Food

The First Day We Owned a Car

For nearly three years, we lived inside a corporate-sponsored auto utopia where cars appeared, tires got rotated, and nobody asked us about titles or GAP coverage. When my wife’s job changed, that ended. We looked at the cars, realized we liked them, and bought the exact same ones we’d already been driving. No test drives, no salesman with a clipboard—we already knew where all the cupholders were.

Because the cars came through her job, Judy’s the official buyer. Which meant either a power of attorney got signed, or she handles the plates herself. I prefer the second option.

The titles were taking a while. Wedding planning was not, because we were simultaneously finding a replacement photographer and helping the bride and groom absorb the casual bombshell that their caterer was closing a few weeks after the reception. Will the staff hold up? Will the food? I have no idea—I’m not paying for it, which is apparently the exact point where my opinion expires.

Judy emailed Toyota asking for a status update. That afternoon, the titles showed up via FedEx Next Day. I saw the email she sent. It was not the kind of prose that normally bends interstate logistics to its will, but somehow a file moved from limbo to “arrived” on Friday, May 8th. The paperwork had finally caught up to reality—we’d had insurance since the day we came off the lease, and technically owned the cars before the titles showed up, but this was the moment it was all official.

We headed southwest to Newcastle for dinner. When you spend your days with a grandchild, getting out and going somewhere becomes necessary for everyone involved. We picked an Italian place that was probably better than this review. The eggplant parmigiana leaned heavily toward breading, with the eggplant in more of a supporting role. Judy’s meatballs fully met expectations, which is really all meatballs are ever trying to do. The door had a sign: “Your first two breadsticks are Free.” They were fine. The dipping sauce was the real overachiever.

Walking out, the clouds had clearly decided Newcastle needed to be included in whatever was happening to the north.

Rain started as we got in the car. Then hail. And why do we call them hailstones? Stones sounds peaceful, geological. These sounded like someone upstairs had a personal grievance with our roof. We pulled off at the first exit and tried to dodge the bigger ones—the hail decides where it lands and you’re basically just emotionally participating in your own damage. Most of it was pea-sized, but every storm has a few overachievers.

The real problem was traffic. Our first exit east off 44 is everybody’s first exit east off 44, and the stop sign that’s normally fine turned into a quarter-mile line of vehicles getting assaulted by ice. No Batmobile button. No bulletproof mode. Just “accept everything the sky wants to give you.”

Through all of it, Judy narrated the car’s suffering. My poor car. What is going on out there? My poor car doesn’t deserve this. She was right, too—we’d driven those cars for three years without a single hail dent. The first day the paperwork made them officially ours, the heavens started freelancing as a body shop.

Eventually traffic moved. Judy declined to perform the traditional Oklahoma courtesy wave at the stop sign and took everyone’s patience as a green light. She shot home, pulled into the garage at speed, skipped the obstacle inspection entirely. We’re grandparents with bases for future car seats already stockpiled in there—none of them were harmed.

Back inside, hail was piled in the flower beds. The yard looked like the weather had thrown a tantrum. We got in the hot tub anyway, because if life lightly damages your property, the reasonable response is warm water and mild defiance.

Later, in pajamas, we noticed the FedEx envelope on the counter. The titles. Official proof we owned the cars. We’d driven them for three years through every Oklahoma storm without incident, and on the day the paperwork finally arrived—that.

I could decide life is unfair. Or I could go with the version that preserves my sanity: God has a sense of humor, and Friday was a gentle reminder about who’s actually steering. I’m glad he’s jovial. I’m especially glad he didn’t laugh harder.

The Scouting Report

My wife plans our vacations. I show up. She books the excursions, maps the sea days, and treats the whole operation like a project with deliverables. I am the deliverable. So when she said we needed to scout Bricktown Brewery before Thursday’s call with the event coordinator, I understood my assignment.

Getting out the door first required a small act of theater. Our daughter was coming to pick up Ellie, but she had to walk the dog first. To be ready the moment she arrived, I had to get myself changed, which meant deploying every distraction technique available to a grandfather who did not want to be late. No closets were involved. Barely.

Downtown OKC at 5:00 is not gridlock, but it’s a reminder the city has grown. We made it in about 25 minutes from the south side, including the obligatory backup at our subdivision. On the drive, I thought about what my other son said when he was up for the wedding shower: “Oklahoma is like a scaled-down Texas.” I get it. Texas is crowded and very sure of itself, and I miss parts of it. Not that part.

