Fat Tuesday: Bun in the Oven

No, there are no announcements along those lines. Simply a seasonal nod to the oft over looked staff of life.

I love bread. It is a simple love. Fresh loaves, warm rolls, day old slices, I love them all. A little butter or olive oil and I am set. Unfortunately, the appreciation of fine bread has diminished from our lives due to the over abundance of cheap – adequate bread from the grocery store. Who wants to go to the trouble of making bread when I can stop by and get a loaf for $2, some rolls for $3, and even artisan breads for $5. After all, it’s just bread.

Indeed, it is just bread. You won’t receive any accolades like grilling the perfect steak, or hear raves of tantalizing taste as when mixing a zesty guacamole. Flour, water, sugar, salt, egg, yeast, and butter.

But bread, in some form or another, has been the historical cornerstone of every society. Just think of its historical significance. As the Israelites wandered through the dessert God provided manna from which they made a sustaining bread. Christ broke bread with his disciples at the last supper. When the French peasants were starving for lack of bread, Marie Antoinette famously quipped, “Let them eat cake.” And Lenin, in rallying the peasants for revolution promised “Peace, Land, and Bread.”

While bread may never be the feature of a meal, its role (no pun intended) at the table cannot be overstated. Below is my great-grandmother’s recipe for dinner rolls. Enjoy.

Old Fashion Dinner Rolls

1 potato peeled and cubed

1 1/2 cups of water

2 packages active dry yeast

3/4 cup of whole milk

1/2 cup butter

2 teaspoons salt

1/4 cup sugar

2 egg

6 to 7 cups flour

Cook potato in water for 20 minutes or until tender. Drain and reserve the water. Mash potato. Measure 1 cup of potato water and let cool to lukewarm. Stir in yeast until completely dissolved. Heat milk and butter until very warm (120-130 degrees), butter does not need to completely melt. Add milk mixture to yeast mixture and stir in salt, sugar, eggs, mashed potato, and 3 cups of flour. Beat 2 minutes at medium speed and stir in enought remaining flour to make a soft dough. Turn dough out to a lightly floured board and knead for 8 to 10 minutes or until smooth and elastic. Place in a greased bowl, turning to grease all the dough and cover and let rise in a warm place until doubled in size (about 45-60 minutes). Punch dough down and divide into thirds and then divide each piece into 12 balls. Place 12 balls in a greased 9 inch cake pan. Cover and let rise for 30-45 minutes or until doubled. Bake at 375 degrees for 20-30 minutes. Makes 3 dozen.

I shall avenge thee!!! Bearded threats.

Since getting married I have learned to understand my wife’s motto, “my stuff is our stuff and her stuff is her stuff.” That’s fine, I’ve never had anything that I was particularly attached to anyways, until after we were married. While continually wearing a scruff throughout our dating and early marriage, it was not until a few years into our marriage that I grew a beard. I came to love my beard. I am Moses and my beard is my staff.

Now for guys out there on a budget, you know how difficult it can be to find a barber that can actually provide a decent haircut for under $20. Recent months had provided me good luck with a local barber establishment known for their accommodation to men’s interests. No, not bikini clad stylists. Just sports on TV all the time.

On a recent excursion for my monthly haircut, I arrived at the barber’s on a Wednesday morning. There was only one stylist present, and I was her only customer. A few minutes after the stylist began cutting my hair it was apparent that this gal was not a seasoned professional. In fact, my deductive reasoning would lead me to believe that her working on a Wednesday morning means she was probably a member of the B-squad. No matter, I’ve fixed more than a few sub-par haircuts in my life, so I just settled in for the remainder of the flight.

As the stylist approached the completion of the haircut she continued with the various trimmings of the neck and so on. She then asked if I would like my sideburns trimmed. Despite doing my own beard upkeep, I usually anticipate needing to do a beard trim after haircuts, so I conceded that she could trim up my sideburns. Many other stylists had previously trimmed my sideburns so I thought nothing of it. The usual process is the stylist uses a clippers with a guard on it just to shorten the sideburns a little bit.

Now I previously mentioned that this was a sports themed barbershop. The particular attraction of this shop was televisions placed in between the stations. Stupid NFL keeps re-showing all those crazy hits from the previous Sunday. So my attention was not focused on the minor issue of trimming my sideburns, but rather James Harrsion shortening some poor fella’s life by three years.

A few moments later the barber informed me that she had completed my haircut. I turned in my chair to face the mirror and my brain failed to register what it was viewing. My mind started to churn to decipher what was going on. My best guess is that at whatever twenty-minute seminar on haircutting this gal had attended, the instructor taught them to trim sideburns by cutting in with the clippers and shaving down, creating a nice straight edge. Unfortunately, the physics of this process don’t exactly translate into a successful trim when the client has a beard.

So there I sat, a decent haircut on top, my nice bushy beard on the bottom, and a one inch gap on either side separating my hair from my beard. Hmmm. After an awkward 30 seconds of silence the barber sheepishly chimed in, “should I shave the rest of the sides or do you want to walk out that way.” Well, at least she understood that me walking out of the shop looking like that would have warranted some odd looks, multiple discreet cellphone photos, and a few calls to the police. “Yeah,” I said, “Why don’t you go ahead a shave the beard off.”

With instructions to leave the mustache and goatee, the barber proceeded to shave off my beard. She then moved to the side where I could again see what I would have to classify as a party prank. She left my mustache, goatee, AND THE ENTIRE BEARD ON MY NECK! Another 30 seconds of awkward silence. “Should I go ahead and shave the neck too, or…” “Yeah, why don’t you go ahead and shave the neck.”

Left with an adequate haircut, a shaggy goatee and mustache, and the memory of a savagely assaulted beard, I promptly stood up, paid the barber, gave her a two dollar tip (standard for haircuts of less than $20) and thanked her for her work. Looking back, I have determined I must have been in clinical shock, something along the lines of what other victims of violence experience.

I drove home in silence.

At home I was met by my wife sitting next to our sleeping daughter. She cocked her head slightly, noticing something was amiss, but unable to immediately identify what it was. I looked at her with mournful eyes and mouthed the words “Worst. Haircut. Ever.” She finally noticed what was amiss, and smiled sheepishly as I headed for the shower.

AFTERWORD:

Seeing as I had an interview the next day (the whole reason for getting the haircut) I trimmed the remnants of my beard into a nice mustache and goatee combo. The following day, after the interview, we headed over to the in-laws house for dinner. Upon opening the door I was met with a mirror image of my father-in-law wearing a nicely trimmed mustache and goatee combo. This wasn’t going to work. After arriving back home that night I immediately shaved my face clean to start over.

