Food

The “Pepper Incident” and Other Liquid Legacies

When I was growing up, my family was not known to waste much of anything. My kids realized long ago that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree on that one. We ate our “warmups” (leftovers), and one of the biggest tragedies of my youth was the infamous “Pepper Incident.” My mom had chopped up a batch of peppers and froze them alongside every loaf of bread and pack of buns in the freezer. Whether freezer bags just didn’t seal as well back then or it was a secret plot to get me to eat less carbs, the result was a catastrophe. For months, every hamburger or hot dog bun I touched had a distinct, inescapable “pepper vibe.” It ruined the protein and ensured I wouldn’t become a fan of peppers for decades. In fact, it got so bad I started opting for plain bread—which, in those days, my father bought in “old” bags at a substantial discount. If we didn’t freeze it immediately, that bread was destined to host its own thriving mold colony.

The Mystery at the Dinner Table

But I digress. My mother’s efficiency didn’t stop at peppers. She’d often drain the juice from canned fruits because the recipe didn’t require it. What do you do with a cup of random fruit juice sitting in the fridge? You pour it into the Kool-Aid container with whatever flavor was already there.

Dinner became a game of Russian Roulette for the taste buds. I wasn’t one to hold back. After the first sip, I’d ask, “What exactly did you mix up for us tonight?” My mother didn’t mean any harm; she was just being efficient. But those flavor potpourris made an impression—one that would eventually haunt my own children.

Upping the Ante: The Bus Stop Games

When my sons were in elementary school, they took a shuttle bus to a pickup location near our home. To show them I was thinking about them, I’d bring a snack and a drink. The snack was the easy part. The drink was where I “kicked it up a notch.”

The game was simple: “Guess What You Are Drinking?” At my disposal, I had various fruit juices, every Kool-Aid packet known to man, and a set of food coloring bottles. I’d create concoctions that looked like pond water (minus the floaties) but were guaranteed to be drinkable. This was before the pickle juice craze, so I kept it somewhat civil.

The heart of the game was “taste-budding out” the flavors dancing over their palates. I’d offer partial credit—when you’re mixing two types of Kool-Aid, a splash of pear juice, and blue food dye, you can’t exactly expect perfection. They participated because they knew I wasn’t required to bring a snack, and perhaps because of the unspoken rule: If you don’t drink today’s mystery, there might not be one tomorrow. (I never did mention that part to their mother.)

The “Fun Grandpa” Era

I’d like to say I made everything fun for them growing up, but I didn’t. Like anyone, I had my cranky days. But as I spend time with my granddaughter now—occasionally offering a capful of Gatorade as a “chaser” after her bottle of formula—I hope I lean heavier into the fun side of the ledger.

If you can’t be a perfect parent, make sure you mix in enough quirky and fun to help the natives forget the days you didn’t quite “nail it.”

The “Get-To” vs. The “Have-To”

I’m currently coming off a 60-day streak from my other blog, and I’m protective of that momentum. With “Grandpa’s Daycare” eating up about 30 hours of my week, I never truly know which day will be the one where the wheels fall off. My goal for this past weekend was simple: bank a three-day buffer of posts so I could breathe.

I missed that goal by 100%.

It started Saturday at 4:30 AM with an airport run for my wife. Here’s what 4:30 AM looks like: three cars on the road, darkness that makes 7:30 AM look like high noon, and a version of me with zero sarcasm loaded. I’m a sarcastic person by nature — it’s basically my factory setting — but apparently it doesn’t boot up until after sunrise. My wit didn’t come back online until I was halfway home, alone, with no one to appreciate it.

That low-grade exhaustion shadowed me the rest of the day. My son and his fiancée came over for quality baby time, and my job quietly shifted. My future DIL is anxious to start her own family, so when she’s in the room, my grandpa instincts take a back seat. My real role became reading the baby’s cues and redirecting — making sure the DIL banked every possible minute of the Ellie experience she craved. I’m not just watching my grandkid grow. I’m watching my future family grow.

I wasn’t exactly winning “Host of the Year,” but the baby stayed alive, so I’ll call it a win.

Then came Sunday. And the Eggplant Experiment.