Parking across the street ran nearly $17 for two hours. Convenient, noted, never recommending it to family members who drove 12 hours and already think Oklahoma is a flyover state.

The windows of the brewery were covered in Thunder graphics. OKC up 1-0 on the Lakers, the city doing its collective thing. Depending how the series goes, there might even be a home game that weekend—but even without that, late May in Oklahoma is always worth celebrating for the simple fact that tornado season is almost over.

Inside, we were seated immediately. We asked about specials. Our waiter had just received a text that apparently required his full attention, so we got something between an answer and a guess. We ordered chicken sandwiches anyway—hers with slaw, mine Nashville hot—and moved on.

While waiting on our food, my wife went upstairs to inspect the event space. Her checklist: could 8-9 tables fit comfortably, and would there be a microphone for announcements? The microphone question matters. She’s the polished one. If you want clean and professional, you hand it to her. If you want a slip of the tongue and at least one rabbit trail the audience has to wade through, you hand it to me. I’ll be involved if necessary. She knows this about me.

She came back down with photos. Plenty of room. Then came the menu conversation—proteins, vegetarian options for about 10% of the crowd, which menu pages to photograph before the call. She took pictures of everything. I suggested tenders. She didn’t reject the idea.

We paid with a gift card from one of our hockey boys. I can’t remember if it was after we helped him through totaling his car or after Judy wrote his college recommendation letter—probably the letter. Her recommendations are tight and punchy. Mine tend to wander into the fourth paragraph before making the point, which is why she writes them and I don’t.

On the way out, she made her notes for Thursday’s call. Cheaper parking options. Menu decisions. Headcount confirmed. As we drove home, we noticed how close the river walk was to the parking lot—a possible quiet end to the night before the wedding, weather and family chaos permitting.

Somewhere under Mother’s Day and our son’s birthday, our anniversary will pass this weekend without much ceremony. But tonight we had a meal together in a city we’ve grown to love, watching Judy do the thing she does—prepared, thorough, thinking three steps ahead—and I thought about how all that early penny-pinching gave us this. A good town. Kids nearby. A son getting married.

Thirty-five years. I genuinely don’t know how we got here, and I’m not entirely sure why she stayed. She says it isn’t pity. I’m going with sense of humor. It’s the only explanation that holds up.

Humbled at the Exit

This morning started as a routine errand run. Somewhere between the hot tub and Sam’s Club, it turned into a humbling I didn’t see coming.

Four weeks of “scoop of this, scoop of that” Sunday night chemistry had produced a layer of something on the water that my wife found less than inviting. Fair. My self-appointed title of Hot Tub Chemist Extraordinaire was officially under review, so the first stop was Leslie’s for a free water test—which I will keep using indefinitely while buying all my chemicals online at half the price. I’m aware of the irony. I do like the woman who tells me I’ve been neglectful, and those few minutes of conversation aren’t nothing when your social calendar is on the quieter side.

Dry acid, some chlorine. Reputation partially restored.

Sam’s next, because the fridge needed actual food. My wife hosted a terrific wedding shower for our son’s fiancée, and the leftover situation had become a caloric hazard. My body was asking for roasted vegetables. Gas was $3.699, which felt like a small win. I loaded up on Brussels sprouts, cauliflower, broccoli, Gatorade, and a case of water—placed carefully on the bottom of the cart by a man who had no idea what was coming.

I love the Sam’s scan-and-go app. There’s something satisfying about walking past the checkout lanes knowing you’ve already handled it. I scanned everything, flipped items for barcodes, did my due diligence. Before paying, the app asked me to count my items. I counted twice. Got 17, then 16. The app said 16. I had multiple quantities of a couple things, so I figured that explained the gap and moved on without a tiebreaker count.

The door checker didn’t wave me through like usual. She scanned the water sitting on the bottom of my cart.

“You didn’t pay for this.”

Not a question.

She moved toward the Gatorade next—I held my breath—but that one was on the receipt. Instead of escorting me to what I can only imagine is a folding chair near customer service where you sit and think about your choices, she added the water to my account on the spot. Civilized. Quiet. More dignity than I’d earned.

Next time I’ll probably just use the regular checkout. Or bring my daughter, who has a reliable way of keeping my gray-matter moments from becoming public events.