“And hear the sounds of Bert… I mean silence.”

Good day my committed readership of three, or one, or zero. Sorry for the lapse in writing. I had to take some time out to work on writing that I actually get paid for. That was followed by a wonderful stretch of vacation and holidays. But now I am back for the Christmas season, and hopefully posting more regularly.

I once heard on average men speak 15,000 words in a day and women speak 30,000. If you know me, that number seems a little high. 15,000 words, in a week perhaps. In any given room, in any given situation, there is a 99% chance that I am the quietest person in the room. No, I don’t have the weakest voice, I just say the least.

This is always the way it has been. I don’t know why. I’ve never had much of a problem with this. Yes, being questioned from kindergarten on as to “why don’t you talk more” does get old, but it beats the alternative of actually talking. I also frequently get the “are you alright,” “are you upset about something,” and my favorite, “are we boring you?”

After reading my blog one of Gert’s friends commented to her, “who knew your husband was so articulate. If we would have known that maybe we would have let him get a word in when we went out.” Great! I thought. And then I thought some more. Who knew I was so articulate? What had everyone thought of me up until that point? “Hi my name is Gert, I’m a snappy, smart, and stylish public relations consultant. This is my dim, slow, half-witted husband Bert. I took him on as a charity case. After spending five-minutes with him I just took pity on him. Why he can hardly take care of himself.”

While the last portion of that statement may have some validity, I’d like to think the rest of it is not representative of me. I had always been an adherent to the old saying “better to keep your mouth closed and let them think you a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.” Well, I guess that one back-fired on me. I’d been keeping my mouth shut and everyone HAD been thinking I was a fool, or slow, or perhaps had been dropped on my head as a child.

In addition, I am not a slight man. So I fear that due to my not insubstantial size, everyone was going directly to images of Lenny in Of Mice and Men. “Tell them about the rabbits Gert, tell them about the rabbits.”

While I cannot say that I never have lapses in common sense, I’d like to think that my intelligence hovers a decent bit above Lurch. So if you’ve only had the pleasure of “socializing” with me when I provide dull one-word answers, please don’t hold it against Gert. There was a time I was charming and witty, and perhaps I still can be. But proving so would require actually talking, so I will for now opt for the alternative of keeping my mouth and letting them think me a fool.

Fat Tuesday - South of the Border?

American cuisine is a fine array of bastardized ethnic foods altered to fit our particular tastes. And I like that very much. While some authentic ethnic food is good, there are very good reasons that I don’t see other authentic restaurants take off in the states.

Mexican food is one of those tricky in-between ethnic cuisines. Being one of the few places I have travelled, I greatly enjoyed most of the food there. However, I also have come to savor a lot of the Americanized versions of Mexican food. This always presents a dilemma for me when I want to cook some Mexican food. Do I stick with the standard Americanized fair or do I venture into the authentic. Due to my sister having lived in Mexico for a few years, I have been able to pick up a few tricks of authentic cooking. However, my mom also has a long history of great Americanized Mexican cooking. Ahh, the eternal struggle.

Today, Americanized Mexican is going to win out as I revert to one of my all-time favorite dishes, my mom’s and previously my grandma’s Enchiladas. Given some of the ingredients it is apparent that this is an Americanized dish. However, what is also interesting is that given the labor intensiveness of the dish it is also obvious that my grandma came across this recipe quite a while ago when labor intensive activities were not shunned and prepared tortillas were not readily available.

While you can substitute prepared tortillas in place of the homemade ones, the difference in taste is vast, so I encourage at least one effort in the homemade realm.

Enchiladas

-1 to 2 lbs. of hamburger. I have also used shredded chicken, but that can quickly dry out.

-1 can of Hormel chili (hot with no beans)

-1 small can of enchilada sauce (mild-hot depending on your tastes)

-1 Tablespoon chili powder

-Brown hamburger and drain grease. Add can of chili and can of sauce. Add chili powder. I also add a little cumin, garlic powder, and paprika. Simmer this for a while till it thickens a bit. (45 minutes)

-Cheese: 12-16 oz. Grate cheese (whatever kind you want. I've used colby or cheddar or the mexican cheese.) Put in bowl

-Dice 1 onion. Put in bowl.

-Tortillas

-1 cup of flour

-1/2 cup of cornmeal

-1/4 tsp. salt

-1, 1/2 cup water (cool)

-Beat until smooth. Sometimes I might add a bit more water if they don't spread out nice on the griddle. I always double or triple this recipe to make a few pans.

-Fry these on a griddle or fry pan. I use teflon or cast iron so I don't need as much oil but if you use another pan I'm not sure how much oil you need to fry them but I try not to use too much. It is not like an inch in the bottom or anything. I just pour a couple tablespoons of oil, let the pan get hot and then spoon a spoon of batter on and spread it out to a small tortilla size. Fry a bit and flip it over and fry a bit on the other side. They should not get brown at all but be dough colored and pliable. Continue to add oil if they stick. This can go really well or be a nightmare, and stick all over the place. Make sure the pan and oil are hot but not smoking of course. It might take a little practice. As they are done someone can be filling them or you can put them in a pan and keep slightly warm.

-When ready put some meat in tortilla, some onion, some cheese and roll them up. Line them up in the pan. At the end I spread any remaining hamburger mix and cheese and onions on the top.

-The great thing about enchiladas is at this point you can either pop them in the oven of 20 to 30 minutes on 350 ( just until they bubble on the sides a bit.), or else you can just put them in the refrigerator covered and then bring them out and bake them when you are ready to cook them. They may need to bake a bit longer but 30 to 40 minutes is probably good.

Of Style and Function

Want to read my wife's side of the story? www.montanagert.blogspot.com

My senior year in high school I was voted best dressed. Fact checker, can we confirm that? Yes, that is correct, I, Adidas shirt, 7-days a week in jeans, stay-at-home-dad was the best-dressed man in his class. I was a dapper dandy if ever there was one. Pressed khakis, button downs under sweaters, and an array of spiffy shoes that could at one time have rivaled my wife.

But alas, life took its toll. It started at college, where my stream of disposable income slowed to a trickle. A girlfriend helped slow that trickle to a few drops. By college graduation my style was dated – a good five years behind the trend. But wait, a post-college job would surely save my waning wardrobe. No such luck. Dreams of law school turned to reality, and the little money I had left was going for books and gas [read beer]. By the end of first semester of law school I had become a full-fledged style utilitarian.

Does this shirt go with these shoes? Who cares – at least the shoes are comfortable so that if I need to sprint the eight blocks through St. Paul to get to my class my feet won’t hurt the rest of the day. Are these pants in right now? Probably not, but they’re the only pair you haven’t worn three times without washing.