My son wanted to make Eggplant Parmesan, which — fine. Noble ambition. The problem was his vision was… limited. One small eggplant will not feed a crowd. Bread it, fry it, done. No sauce. No provolone. No oven time. Now, most of his cooking lives in the Instant Pot or air fryer, clean and contained. Hand him a pan and grease, and you’ve introduced variables: splatter, smoke, and a look on his face that says he’s improvising in real time. Sensing a nutritional void and a quiet anti-eggplant contingency in the house, I scrambled. I resurrected some chicken parm from Thursday night, prayed I could add enough juiciness to make the “recycle” respectable. By then, the endless volley of “Where is the…?” and “How do I…?” questions had made any hope of retreating to my den to bank those blog posts evaporate.

Dinner blurred for me. After the dishes were cleared, my reward for the day was another airport run to pick up my wife. I felt a little guilty about leaving the house mid-activity, told the kids so, and then spent the drive enjoying fifteen minutes without anyone asking me where anything was. Getting her home before 8:30 PM is a world better than an 11:00 PM pickup. Some wins are quiet.

Later, sitting with zero banked posts and approximately zero relaxation, I chewed on that question from my future DIL — something rooted in our faith, about whether certain things we’re called to do feel more like obligation than privilege. “Do you get it?” The contrast she was drawing: some things in the Christian life aren’t always fun, but with the right mindset, you get to participate in something most people don’t even realize is available to them.

As I thought about this question, I reviewed my weekend. Do I get it?

Yes. I get a life so full of stories I don’t have time to write them all. I get to be a dad and a granddad multiple times a day. I get to cook for people I love — and not every time I do, do I feel grateful, I’ll be honest. But if I have to cook anyway, I might as well frame it as a “get to” rather than a “have to.” The food tastes the same either way. The choice is just which version of yourself shows up at the table.

When you’re exhausted, it can all feel like a “have-to.” But it’s a “get-to” that most people would pay a premium for.

The Accidental Friday Tradition

The Hockey Boy Breakfast started innocently.

When we were billets (We billet the hockey boys, and we call them “our billets.” They might call us billet parents. Everyone is flexible with the words.) for the Lone Star Brahmas in North Richland Hills, we had four boys staying with us for the season. Feeding four teenage hockey players breakfast on a Friday morning seemed reasonable. Noble, even.

Somewhere between “Sure, you guys can come over” and “Why are there 11 giants in my kitchen?” the ranks swelled.

By mid-season, 8–12 boys would drift in every Friday after their morning skate before a home game. They didn’t knock so much as appear, all six-foot-three in team-issued hoodies with some smaller guys with equal appetites.

And just like that, it became a tradition.

The Menu (We Don’t Cut Corners)

The core lineup has never changed: bacon, pancakes, eggs, and orange juice.

This is not a minimalist operation.

When egg prices briefly required a small business loan, we did not flinch. We accepted a few donations from parents, yes — but corners were not cut. If anything, we leaned in harder.

Time crunch? French toast casserole goes in the oven.

Waffles? Tried it. The logistical gymnastics required to produce enough waffles for a hockey roster was not worth the microscopic increase in joy. Teenage boys are equal-opportunity syrup consumers. Soft pancake, crispy waffle — their gratitude level remains statistically identical.

Whipped cream in a can? Available. Hot sauce for eggs? Upon request.

We are not amateurs.

Stovetop Combat

In the early days, bacon was war.

Two pans on the stove. Sometimes, three if sausage joined the party. Six pounds of bacon. Occasionally more. Cook time: 1.5+ hours with constant monitoring.

The boys would consume nearly all of it with the detached appreciation of men who have never purchased groceries.

What they did not see was the slow accumulation of bacon grease. When you don’t drain it after every batch — because you’re in a hurry and slightly overconfident — it builds. It speeds cooking. It also splatters like it holds a personal grudge against your forearms.

There were casualties. Mostly mine.

The Upgrade

Now that we’re billeting in OKC, I’ve made two major adjustments.

First: thickness. We have graduated from budget grocery bacon to Sam’s Club extra-thick, this-is-a-commitment bacon. We have standards.

Second: the oven.

