Tagged: cooking
The Perfect Saturday Morning
“All aboard!” he yelled in his best train conductor voice. She loved riding on the front of the shopping cart as they made their way through the grocery store.
“All aboard!” she mimicked, smiling and grabbing hold. “Faster daddy!”
It was Wednesday night. They were buying enough supplies to last them for the coming week. Racing through the produce section, skipping past the deli on the right, and taking a hard left with a little too much speed, they made it to the back of the store in record time, narrowly avoiding a collision with the lobster tank.
“Let’s see. What do we need H-? I think we need lunch meat for my lunches, bread-”
“Milk, daddy? We need milk, right daddy?”
“That’s right, but that’s all the way on the other side. What else do we need before then?”
“Cereal? ”
“Yep, cereal,” he answered.
Passing the Pepsi shrine, he turned down the breakfast aisle. They were alone. With one big shove he jumped onto the back of the cart as they cruised towards the off-brand bags.
Beaming with joy, she could only ask, “What are you doing, daddy? What are you doing?”
“Oh, just having fun. Errrrrrt!” he sounded, halting prematurely at the sight of pancake mix. “I think we need pancake mix too.”
“Pancake mix?”
“Yep. What’s this? Look here H-. It says we can make 130 pancakes out of just this one bag. That’s a lot of pancakes, huh?”
“A lot of pancakes?”
“Yes, a lot of pancakes. Can you eat 130 pancakes?”
“No, that’s silly,” she said, laughing.
“Yeah, me neither. Do you believe this bag has enough mix to make 130 pancakes?”
“Pancakes?”
“What do you say we put Krusteaz to the test this weekend?”
“Test?”
“Your friends like pancakes right?”
“My friends?”
“Yeah, your friends. What do you say we invite all of them over for breakfast on Saturday, and see if we can really make 130 pancakes?”
Hatu
The special operations warriors segregated themselves from the rest of the soldiers in the DFAC. “Deefak” is how everyone referred to the dining facility–the chow hall. After only a matter of days in-country, it became apparent to all how to distinguish those who worked inside “the fence” from those who worked outside “the fence”. These men worked outside the fence. They weren’t necessarily more dedicated, or smarter, but they had always wanted to do what they were doing and happened to be good at it. And they were dedicated. And they were smart.
On the ceiling of the DFAC hung flags. There were flags of the different nations of the world that were in the coalition of forces, and flags of the 50 states.
Suddenly, after a break in the conversation, one of the men spoke up.
“Hatu. Huh, where’s that country? It sounds familiar, but I can’t seem to place it. South America? Africa?” he asked.
“Definitely Africa,” chimed in one of the men more respected for his book knowledge.
“I don’t know,” said another.
“It doesn’t have an African ring to it. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was in South America,” challenged a third.
Without the internet at their fingertips, the hard men were left with all the nuances of communication to determine who to believe–conviction in the voice, the tone of voice, facial expressions, and look of the eyes. Lastly, all waited to see if somebody would wager that they were correct. No one was so bold.
At last, all eyes found themselves gazing at the flag, trying to look for clues. The stocky mustached reader finally broke the silence.
“Hatu. Ha. Morons. It’s not Hatu, it’s Utah. You just read it from the back side of the flag.”
In all caps, it was an easy mistake we suppose, but one that silenced this proud group of men for some time.
Relief
And with that they were out the door.
As usual, she ran to the car, and verbalized her victory upon touching the driver’s side passenger door–her door. He simply shook his head and said, “Yep. Looks like you beat me again.” He opened his door, placed everything in the car and started it. Then he opened her door and put her in her car seat.
Getting back into the driver’s seat, he backed the car out of the garage. Next, he put the car in park and got out. The recent week of sub-freezing temperatures took their toll on the garage door opener, so he was forced to use more than just his finger muscles to open and close the garage. In a jiff, he was back in the car and they were on their way.
At the daycare, he grabbed her nap stuff from the front seat and told her she could start unbuckling and get out. Like always, she seemed to not hear this command, and he was at her door before she could comply. She happily dropped down to the cement, and reminded him about the dangers of walking on ice.
Leaving her with the teacher, he walked out of the building briskly. He had time, but never liked the feeling of being rushed. There was something rewarding about getting to work early enough to be able to sit in the car for a moment before going in.
He pulled into the parking garage, and turned off the car. Reaching for his lunch, he nearly jumped.
“MOTHER EFFER!” he shouted. “GOD DANG IT! I know I grabbed it this morning.”
His mind raced to figure out what he would eat for lunch now that he had discovered he left his on the counter.
Walking past the passenger door, his peripheral vision picked up on a grocery sack which looked awfully similar to the ones he packed his lunches in. Turning for confirmation, a shudder of relief almost knocked him off his feet.
“I knew I didn’t forget it,” he said, impressed at his ability to believe a lie.
After A Hard Days Work
Opening the door, he simultaneously managed to drop into the seat, press the brake, insert the key into the ignition, and start the engine. “Finally,” he thought, “I’m outta here.” He turned up the Christmas music and began his drive to pick up some dinner.
He made believe that he hadn’t decided where to go, and ran down the list of options–mostly fast food. He knew, though, that he was only craving one thing. His own version of crack-cocaine. Or at least his own version of crack’s most common feature that the planet’s comedians can’t stop talking about.
Turning into the familiar parking lot, he avoided the enormous dip that surrounded the manhole cover. He got out of the car and noticed there were a couple people waiting in line as he pulled open the door to the restaurant.