This trend continued into dating my wife, getting married, and having a child. How I was able to woo my wife with my utilitarian wardrobe escapes me. Perhaps it was my brilliant conversational skills. Or maybe not. But either way she did marry me and I am now a stalwart of the utilitarian style community. Shoes: they better be comfortable – and preferably slip on. Shirts need to not show pit sweat and be cheap enough to not care if they are lost to a baby dinner. Pants are the important element. They need to be dark to not show stains, wrinkle free so they won’t need pressing, and durable so they can be worn and washed, or not washed, many times over.

My utilitarian style reached a pinnacle a few months back. We were visiting my parents in Minnesota in the summer. Showing my utilitarian skill, I packed as few clothes as possible to make the airport shuffle a little easier. This, unfortunately did not include shorts. I thought, I won’t be working out, and really, I can survive anything in jeans.

During the weekend, the family had a party to celebrate a number of birthdays within the family. Being a nice day out, we were all outside in the front yard. My brother and I being who we are, only required a few minutes until we were shooting baskets in the driveway. Both approaching our 30’s, our will to prove our remaining youthful vigor soon turned shooting baskets into playing against each other.

Now my brother and I have a long history of basketball together. Though we were two grades apart and rarely played together organized, we frequently went head-to-head in streetball grudge matches. Yes, there was hard defense played. Yes, there was shoving and maybe even a few punches thrown. Yes, there was frustration, crying, yelling, and cheap shots. And yes, I may have knocked out my brother’s two front teeth. And no, there is no long running tally of the record between us, because the only game that matters is the next time we play.

Being sociable and all, we invited two unwitting youthful family members into our grudge match. The teams were picked, and it was game on. Except for one fact. My brother has been playing basketball in the mornings for several months now, so he definitely had the advantage. And he had shorts and sneakers to my jeans and one remaining pair of stylish Steve Madden street shoes. This won’t do, I couldn’t give up this big an advantage before the game even starts.

I flagged down my dad and asked him for a pair of shorts. My dad did have a pair, but my dad being from the 70’s era basketball, and a good 70 pounds lighter than me, the shorts were… well let me just say they were high and tight. Or better put, these were a well fitting pair of unintentional bike shorts. Style, cool, my wife’s dignity be damned. It’s time to play basketball.

I took my time stretching out near my wife. Maybe this was how I wooed her. My hamstrings were particularly tight, so the toe touches were a must. Finally, it was game on. And what a game it was. Never in the history of basketball or dad’s has a chubby, out-of-shape dad moved so swiftly on the court. It was like I was unhindered by any clothes on the bottom half. The only wind drag was the hair on my legs. I huffed and puffed my way through three games before we all [read I] decided it was time to call it an afternoon.

I’d tell you who won, but as I said, the only game that matters is the next one. But be warned all who would challenge me. There is no length I will not go to in order to hang on to any remaining shred of my formerly great athletic ability. I may look silly, I may embarrass my wife, but if it comes down to style versus function there is no doubt what’s going to win with me.

Make Way For Babies

I have not spent much time around “baby culture”. Yes, apparently there is an entire “baby culture” of clothes, books, pictures, blogs, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc. Despite being an uncle several times over, I managed to maintain a safe distance from this culture and from babies in general. Indeed, I didn’t change my first diaper until my daughter came along.

So my normal life consisted of very few interactions with new parents. While I generally found them annoying, I gave little thought to the matter because my run-ins were rare. However, my new status as father has unceremoniously thrust me into the bowels of my own personal shopping hell.

This past Sunday my wife and I headed off to Babies R Us to pick up a few things for our daughter. She stayed with grandma to expedite the journey. Upon entering the store I was disarmed by what appeared to be a scene out of Mad Max gone parenthood. Heavily equipped parents roaming the store with their assault carts and a glare of warning on every face. As I rolled my cart around the store looking for the correct aisle I could discern in each parent a distinct heir of superiority normally reserved for movie stars and dictators.

I found our first aisle of interest, the carseats. However, I spotted trouble. Another couple had laid claim to the whole aisle. Apparently they had called ahead to have the store shut down while they shopped for their prodigy, but the store had declined to concede. So instead they co-opted the entire aisle. Now, this was a wide aisle that had two separate aisles in which two carts could pass in either aisle. In one aisle they had left their cart – sideways. Several feet down in the other aisle they were standing examining carseats, staggered so that no one could pass in that aisle. I wish I were making this up.

Impatient and angry, I headed over to the diaper section. If I can’t get down an aisle, at least I can head over to the open wall of diapers and mark one item off my list. My frequent trips to the grocery store for diapers has provided a familiarity with diaper statistics that would rival Ken Jennings’ knowledge of just about everything else. However, when I reach the wall I am faced with the Indian Defence. No, not the chess strategy, a family of Indians spread four wide across the diaper wall, shoulder to shoulder so no one can get through. Are you kidding me? What do you even need diapers for, your general attitude of superiority assures me that your baby doesn’t poop!

Oh well, my eagle eye spotted the prices anyhow, and I noted they were a good $10 higher than the grocery store. Back to the carseats. Upon my return I am pleased to find my wife has wiggled her way down one of the carseat aisles. Yes, they are still taking up both aisles. The husband in one aisle and the wife with cart and baby in the other. But my wife is at least within swinging distance of the other woman. I stand at the end of the aisle my arms crossed as I start to review in my mind the recent cases I have read on the temporary insanity defense.

My wife is pretending to look at carseats while eavesdropping as the store clerk gives the other woman the rundown on the safest carseats. From the glare in the other woman’s eyes it is evident that she believes her child is the only one entitled to the safety information on carseats. After the store clerk finishes her rundown, my wife and I quickly process the results of her fine espionage work and settle on the safest carseat. We move quickly to grab a box, not because there are limited numbers, but because I have a sneaking suspicion that the other couple may try to box us in and kill us for identifying what the safest seat was. No way any other baby should be as safe as theirs.

After putting some distance between us and them we are able to slow down a little. A quick review of the store prices reveals the other parents must believe that higher prices translate to superior quality despite the same name brand. We finally settle on a few necessary items and prepare for our escape. Again I am having flashbacks to Mad Max preparing to make a run for it from the marauders. I just hope I don’t end up in Thunderdome.

As I make a break for the checkout line a band of renegade parents instantly takes off after me. Miraculously I make it to a line where the only couple is currently checking out. Phew. However, as we stand there the scanning goes on and on, hundreds of items being stockpiled apparently. Is your child going to be leading the world in a post-apocalyptic future where they will need ten boxes of wipes? Finally, they reach the end. But now starts the coupons. Coupon after coupon after coupon. She must have had a coupon for every single item she purchased. Now a total - $438. Wow.