Two cookie sheets. Parchment paper. 400 degrees. Allegedly 20 minutes. (This is optimistic with thick bacon. I am just quoting my search results.)

Is the timing perfect? No. Is it more predictable than grease artillery fire? Yes. Do the boys care how I cook the bacon? No. Do the boys care how thick the bacon is? They would eat bacon steaks if I could cook them!

All they care about is the smell and the fatty flavor of the thick bacon.

When they walk in after morning skate and the entire house smells like bacon, their mood shifts instantly. You can see it. Hockey intensity melts into something softer. They sit around the table, start loading up, and become calorie-intake machines.

That smell is the real welcome sign.

Why We Keep Doing It

Does it cost time? Yes. Does it cost money? Also yes.

If efficiency were the goal, this tradition would have died in week three.

We do it because these are our billet boys.

Sure, I like to imagine one of them occasionally thinking, “Wow, we’ve got great billet parents.” That might happen.

But let’s be honest. The more likely recruiting pitch is: “Hey guys, my billet parents make this killer thick bacon on Fridays. You should come over.”

And that’s fine with me.

When you feed 10–12 teenage hockey players carbs and protein in your kitchen, something happens. You learn names, personalities, and which one of them will absolutely forget to load their fork in the dishwasher.

And that night at the rink, it changes how you watch.

“Hey, dear — that guy was at our breakfast this morning.”

Suddenly, it’s not just a roster. It’s our boys.

The Warmups (And the Leftovers)

Sometimes there’s an afternoon encore.

When our granddaughter gets dropped off on Friday, pancakes mysteriously appear on her high chair tray. My son-in-law leaves with a plate of protein and carbs because he knows better than to refuse free bacon.

And if there’s an especially heroic amount left over? It gets chopped up for pizza night. Chicken BBQ and meat lovers, no bacon left behind.

What Sticks

Long after the season ends, I have a feeling the boys won’t remember the exact score of some random Friday night home game.

But they might remember the smell of thick-cut bacon when they walked in the door.

And that’s worth every splatter.

The Price of a Name (and a Perk)

I proposed to her on my birthday thirty-five years ago. It was the best gift I ever got, but it also kicked off a season of high-stakes negotiations. Back then—before kids, mortgages, minivans, and the general sense that I should stretch before standing up—we hit the big question: What are we calling ourselves once we’re married?

She was a freshly minted attorney, which meant this wasn’t the old-fashioned “she’ll take your name” layup I thought it might be. I tried logic. I tried the “think of the children” argument. I probably even tried sounding worldly and modern, which I absolutely was not. But attorneys don’t accept logic as payment. They want terms.

So, I started mentally inventorying what I could offer in a trade. She didn’t smoke, so I couldn’t nobly quit smoking. She wasn’t a vegetarian, so I didn’t have to pretend tofu was a personality. But there was one thing she loved with the kind of devotion usually reserved for religion or college football.

Coffee.

She treated coffee like a constitutional right—after dinner, with dessert, on weekends, on weekdays. Meanwhile, I had never intentionally purchased a cup in my life. The only coffee I’d ever choked down was during an in-home sales job when a customer brought me a piece of apple pie and a black coffee. I wanted the sale, so I drank that lukewarm battery acid like it was a dare, praying my stomach wouldn’t stage a coup on the drive home.

During those months of seating charts and cake tastings, I figured coffee might be the ultimate bargaining chip to seal the deal on the name. It turns out there was no real wrinkle at all; she would’ve taken my name without requiring caffeine-based reparations. She just wanted to see me sweat a little.

But here’s the twist: I ended up liking the stuff.

Thirty-five years later, I like it for breakfast with my peanut‑butter bagel. I sometimes like the quiet of an afternoon cup with something sweet. And most of all, I like bringing her morning refills. It feels like one of those tiny, everyday vows you keep long after the wedding is over.

In the end, she got the name, I got a lifelong habit, and we both got the better end of the deal.

The Fridge Commissioner (Revised Season)

My wife is definitely trying to lose weight, and I’m always “open to the idea” myself. That’s the problem with warm-ups — leftovers, for the uninitiated. They’re the enemy of dieting. They sit there in the fridge, looking innocent, but they know exactly what they’re doing. They whisper. They tempt. They multiply.