He overheard the entire conversation between the current customer and the cashier. It was shocking. The lady had ordered a pizza other than pepperoni or cheese. “Wow!” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. The rarity of the moment caused the cashier to take a moment to place the order during which he noticed three more customers pile in behind him. For a restaurant bent on having its food hot and ready the growing line created a palpable angst. Finally, one lady near the end of the line couldn’t take it any longer and broke the awkward silence. Gripping her cigarette pack with the familiar three-finger cradle, she nervously packed the tobacco against her left hand with the recognizable staccato “thwack! thwack! thwack!” and said, “Man! This place is hoppin’ t’night!” The others rewarded her benevolence with wide-eyed nods and exhaling.
He smiled. Then he wondered if they knew how much he loved them.
Christmas Cookies
Then in the morning, the two of them began their weekend day as usual.
She pleaded “Daaaddy” while prone and unmoving. He went to collect her. As it was the weekend, he convinced her it was to be a lazy day, so more sleep was necessary and allowable. Now in his bed, she seemed to try to sleep. That lasted all of three minutes. After thirty minutes of unsuccessful attempts to quell her, he finally agreed to wake up.
“You forgot my chair,” she reminded him, standing and pointing to the table and chairs.
“That’s right I did,” he groggily responded. “How can you help me make chocolate chip pancakes if you don’t have your chair?”
“I want cocoa puffs,” she confessed.
“Really? That’s too bad. I want chocolate chip pancakes, so that’s what we’re having. It’s going to be a rough life kiddo.”
****
“What kind of cookies are we making?” she wanted to know.
“You’re not going to know them by name, but they’re called peanut butter blossoms. They’re special Christmas cookies.”
“Christmas cookies?”
“Yep.”
“Can I pour it? Can I pour it? Can I pour it?”
“Sure. Be careful, it’s heavy.”
“What’s that daddy?”
“It’s peanut butter.”
“You’re putting peanut butter with the muh-muh-margarine?” she asked, inquisitively seeking proper pronunciation affirmation.
“Yep, that’s what the recipe says to do.”
“Can I stir?”
“Uh, your bowl just has flower. But sure. Go ahead.”
“Look daddy, I’m stirring.”
“Yep, you’re doing a great job.”
“Why are you stirring so fast daddy?”
“Because-”
“Watch me stir fast!”
“Whoa, slow down. Try to keep the ingredients inside the bowl. You didn’t make the mess because you stirred fast, it’s that you didn’t watch what you were doing when you stirred fast. When I stir fast, I’m always watching the bowl. Understand?”
“Like this daddy?” she asked, beginning to speed up while looking him directly in the eye, again seeking approval.
“No silly, you’re still not looking at the bowl.”
“Why are you stirring so fast daddy?”
Luckily, for him, the war had acted as a preparation of sorts for relentless interrogations such as these.
“Just keep stirring your bowl H-.”
Juxtaposing Pejorative Conventions
Sitting in class, he found himself amazed how the successful application of the words juxtapose, pejorative and convention made it abundantly clear these people were serious scholars. Try as he might, over the course of a lifetime he never would discover non-academics offering such tidbits of wisdom as, “Ghetto simply meant neighborhood. It only became pejorative in the 20th century.” Or, “I was just thinking about the ridiculous modern conventions which require us to see differences where there aren’t any.” Or, “More than simply two women having coffee together, the author juxtaposes timeless love with unsustainable passions of the flesh.”
These scholars, in their own right, were a group deserving marvel. They believed they would boldly lead humanity to the Utopian future that always sits ripe for the picking, if people would only reach for it.
Returning from a brief break, he happened upon a group of these beings that had surrounded his chair with the never-ending favorite discussion topic of Americans–diet. Quelling his nausea, he sat down and calmed himself with the reminder that the subject usually provided uncommonly hilarious statements, most often centering around rationalizing some form of a stunning lack of discipline. These intellectuals didn’t disappoint. Below is a record of the dialogue.
“Yeah, I tried doin’ the whole cook-everything-for-the-week-on-Sunday-to-try-to-eat-healthy-during-the-week thing. It just didn’t work. I ended up wasting a lot of the food.”
“Me too. I always start the week off strong, but by Wednesday I get bored with the food.”
“I agree. What I didn’t like was having to thaw things.”
Thawing.
More proof that the saying was true–“If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.”
How To Ruin Food
(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions.)
“I really shouldn’t eat this, what with it containing 12 grams of saturated fat. Oh well, I’ll put in extra time at the gym tonight,” he said scarfing down the burger.
“I know. I really went overboard last weekend on the late night snacking. I think I ate two entire bags of chips and salsa,” she replied in kind.
They continued this way for the duration of the time it took for them to wolf down other foods they shouldn’t eat because of words and numbers on the packaging. I know because I was eating with them. You see, they were my friends. I hadn’t seen them in such a long time, and I had finally made time to grab a bite to catch up with them. By the time the food–if we can even call it that anymore–was finished, I was able to ask, “So how’s life? What have you been up to?”
“It’s good. Really good. Oh, but look at the time. I really need to get going if I’m going to make it to the restaurant on time after work tonight. I really need to stop eating out so much,” she said.
Instruction for How To Ruin Food
Step 1 – Believe that there is any relationship between nutritional facts and self-discipline.
Step 2 – State the relationship.
Step 3 – Repeat Step 2 until time runs out.
Captain’s Log 