We get ready to move forward now, except the woman starts reviewing the charges. Apparently she believes she is entitled to an additional $2 off. $2 – out of $438!!!!!! We wait another five minutes before the store manager realizes the natives are restless as 8 couples have lined up behind me. A new register opens and we are finally able to checkout.

As we roll out I feel lucky to have my life. Good thing we’re not crazy. Yes, my daughter is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. And yes, there are early indications that she may be the next Marie Currie. But we’re not that bad… are we? Well at least we’re not at the checkout still arguing about $2.

FYI: Courts have in the past recognized a temporary insanity defense of “irresistible impulse,” ie: the perpetrator knows right from wrong but is nonetheless unable to stop himself from committing an act he knows to be wrong. That sounds about right.

Fat Tuesday - No Soup For You

Fall has arrived in Northern Virginia, and with the cool weather comes reason to start making soups. Soup season is fantastic, it counters the cooling winds of the fall and fills the home with aromas that cannot be conjured from other cooking.

Sunday, I decided I would make a batch of soup for myself, my wife (you can read what she thought about it), and the in-laws. I had previously purchased a big book of soups and stews from the secondhand book store for $1, and I had gone through and marked several soups I wanted to make. Sunday morning I reviewed my selections and narrowed it down to chicken and corn chowder versus Mulligatawny. I was torn. For those who aren’t familiar, Mulligatawny is an Indian soup made famous by Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi episode. The soup is a little exotic if you don’t normally have Indian food, which I really don’t. But I decided to venture into imperial lands, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to yell NO SOUP FOR YOU!

However, I forgot my wife and her family are not really Seinfeld fans, so no one was going to laugh at my jokes. Somehow I had forgotten the fact that I ran into the same problem when I made Jambalaya. Despite my best Newman impressions waddling around the kitchen saying “Jambalaya” no one laughed. Where is my sister Marie when I need her. Hello? Is this thing on?

I still find it unsettling whenever I make efforts at creating exotic foods. Growing up in my middle-class suburban life, I didn’t venture out in the taste world. I hated onions for most of my young life. How am I to know what this soup is supposed to taste like. Even more unsettling, I feel my cooking ventures start to send me into hipster territory, an area I generally avoid like a rash on a fast-food cashier.

Either way, I did complete my batch of Mulligatawny. I kept my soup nazi references to myself. I don’t actually know if it tasted authentic, but despite my father-in-law’s initial reaction of “it smells pungent in here,” everyone seemed to keep it down.

Now for the recipe, that’s a bit of a problem. Since I already didn’t know what I was doing, I looked up a few other recipes and ended up piecing them together. Unfortunately, I don’t remember what all was in there. Sorry. But if you go over to foodnetwork.com Emeril has a decent recipe that I used part of.

It's Saturday Night and I Wish I Were Drinking With...

Tonight I finally write the first entry of my long contemplated third “regular” post. “Regular” as in I’ll try and post it every Saturday but you know how life gets. The title: It’s Saturday Night and I Wish I Were Drinking With… Yes as a husband and new father my Saturday nights mostly consist of catching up on recorded shows from the week and rocking my daughter to sleep. Gone are the days of going out to the bar/restaurant with the wife and friends for a long evening. But at least I can still dream.

The first guest I would invite is cliché, overly-popular, and far too predictable. But I don’t care. I still love him. Anthony Bourdain. Catching on to the saturated food-travel TV market that went from destination instructional guide to pipe-dream wonderland guide with the recession, Tony still puts out the most entertaining food or travel show on TV. Yes he can be vulgar, and self-indulgent, and repetitive of theme, but isn’t that part of the appeal.

Tony is part of the grand American tradition that provides you can be a mediocre talent in a working class industry and still find fame and fortune in America. This is not Jersey Shore type fame either. Tony brings a select set of skills, knowledge, and outlook that is oft overlooked in the mainstream media, but entertains because of its uniqueness to everyday people. He’s like the Jack LaLanne of leisure. The Bob Villa of indulgence.

However, Tony brings something far more entertaining and invigorating to the table than this. There was a time in America when people thrived on competition and allegiance. Yes, to a degree we can still see it in the sports world. College rivalry still draws thousands of screaming fans to will their teams past one another. But even that is dying. Exhibit A: Lebron James. I won’t knock Lebron for making a business decision, but that is all he will ever be known as now, is a business man. In Cleveland, it was Lebron vs. THE WORLD.

He was a hero. Win or lose, an entire city’s hopes were pinned on one man, and 365 days of the year every resident of that city would kill for him. But Lebron couldn’t handle the pressure of that competition, so instead he joined forces with his rival so that he would not have to be mixed up in a rivalry – an eternal competition. He couldn’t stand half the world loving him and the other half hating him, so instead he opted for everyone to hate him.

But Tony, Tony brings rivalry back to the common world. There was a time when authors sparred with one another. Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal became famous for their bitter rivalry. Can you imagine literary rivals? Now, authors are simply self-congratulatory ninnies, none wanting to disparage the other. Can someone please take a swing at Jonathan Franzen so my daughter doesn’t grow up thinking stories of depraved middle-class families are high literature.

And what about late-night talk show hosts. Leno v. Letterman, a grudge match born when Leno won Carson’s spot. But for the last ten years the two won’t take shots at one another. And Conan? Gets the biggest slight in TV history and he doesn’t say a word? Come on! I know you’re walking away with millions, but still, show a little chutzpa. [Is that the correct spelling?].

And then there’s Tony. Who knew TV food celebrities would bring rivalry back to America. Tony has a grocery list of food personalities he hates and mocks ceaselessly. What’s even better is he doesn’t have good reasons for not liking a lot of them. That’s what makes a fantastic rivalry. Why did Spike Lee start jawing Reggie Miller so hard? I don’t know, but he did. And we have some of the greatest sports moments because of it. Tony brings good old, me or them, rivalry back to America, and I’m on board.

But the real reason I would invite Tony out is the man knows his watering holes, and with a celebrity we’re bound to get free drinks. Lets face it, given my current lull in disposable income I’m all over free drinks like a fat kid on cake.

So it’s Saturday night. The baby-girl is asleep, we’re all in our pj’s, and I’m tucked snugly in bed. But in my mind I’m just heading out to meet up with Tony. Hit a few restaurants for fine treats, grab some drinks, listen to war stories of culinary rabble-rousing, and discuss the weaker points of Rachel Ray’s talk show. And at the end of the night, of course, Tony picks up the bill.