And because I hate throwing food away, I’m the one who ends up eating them. I haven’t had a protein shake for lunch in over two weeks. Not because I’m committed to a new lifestyle, but because I’m cleaning up “a little of this and a little of that” like a man who’s been drafted into a war he didn’t sign up for.

This is how I became the Fridge Commissioner — the guy who makes the final call on what gets saved, what gets pitched, and what gets eaten out of sheer guilt. It’s not glamorous work. No one thanks you for it. But if the containers start overflowing, I’m the one who has to step in before the fridge becomes a crime scene.

Meanwhile, the hockey boys are still here. They like home-cooked meals, and we like cooking them. The day of preparation is never the issue. It’s everything after that.

In past seasons, the boys helped with warm-ups. They’d eat anything. They were like friendly garbage disposals with good attitudes. And here’s the thing I didn’t realize at the time: an empty fridge meant something. It meant we’d made something worth eating twice. It meant I was good at this.

This year? Different story.

Unless it’s pizza or a particular favorite, the containers just sit there. The boys seem to have more money for eating out than I ever did at their age. They roll in with bags from places I didn’t even know teenagers frequented (Still plenty of Chipotle, too.) . And they shower constantly — ten times a day, by my estimate. If they get up on the wrong side of the bed, that’s apparently grounds for a shower. If they breathe wrong, shower. If they think about showering, shower.

We’re compensated for feeding them and providing water access, but still — the warm-ups remain untouched. Which means I have no idea if Tuesday’s chicken was actually good or just good enough to eat once.

It wasn’t always like this. When our kids were younger, we had a whole system. If we cleaned out a bunch of warm-ups in one night, there was a reward. Empty containers meant progress. Some of the food combinations that ended up in the same bowl should never have been introduced to each other, but it didn’t matter. Dad was happy, the fridge had breathing room, and the kids got Dairy Queen or homemade blizzards. Warm-up bait worked every time.

These methods do not work on hockey players.

The only strategy that works with them — and with my wife dieting — is simple: only make what will be eaten that night. No leftovers. No warm-ups. No fridge archaeology. It does mean that someone wandering downstairs at 9:30 (usually a hockey boy) won’t have many options, but that’s what chicken nuggets and the air fryer are for. They’ll survive.

I’ve also had to accept that I sometimes care about the meal more than they do. Hockey boys don’t always say “great meal” or “thanks for cooking.” They’re not rude about it, they’re just teenagers. But I used to get the feedback anyway. Empty containers were the review. If the warm-ups disappeared, I’d won.

Now I make one meal and move on. No encores. No second-day votes of confidence.

Still… some of our meals make really good warm-ups. And that’s the tragedy of it all.

The Retirement of a Workhorse: A Eulogy in Carnitas

The spices were piled on the pork butt with the jalapenos on top.

Sunday’s lunch was a milestone. Our youngest grandchild was dedicated at church—and while she is currently our only grandchild, we speak of her in terms that suggest a full basketball team is waiting on the bench for the coach to send them in. My daughter and son-in-law were surrounded by family, and the day felt appropriately momentous.

My wife had volunteered to host the meal, and we eventually settled on our signature carnitas. It’s a “start it the night before” kind of meal, which is much kinder to the nerves than trying to crank out chicken on a grill after church. I even snapped a photo of the full crockpot for the family cookbook I’m assembling, blissfully unaware it would be the machine’s final portrait.

The Last Supper (Lunch really, but “supper” sounds more foreboding)

The meal was a triumph. Eleven of us (counting the guest of honor) kept the conversation lively while a significant portion of the carnitas disappeared.

The Great Escape

As the party wound down and the cleanup began, the grace extended to our seasoned crockpot was forgotten. The front panel sticker—the one that actually tells you what the buttons do—finally gave up the ghost and peeled off.

But the real issue wasn’t aesthetic. My wife discovered a pool of carnitas broth on the floor when we got up in the morning. This pork shoulder had more fat than usual, and as it rendered overnight, the broth level rose. The lid no longer sealed tight against the pot. Once the liquid peaked past the dome, the leak allowed the brothy contents to escape.

