, you’re right, that 60 cents could very well wipe us out."
Thanksgiving week finally came around. It would be our toughest time on the diet with so many guests in town all week, most of them carting in bags of chips, cookies and pies. But I had swagger; I was down 7.5 pounds. I could do it. And I did very well through Wednesday, eating only what was on our diet, declining sugary treats and snacks--save for the handful of Fritos before bed.
On Thanksgiving, I still felt strong, despite the piles of food on the table. I confess I’d never much liked turkey or really most of the Thanksgiving side dishes. This would be a piece of cake. Besides, our diet also allowed us to go off on holidays, so I felt no shame in sampling three different pies.
Pie/sugar is a funny thing. With one bite, the strength, swagger and resolve of my diet faded away. Really fast. Some sort of force came over me. It pushed me toward the bag of potato chips, and my hands kept diving in for more as if they weren’t a part of me. After a twenty-second feeding frenzy, I emerged from the kitchen with potato chip crumbs all over my face and shirt. I still don’t know how they got there. But it didn’t stop there. On that glorious day stuffed with turkey, dressing, green bean casseroles, mashed potatoes, and pies, I had to go to the cookie jar too. I just had to try the chocolate chip peppermint cookies that St. Pauli Girl had made two days before. "That’s good," I thought after eating one. "I wonder if they are all as soft…. Yep, that one was…. And that one….Mmmm, they’re all good." Within two minutes, I had scarfed down 8 cookies.
The next day (on the road), I ordered just a medium order of fries with my cheeseburger. I had decided not to be a hypocrite pretending to be on a diet while chomping on chips and cookies (at least that’s what I told myself. Note the gallantry of avoiding the large or even super size.) And by the following Monday, we were back on the diet full force, with a nice serving of soup and a side of boiled cabbage. Tuesday was weigh-in. I wasn’t worried; after all, how much weight could a few fries, Fritos, and cookies put on, especially with my strenuous workouts?
About 4 pounds, apparently.
Dejectedly, I reported the results to St. Pauli Girl who had managed to gain nothing over the holiday. She feigned concern, pretending to sympathize for a moment. Then she smiled, patted my cheek, and said, "Too bad, Frito boy."
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