Late to the Game - Gone Country

For those of you who know me or used to know me, you know that for a long time I was not a fan of country. Then I met my wife. And we had a problem. Riding in the car was especially difficult for a long time as we sparred for control of the channel. It was especially bad because I did not like the modern country. My family roots held a special place for Willie and Johnny, but the modern country music made me really question my commitment to this woman. Even now, every time I hear Kenny Chesney I want to pull my own arm off so I can beat myself unconscious. No, she does not think your tractor is sexy.

But my relationship survived country music, and I married a country girl. The resulting steady stream of country music into our home exposed me to a greater breadth of what country music was, and after it broke my will, I found it wasn’t all bad. But I hated Garth. I still hate Garth. I think he’s whiney and obnoxious. Sorry. However, I found others I could get down with without feeling I had to throw on cowboy boots and smell of pig honkey. Because lets face it, I’m not a country boy.

Brad Paisley did not induce thoughts of self-harm. I won’t crank the car into the ditch if Miranda Lambert comes on the radio. [But be warned, I won’t hesitate to wreck a car if Taylor Swift even thinks about singing on my radio]. I could survive a whole album of Eric Church. I even really liked a few George Strait songs. Then I started to find my people. Lyle Lovett. One day I will devote an entire post to Lyle Lovett and his epic talent. Suffice it to say for now that L.A. County is easily one of my favorite songs ever!

Then I spent one night home alone watching Lyle on Austin City Limits. He was playing with Guy Clark, Joe Ely, and John Hiatt. I was mesmerized. I swooned for an hour as the boys picked away and played classics and lesser-known ballads. Suddenly, country was not limited to Garth and Kenny but really had a connection for me. I ended up watching that concert at least two more times.

I can’t say how I ended up finding out about all the different country artists. I think it can mostly be attributed to the magic of Wikipedia links. However it was, I eventually came to read about the outlaws, including Steve Earle, and I was smitten. That’s when earth-shattering events took place.

I recently celebrated another birthday. I received from my mom and dad, among other things, an itunes gift card. What to buy, what to buy. The options were endless. [Except no Beatles of course… Thanks again Yoko]. Would I impress my brother and sister-in-law with some new Wyclef that he somehow managed to release in the middle of his presidential bid? Or would I finally round out my 90’s hit list with the best of Kid Rock?

Instead, I threw the world for a curve and went country. The first album purchase was the great Steve Earle’s Copperhead Road. Fantastic. This was followed up by paying homage to Steve Earle’s hero, and I purchased Townes Van Zandt’s greatest hits. Truly remarkable stuff. My music collection, not my wife’s, now includes bona fide country music. Hell has frozen over.

Now don’t be mistaken, I’m still no country boy. And don’t take any of this for me going soft on terrible country music. If Zach Brown even considers strumming his guitar in my general vicinity he’ll find his toes in the water and my foot in his a**. But there is now and forever a place in my heart for real country music.

Taking Care of Business

I’m in the middle of a heated job search, thus the sparse posting. During college, as my time of graduation approached, I like most white suburban kids, had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. My political science degree was pulling its weight by attracting countless political think-tanks, just lining up waiting to pay me big bucks to put my opinions of the political machine workings down on paper. But I wasn’t sold on that, so I followed the intellectual nomad route and headed to law school. Three years and a lot of dollars later, now, not only could I pontificate on the shortcomings of our society, but I could argue my points like an Ancient Greek philosopher. Fantastic.

Gone now are the political think tanks and mega law firms waiting to pay me for my sculpted mind. So I have been turning to my other job skills and experience to review what careers might be a good fit for me. I bypass my first job experience in the restaurant industry. While Circus Pizza did provide me the culinary training equivalent of a year in France, the glut of cooking shows leads me to believe there is a whole sector of white suburban kids aiming for the cooking field, already having established a head-start by preparing red-wine reductions and their best rissoto fusions in high school home-ec.

I turn to my next work period, my summers during college. Without a lead on any job whatsoever, and Circus Pizza having been sold off to Chuck-E-Cheese, I pursue the next logical opportunity, and I head down to the local temp office. After presenting my newly polished resume, coming straight out of the college career services office, I vehemently deny that I have ever been convicted of a felony, and I am placed on the roll of temp workers, the length of which rivals the church directory. I spend the next three days calling the temp office every morning asking for work opportunities. The recruiters there, obviously worn out by my insistence, finally place me for a temp job to begin the next week.

At the appointed time and date I have my mother drop me off at a non-descript warehouse in a remote suburb. I see that I am in good company as several other shady looking individuals are being dropped off by wives, girlfriends, mothers, probation officers, friends, etc. We gather in a warehouse where pallets of boxes are stacked, awaiting attention. There are nine of us. I am by far the youngest. And I am by far the most educated simply by having my high school diploma. And, I am by far the most sober. I now understand why the temp office kept asking if I had a felony record. It turned out I would be the first to grace their office with a clean record.

The foreman approaches us with the grit of a prison guard and barks out the orders for the project. Twice. We will be breaking down pallets of boxes, and reordering them so that the boxes with a common destination will all be on the same pallet. Simple enough. I don’t know that twice was necessary, but no harm.

About four of the workers immediately attempt to take charge of the situation and set an agenda and process for the work. None of the proposals actually makes any logical sense to me, but that doesn’t concern me, as I’m paid by the hour. One of the workers, Davis, includes in his plan that he will be the supervisor to make sure the boxes are reaching the correct pallets, but he won’t be doing any of the lifting. Davis is a mid-thirties “construction worker”, currently on probation for something, living with his girlfriend who actually has a full-time job.

The battle for power sputters out as the other five of us simply start tearing into the pallets. However, the need for direction becomes apparent in the next thirty minutes, as three pallets designated for Denver are formed, with each one containing less than five boxes. The foreman is eventually called in to create a system for us. I find it best to keep my head, and logic, down in these situations. It’s similar to what I think prison would be like, minus the awkward showers.

We eventually make it to the lunch hour without much disruption. However, the lunch hour now presents unforeseen difficulties. I had assumed that this location would be within walking distance of some fast food establishment. It was not. Seven of the other workers assumed the same thing. There were seven of us with money, no food, and no car, and one, Davis, who even failed to bring any money. At least I was in good company. We all turned to the one man who had a car, Rodney. Now Rodney looked to be early forties, but he could have been much younger. The smell of alcohol and body odor indicated an affinity for unbounded drinking.

After a discussion over the intended fast food restaurant, which included more expletives than I thought necessary for a decision on lunch, Rodney departed with a pool of money to pay for lunch for the seven of us, Rodney, and somehow Davis. Davis’ argument for why we should cover his lunch did include the fact that he was supervisor of this project and entitled to special benefits. I fully anticipated never seeing Rodney again as the lunch money probably amounted to more than we would make on the project. To my surprise Rodney did return with lunch. I’m assuming I can thank his probation status for that.