To the Picnic in the Sky

This crockpot had served us for at least sixteen years. We brought it from Ohio. It outlasted its predecessor, which met its end when I dropped a frozen pork loin into it and cracked the crock clean in two.

Fate—or perhaps a premonition—had intervened a week earlier when we spotted a deal on a slightly larger model at Sam’s Club. With a successor already waiting in the wings, we sent the old crockpot to that great church picnic in the sky.

No gold watch. Just gratitude for sixteen years of carnitas.

Big Bones and the BMI That Never Stood a Chance

My mother always had an explanation ready for why I never fit the BMI chart. She didn’t need science or statistics — she had something better: maternal confidence. She’d look at me, shrug like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and say, “You just have big bones.”

That was her entire medical opinion. No copay required.

And honestly, she wasn’t wrong about the spirit of it. I’ve never fit the chart. Not as a kid in a small Christian school where the gene pool was basically a puddle. Not in the country high school where the puddle got wider but not deeper. Not even after Basic Training, when I briefly achieved the closest thing to “normal” the BMI would ever allow.

My job growing up was simple: be big, look athletic enough, and protect my brain from whatever forces were trying to keep it from reaching its potential. After Basic Training, the weight came back like it had been waiting in the car the whole time. It’s been remarkably consistent ever since. My clothes from years ago still fit. My doctors have stopped giving me the “you should lose some weight” speech. At this point, my body is about as predictable as my electric bill or my bedtime.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that not fitting the chart doesn’t mean something is wrong with you. Sometimes the chart just wasn’t designed with you in mind. Sometimes the chart is wrong. Sometimes the chart needs to mind its own business.

Everyone has something that knocks them out of the norm. Mine just happens to be visible on a scale. Yours might be hiding in your personality, your habits, or that one hobby you don’t tell people about until you know them well enough.

These days, my attempts to lose weight fall into the “sure, why not” category. Occasionally I even “sympathy diet” with my wife when she decides she likes food more than me — which isn’t true, but chocolate is a close second. Mostly, though, I’ve learned to lean into the areas where I can be judged on merit instead of metrics created to make everyone feel like they’re supposed to fit into the same box.

I’m not my BMI. I’m not my weight. I’m not even my mother’s “big bones,” though I’ll admit the line has aged surprisingly well.

So no, I don’t fit the chart. I probably never will. But the chart never really knew what to do with me anyway.

Please Pass the Andy: A Branson Brew-tale

We were still figuring out the breakfast routine at our Branson hotel—you know, the kind of operation where half the guests are still wearing pajama pants at 9:30 a.m. and the other half are fighting over the last pre-wrapped blueberry muffin.

While my wife held the line like a buffet champion, I took on the critical task of table scouting and coffee procurement. Mission: caffeine.

At the coffee station, I patiently waited for the staff member who was restocking styrofoam cups—a noble cause. Once the cups were unlocked from their plastic prison, I did what any caffeine-conscious adult does: filled two cups halfway. One half with regular. The other half with decaf. Because I like my heart to beat with enthusiasm, not sprint toward cardiac arrest.

Trying to be helpful, the staffer tucked herself out of the way… directly in front of the decaf. Classic move. When she noticed, she smiled and said,
“You know how iced tea and lemonade is called an Arnold Palmer? We need a name for half-caf, half-decaf coffee.”

Without missing a beat, I agreed—because that’s a brilliant idea and my caffeine-deprived brain wasn’t ready to debate anything.

As I moved on to cream-and-sugar land, she came back and asked,
“Sir, what’s your name?”
I told her, “Andy.”

She grinned. “That’s the name! From now on, half-caf/half-decaf is officially an Andy.”

So there you have it. The next time you need just the right balance between hyper and nap time, order yourself an Andy. Born in Branson. Destined for coffee shop chalkboards everywhere.

You heard it here first. #JustAndyThings ☕

The Seventh Decade Shuffle: New Moves, Old Joints, and Unexpected Beats

Entering my seventh decade feels a bit like joining a new season of “Dancing with the Stars”—except the stars are my grandkids, my doctor, and the ever-present siren call of retirement planning. Here’s how the choreography is going so far:

1. The Weighty Waltz

Walking daily used to keep the “pound demons” at bay.
Now?