After an extended lunch the foreman finally rallied us back to work. I spent the afternoon working side-by-side with Steve. Steve was a good co-worker. Didn’t complain, worked hard, and showed a competence in basic hygiene skills. Steve and I shared a love of basketball, we both voted for Wendy’s at lunch, and we both lived with our parents. The difference was that Steve was 47. After spending four hours with him I could not definitively say that Steve had anything wrong with him. This worried me. How could a 47 year old man be living with his parents and working menial temp jobs? Could Steve simply be me twenty-five years from now?

Quitting time came none too quickly. Six of us lined up to use the phone. Rodney, of course, could immediately leave in his own car. Davis and another worker had convinced Rodney that they lived close enough that he should give them a ride. I’m sure Davis’ supervisor status also played a role in his getting a ride. For the rest of us, calls were made to our appropriate caretakers to come retrieve us from this hole. We then lined up outside on the curb as the office needed to lock-up.

One-by-one our rides arrived to carry us home, until it was just me and Steve. We talked the T-Wolves chances of making the playoffs in the coming year. He also gave me the low-down on other types of jobs to expect from the temp agency. Finally his ride arrived, and then my mother. Sweet relief. Getting in the van I didn’t say much about my day.

Given my mom’s own work history in a factory I don’t think she needed to ask. As we drove away I pondered what my future might hold for me. The infinite possibilities that had existed in high-school had been quickly dispatched by the fellowship of the warehouse. And I couldn’t help but feel my presence at this job did not bode well for my future employment opportunities. But at this point money was money. Eight hour day at a temp warehouse - $80.00. Lunch - $5.00. Taxes - $15.00. Total take for the day $60.00. I didn't realize my dignity was so cheap.

Short and To The Point

I'm tired today as I have been for the past week. Sorry for the delay, but today's post won't be long. I'm feeling old as I celebrated another birthday and my daughter turned one. It's a very odd feeling. But instead of my scripts, today I will leave you with a grand quote from the great author Tom Robbins.

"Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won't adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is to sign on as its accomplice. Instead of vowing to honor and obey, maybe we should swear to aid and abet. That would mean that security is out of the question. The words "make" and "stay" become inappropriate. My love for you has no strings attached. I love you for free."

Fat Tuesday - The Canned Edition

Yes Fat Tuesday is late this week. But given the opening of the NFL season in New Orleans today I thought it would be appropriate. Welcome back to Fat Tuesday, the Canned Edition. [No I didn’t get fired… yet].

Who we are, who we will become, is dependent upon the decisions we make in our life. But every part of who we are has its start at home. The Roots. It doesn’t define us, but rather gives us a frame of reference, a start. Where we proceed from that point is up to us.

As children we learn family heritage and family tradition. [Hopefully not drinking, smoking, and living out the songs we wrote]. As teens we spurn this identity and try to separate ourselves from it as we establish our individuality. This incidentally is often attempted by doing the opposite of our family. When we enter the real world we venture to form our own families with identity and heritage. And it is during this period we often times return to our family to reconnect with the traditions and beliefs so that we can find identity with our family, our clan.

What is it that hungers within us to be connected to an identity, a tradition, a clan emblazoned with our family crest? I have come to believe it is a need to be a part of something larger than ourselves. To identify with people who share the same experiences and the same memories. To cry together, laugh together, and share together with people that share our same quirks, shortcomings, struggles, and beliefs.

This July I returned home again to my family in Minnesota, bringing in tow my new family of wife and baby girl. With families converging, we shared together with laughter, stories, and games. Our children played together, competed, cooperated, and learned from one another. And of course we gathered in the kitchen to cook, which led to the dining room to eat, as a family.

But I arrived in Minnesota with an additional desire to reconnect with the traditions of my family, and find some connection to the generations that had gone before me. For this I would ask my mom to teach me the craft of canning. For our particular purposes it would be canning apple butter.

The rest of the family dispersed for the day’s activities. My mom bought the apples, and we gathered in the kitchen that she shared with her mother. The first order of business was settling on the music for the afternoon. It was quickly decided that the red-headed stranger would set the soundtrack, and Willie plucked his guitar as he had done years before for my grandparents.

What followed that afternoon were simply fundamentals. We cut the apples, cooked them down, strained, seasoned, and simmered until it had reached the proper consistency. My mom then instructed on the process of boiling the jars, filling, sealing, and boiling again. The craft was time consuming but simple, and if all you saw at the end of it was six jars of apple butter you would have missed the entire day.

The product was not the goal, but partaking in a craft practiced by my mother, and her mother, and I am sure generations preceding her. To share in activities, however simple, that were practiced and celebrated before I existed, and God-willing, will continue with my descendants after I have passed through this land. It’s a small thing, minor in view of all life, but it is a small piece of what makes up the identity of the clan from which I descend.

With luck and a little determination, in the years to follow I will continue to can and develop recipes for apple butter, strawberry jam, and whatever other recipes may follow. And years from now Willie will still be picking his guitar and humming a tune on the radio, and I will gather in the kitchen with my daughter and teach what has been taught to me. It still won’t be about the jars we produce, but something more. Because even though my daughter will never know her great grandma Bliss, the generations of our clan will all gather in the kitchen and share as we practice and pass on a simple craft that in a small way makes up part of who we are.

So this week I have no recipe for you, only encouragement to connect with the small things that make up the family that you are a part of.

I Didn't Know Bears Could Drive

Apparently Virginia is the national capital for vanity license plates. Indiscernible letter-number puzzles to express one’s [individuality/personality/vanity/stupidity]. For those who don’t believe in bumper stickers, but still have a message for the world. And the most plentiful accumulation of such individuals is in the same state as me. Great! I already hate driving.

The first close encounter I had with a vanity plate driver was a former girlfriend of my brother. She was blonde, Quaker, allegedly better than the rest of us non-Quakers, and had the license plate ‘Brat III’ (I think that’s what number she was). Fantastic work brother of mine. At least she had the first letter right.

Since then my opinion of vanity plate drivers has not received much rehabilitation. Seriously, if you’re going to defile your car in such a permanent way what is wrong with bumper stickers. Fast, effective, cheap, and you get to send more than one message. “Keep Honking, I’m Reloading”, “Charlton Heston Is My President”, “Horn Broke, Look For Finger”, and other fine gems. But with vanity plates you get “MMYS RDE”, “IT PHD”, “DNT H8”, and other stupid messages. [Okay, I admit, I kind of enjoy the “DNT H8” plate].

All this changed yesterday. The vanity plate drivers of the world were rehabilitated in a single sweep. [Maybe not the former girlfriend]. The idiocy of the world had found a redeemer. DNT H8 had a new friend. My wife and I were leaving the mall in the less economically viable area of the city. Parked three cars down from us was an fantastic older version Cadillac DeVille. My wife believed it could belong to an older individual. I knew better, and I was proven right when we walked closer and looked down at the license plate. There, in all its shining glory, my new favorite vanity plate: “THE POO”.

Late to the Game - At the movies

Alright. I know I missed Fat Tuesday this week, and I know I missed Late to the Game last week. But it happens. Kids, am I right?

Welcome again to ‘Late To The Game’. When last we left off I said I would be reviewing Jack White. And I will. Just not today. He’s such a lengthy topic it will take me time to write it.

Instead I thought we’d talk movies. Movies I like. Which happen to be movies not a lot of other people like. At least not people I know. Take for instance “The Fifth Element” with Bruce Willis. I’ve watched this like a hundred times, but I don’t think anyone else in the family has seen it, and I don’t think it would get any yay votes during movie selection. Is it a good movie? I think so, and so does TBS. And they play Rudy all the time, which is also an awesome movie.

But my real love lies in the ‘shoot ‘em up’, kind of crime, kind of mystery, guy movie genre. One of my favorite movies is an obscure Jack Bau… eerrr Keifer Sutherland movie called Truth or Consequences, NM. A fantastic movie despite having Vincent Gallo in it. There’s an ongoing thing in the movie where Keifer keeps spinning quarters because he believes if he can get one to stand on end he can see the future. It makes for an awesome ending.

But today’s review is of the 2005 released “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” starring the great Val Kilmer and the even greater Robert Downey Jr. I love that guy. He has more lives than a herd of cats. It’s a mystery/caper shoot ‘em up comedy with a clever narrative construct led by RDJ. But the best part of the movie is the witty dialogue and snappy banter. It’s like Gilmore Girls for guys.

I seriously cannot understand why Val and RDJ have not appeared together again since this movie. The comedic timing and chemistry in this movie is so spot on it’s like Abbott and Costello. I was laughing throughout the entire thing. The story is average and purposely based on old pulp mystery novels, but that does not detract at all from the entertainment of the movie.

I’ll only advise, as Val apologized in the end for, that there is plentiful use of a select 4-letter word throughout the movie. So those squeamish of language may want to avoid this. Otherwise, I can only hope that RDJ will have the good sense to stop making super-hero action movies and go back to this type of movie. Enjoy.

Pop Ins, Social Norms, and the Casualization of America

I like the pop-in. Perhaps it harkens back to a non-existent time of Americana where we were all so friendly and neighborly that we just popped-in on family and friends whenever we felt so inclined. Or perhaps I just have no appreciation for people’s concerns about organization and general house cleanliness. Or maybe I just have poor social boundary skills. Either way, if you know me, and I’m within three-hour driving distance of you, I may just pop-in.

Growing up I was under the assumption that this was a normal habit. My dad would make occasional pop-ins to his folks on the weekend to say hi and chat. I always loved that time of gathering for no particular reason, just to shoot the poop and say hi. In the later years his father would reciprocate and pop-in on our family on weekend mornings. My mom would later tell me that her mom also was a frequent “popper” and would often have friends in tow to come see the kids. [As it turns out, my mom was not a fan of the pop-in in these instances]. So perhaps it’s a genetic trait [also read as disorder] that you either inherently feel the need to impose upon friends and family unannounced, or you don’t.

As you can guess, the pop-in can be a very revealing experience. Take first my general pop-in habit. Add my brother’s highly anticipated move back to the city. Add a new wife, and you are certain to come out with an experience that would pose issue to my pop-in habit. Let’s just say the good Lord blessed my sister-in-law with great hearing, and He had the wisdom to move them into a second level condo where twenty steps protected me from certain blindness.

Take next my Grandpa's pop-ins at our house. These were usually Saturday morning stops at a time earlier than I liked to be up. But of course the racket of a new arrival to the house would usually roust me from my slumber and I would slog out to the breakfast table. Knowing that the arrival was most certainly family at this ungodly hour, I felt no inclination to spruce myself up. So I seated myself at the table in what the rest of the family knew to be standard weekend attire. Whitey tighties and my infamous blanket/toga. Did it concern me at all that we had visitors? Not in the least. This was family habit. Casual was our style. Standard fare that should be known to all, or at the very least, caveat emptor. And besides, I usually wasn't the only one dressed like this. Which leads to my next point.

As it turned out, this preference for casual weekend attire existed throughout familial generations, and to a greater extent than I knew. As it happens, my oldest sister is a longtime opponent of fabric covering. Her turn to full-time motherhood provided her the opportunity to stage daily full-scale protests, and she even was able to persuade her kids as to the evils of cotton, wool, and poly-blends. Thank heavens for curtains. And doorbells. And locks. My pop-in habit reached another conundrum when, upon ringing the doorbell, I had to await several minutes while hearing loud scampering behind the door and yells of “uncle Ryan’s here,” while still not receiving a greeting at the door. But alas, a few minutes waiting at the door did not deter the joy of randomly greeting and talking with family.

When questioned on her frequent “activism”, my sister simply replied, “Why would I want to go to the trouble of putting all those clothes on when there’s no one else around?” That’s a [good/valid/troubling/absurd] point. When I asked if her if her husband shared her same political leanings on the “fabric question” she smirked. “When we hear the car pull-up I send an all out call of ‘everybody upstairs to put clothes on’.” Well at least she has a system.

So this still leaves the age old question of nature versus nurture. Do I despise clothing because it’s in my genes or because I learned to? As a kid we would make frequent trips over to Grandma Mom-Side’s house. Now I’m uncertain of whether these trips were pop-ins, or if my Grandma just had insurmountable levels of self-confidence. Either way, during the summer, our arrival was always celebrated by a waving Grandma from the garden, or the fire-pit, or the front stoop, clad in nothing more than her undies, bra, and fashionably accessorized sweat rag. Again, this was our “normal”. This is what we grew up with. Can we really be blamed?

Fast-forward fifteen years, and my brother and I are both attending college. We are separated by at least three-hundred miles, and he attends a casual, liberal state university while I am housed in a right wing bastion of conservativism. Yet somehow, despite the miles, despite the contrast in colleges, my brother and I develop the same reputation. We’re both the guys who are always running around the dorms naked. Go figure. [Yes, I am “that guy”].