  • The demons apparently have better cardio than I do.
  • Is it my slower pace, shorter distance, or is my body still in mourning for the Texas trails I left behind?
  • Oklahoma, you’ve got big walking shoes to fill.

2. The Lab Report Rumba

Yearly physicals now come with a side of mystery:

  • “Good news: your liver and kidneys are happy campers! But why is your potassium doing the cha-cha?”
  • Turns out, swapping candy for nuts and raisins comes with its own plot twist—sky-high potassium.
  • Considering switching to cranberries, but they just don’t have the same snack-appeal.
  • Even my daily Sonic Iced Tea is under nutritional review. Next up: water, but only if garnished with denial.

3. The Proximity Polka

For the first time in years, I’m within 25 minutes of two of my kids—and a grandchild!

  • After the nomadic years of college, internships, and “that little COVID reunion,” this is a big change.
  • New grandparent dance moves required. Baby steps, literally.

4. The Retirement Riff

Testing out the “retirement dance”:

  • What will it look like when my wife and I both retire?
  • Will we be waltzing into the sunset, or quickstepping around health insurance premiums?
  • She might keep consulting to protect our nest egg from an early molt.

5. The Local Loop (or, The Costco Conga)

New city, new adventures! Or, at least, new routes to Sam’s, Costco, Aldi, and Chick-Fil-A.

  • If exploring means discovering a new traffic light between me and a chicken sandwich, consider me Magellan.

6. The Pickup Truck Two-Step

Still driving the Sienna van to Home Depot.

  • I throw down the seats and hope no one notices me hauling mulch with minivan swagger.
  • Someday, I’ll get a truck—and finally earn those approving nods from fellow DIYers.

7. The Flexibility Foxtrot

Kids nearby today, but maybe not tomorrow.

  • Any comfort I find in this house or city could be temporary—family migration is always a possibility.
  • Like any good dancer, I need to stay light on my feet (and limber in the mind).

Final Bow

No dread—just anticipation. This decade will reveal its steps with or without my rhythm. While my bones are still flexible (ish), my mind has some catching up to do. Admitting it is my first move toward embracing the dance.

May your seventh-decade shuffle be full of laughs, love, and only the occasional pulled muscle.

When Brisket Bites Back: A Tale of Smoked Hubris and Redemption

Act 1: The Brisket Blunder

Saturday’s dinner was supposed to be a triumph of smoked meat. The sides were flawless, the company delightful, but the brisket… oh, the brisket. The first three hours on the smoker gave us hope. Then Judy made a quick trip to Abby’s, and apparently, the brisket decided to use this window for its escape from “tender” into “chewy boot leather.”

Approximately one-third of the brisket was edible. The rest? Let’s just say it would have made a fine rubber band collection.

Act 2: CSI: Brisket Edition

We launched an investigation:

  • Was it the missing orange juice when we wrapped it in foil? This is our favorite theory, as it makes us look less incompetent.
  • Was it the smoker running too hot? (We plead the Fifth.)
  • Did I over-trim it? Possibly. Maybe. Okay, likely.

No matter the cause, our brisket won’t be joining our greatest hits playlist any time soon. And after two out of three brisket fails with the kids, we’re keeping the next attempt private. I’d rather have a meal as a backdrop for conversation than as a reason for continuous apologies.

Act 3: The Vegetarian Perspective

There was one bright spot: our resident vegetarian gave the meal an “A.” Black bean burgers, veggies, all the fixings—she was blissfully unaware of the brisket fiasco. Sometimes it pays to skip the main course.

Act 4: Sweet Redemption

Thank goodness for blondie brownies and ice cream. Dessert provided just enough sugar to help us forget our meaty missteps.

The next night, we redeemed ourselves with fajitas—chicken grilled to perfection (thanks, 10+ years of chicken experience!). Judy and I shamelessly angled for compliments, and the kids, to their credit, tossed us a few. The watermelon and street corn were the real MVPs, making the meal feel like a true celebration.

Epilogue: A Weekend Turnaround

We finished the weekend on a culinary high—proving once again that while brisket may occasionally defeat us, chicken (and dessert) will always have our backs.