As if this wasn’t bad enough. I fear this casualization has spread to a new generation. Either our ideas are proliferating or the gene is strong. My sister, yes, surprisingly that one, was at home with her 4-year old son. She began doing her morning yoga routine. [Surprisingly, I think her husband had convinced her of the benefits of clothing by this time]. After a few moments of intently observing her, son decided he would join in. Very deliberately son began to follow the movements and angles of the yoga workout. As the workout continued, son was apparently reaching oneness with his being and began removing his clothes as he continued with his yoga. The shedding of his stress and clothes continued until the little jaybird concluded his session.

Not one to forget, my sister asked son several days later, “do you remember when we were doing yoga the other day?” Son, looking sternly at her replied, “Mom, we don’t talk about that.” Despite the nudity, maybe his father’s genes are fighting to instill some sense of decency and humility that apparently my own family’s genes are incapable of mustering.

Well years passed and we grew in age if not maturity. I graduated from college and managed to walk the line without incident. I returned home to make a serious adult life, and I moved back in with my parents while I attended law school. Memories of my family’s casualization faded as we took a more “main line” approach to clothing. Perhaps I could live a normal life. Perhaps the events of the past were behind us. Or so I hoped.

One weekend Aunt and Uncle J came into town to spend a few days with the family. We enjoyed an evening of dinner and laughter as we recalled memories of past and told stories that had turned to family lore. Evening turned to night and night to morning, and not being the same sluggard I once was, I rose at a decent hour to head upstairs for coffee and breakfast.

Upon arrival in the living room I had to check myself to make certain I was not still dreaming. I decided I better head first for a cup of coffee in the kitchen before assessing things. After pouring myself a cup of thick black coffee I returned to the living room for assessment. There in the rocking chair was Uncle J enjoying his morning coffee and the paper while lounging in a white undershirt and his white boxers. Loose boxers. Airy boxers. I thought I had left this behind.

I turned to find my dad, not to be outdone in his own house, also enjoying coffee and the paper while lounging in a black undershirt and his black tighties. Tight. Form fitting. I thought we had purged this. What happened to social norms and boundaries. All our advancement. I was stunned, disillusioned. What was to be done? Where was my mom in all this? Oh well. I suppose sometimes nurture cannot overcome nature. Dejected, I returned to my room, removed my shirt, removed my pants, grabbed my coffee and headed off in search of my section of the paper.

Am I "That Guy"?

I enjoy casual wear. If all goes right with the plans for my life I may never wear a tie again. And no item of casual wear is of greater joy to me than the t-shirt. The t-shirt comes in a variety of colors and designs. Despite its simple form, there exists a wide enough array to wear a distinctly different t-shirt each day of the week.

That being said, I am not the type of guy to wear outrageous or provocative t-shirts. No bad language or shocking commentary. Yes, I have been known to wear politically charged t-shirt or two, but nothing I believe that would be in bad taste. Especially since having a child. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever really been a provocative or controversial person. I was never a ladies man, player, pimp, or stud. Never a scalawag or hell-raiser. I don’t even think I could be classified as a ne’er-do-well or rabble-rouser. But anyways.

A few months ago I went ahead and ordered a few new t-shirts online from Champs, mostly because I was tired of my old ones. I bought a Redskins t-shirt to support the new home team, a Twins t-shirt to support the old home team, and I bought an interesting Adidas t-shirt that was on sale. The Adidas t-shirt was a bright yellow shirt with the Adidas logo in black scribbles on the front. Nothing too great, but I thought it was a fun bright color, and as I said, it was on sale.

A day later I received a confirmation email for my order. Reading through it I was confused as the Adidas shirt order read “Adidas-T, Ladies: Yellow”. Had I inadvertently ordered a ladies t-shirt for myself? That would be embarrassing. I told my wife what had happened, and informed her she may be the new proud owner of a yellow Adidas t-shirt.

A couple days later the shirts arrived to my great excitement. I tore through the box to revel in my new attire. The size of the Adidas shirt made it apparent that it was not a ladies shirt. After sending the shirts through the wash, I added them to the regular wardrobe rotation. I proudly sported each of the t-shirts of its chosen day. These shirts were worn to the stores, restaurants, and of course my frequent trips to the grocery store with my daughter.

After several wearings, I decided the Adidas t-shirt was too bright for “formal” wear, and so I decided to wear it to the gym one day. Now the gym I attend is more of a family gym of husbands and wives. Not really a meat market type gym. And being my normal anti-social self, I don’t usually talk to anyone at the gym, so I didn’t get to ask if anyone liked my shirt.

After making it through another wash cycle, the Adidas shirt again made an appearance on a weekday morning when I had to make one of my many journeys to the grocery store. Of course my daughter was in-tow as usual, being held in my arm. After gathering our few items we headed to the check out where my daughter’s fan club of grocery store clerks were waiting. This store has about three or four middle-aged ladies that adore my daughter and come to oooo and ahhhh at her every time we’re there. So these ladies gathered around to wave and pinch cheeks while my daughter shyly laid her head on my shoulder. We chatted for a few minutes, after which I headed home with groceries and daughter in tow.

Upon arriving home we headed upstairs to see my wife. My daughter went to play with my wife, and I stood around assessing what had to be done today. My wife then turned to me and asked, “What’s on your shirt?” I looked down expecting to see a stain or something, but nothing. “What?” “The black logo, what is it?” “It’s just black scribbles.” “No it’s not.”

I looked down at the black logo, focusing and re-focusing my eyes, as if trying to see the image in a magic-eye picture. Suddenly it came into focus. And horror swept over me. The black scribble logo was actually hundreds of small black silhouettes of naked women in provocative poses. What had I done?

The outings to restaurants and shopping malls, the gym… THE LADIES AT THE GROCERY STORE! WAIT!!! I’M NOT THAT GUY!!!!

My wife rolled with laughter as I recounted all the places I had visited wearing the t-shirt. We finally realized “Ladies” did not indicate the intended wearer of the shirt, but the subject of the shirt, the computer screen just hadn’t been big enough to show what the small scribbles were. How I failed to see it the numerous times I wore the shirt out, I still don’t know.

The horror of wearing that shirt took a few days to wear off to the point that I can now laugh about it. I keep the shirt in my closet now. Partly for the story, partly for the irony of me wearing that kind of a shirt. Will it ever make an appearance again? Doubtful.

As for the grocery store ladies. Whether they ever realized what was on the shirt I don’t know. Maybe they were like me and just didn’t notice it. Or maybe they just figured I’m “that guy” and I would be “that dad” and it was just too bad for my daughter. Which it is, I’ll never know, because there is no way I’m going to ask them, “Did you see my shirt?”