I always say I’m glad when God keeps me humble. Even more glad when it only costs me my pride—a lot cheaper than a speeding ticket.

I Love You More Before 8 P.M

I had a busy day.

Not “storming the beaches of Normandy” busy, but “Oklahoma suburban dad with three doctors, a land rush anniversary, and a fajita deadline” busy. By the time it was over, my social skills had clocked out at 5 p.m. and left the rest of me to freelance the damage.

Fun fact: this particular Tuesday in Oklahoma is the anniversary of the Land Run of 1889. It’s the day people lined up, waited for the cannon, and sprinted for free dirt. The nickname “Sooners” came from the folks who slipped out before the start time. They didn’t cheat; they just identified as “time-flexible.” Meanwhile, I wasn’t cheating anything. I was just trying to survive my schedule.

The day started with me putting the final touches on a project I lovingly call “Bleeding the Benefits Dry” at my wife’s employer. The schedule was aggressive. Some men are made for times like this. I am not one of those men — I am, however, just enough of one to say yes and then regret it in stages.

First stop: the dentist. Routine cleaning, plus a cavity that earned me a bonus visit the next day. On Day One, I wore a bright turquoise shirt. On Day Two, I wore red. I could have worn the same pants, but I cannot let the dental staff know I am capable of a multi-day streak with the same shirt. There are mysteries I prefer to keep between me and my laundry basket. The cavity fill itself was painless. The drill fired up right as Huey Lewis and the News started singing “Heart and Soul,” which felt like my molar’s last request.

From there, the GPS announced I’d arrive at the dermatologist in NW OKC with less than ten minutes to spare. I did what was necessary to buy a little more time and arrived in reasonable shape. Once inside, they weighed me and generously shared my BMI while I was still fully dressed, shoes and all. I’m fairly certain Mr. Body Mass Index never intended his invention to be used in “winter coat plus wallet” mode, but here we are.

The doctor came in apologizing about thin walls and how they talk to reduce stress. What I learned next was that Integris has decided dermatology is now a luxury, and they’re dropping coverage. My earlier-in-the-week appointment turned out to be a minor miracle of timing. The doc, however, was locked and loaded with his cryotherapy gun and not afraid to use it. He addressed a couple of spots on my back and one in my eyebrow — an old acquaintance, originally treated twelve and a half years ago after a trip to China. Most spots barely registered on the “Did you do something, Doc?” scale. The eyebrow one probably wasn’t cancerous, he said; it was just growing with more enthusiasm than I wanted on my face. He double-tapped it and sent it to keratosis jail. If anyone wants to post bail, they’re welcome to it. I don’t need that barnacle of aging marring the wrinkles and other disfigurements already collecting on my face.

Parting instructions: a blister may form. Don’t pop it. It’s nature’s band-aid. Use Vaseline.

I am a man who now has Vaseline on his mental checklist.

The GPS said I could make it home before Ellie woke up. The gas gauge disagreed. The next driver is also my wife, so I filled the tank and accepted I’d be a few minutes late. Marriages are built on these small surrenders.

She was still sleeping when I arrived, which gave me a short breather. When she woke at noon, I was on duty until 3:15. She got her bottle and then spent forty-five minutes making faces and drooling all over her peanut butter toast. She’s operating on gum-and-slobber settings right now, but the volume of drool and the frequency of bib changes suggest teeth are on the way. The afternoon was mostly play and exploration, followed by the subtle art of convincing her it was nap time. Grandpa has his methods. None are scientifically validated, but they eventually work.

Before she was up again, I slipped out to the eye doctor. I paid the small fee for the retinal camera instead of the dilation drops — quick, easy, no blurry afternoon to manage. I aced the vision test. My prescription hasn’t changed. The doctor couldn’t find the floaters or the Fuchs’ Iris Crypts. Boring is good. I awarded this the Best Doctor Appointment of the Day, an honor it earned simply by not finding anything worth worrying about.

One grocery run for guacamole fixings later, and I was home for dinner. My daughter had already sliced the peppers and onions and put them in the oven to roast. There was marinated chicken to grill and Ellie to entertain. When we sat down, we could have won a regional Mexican condiment award: homemade guac, cilantro salsa, and street corn dip, with strawberry shortcake queued up for dessert. It was a good dinner. The kind of good that tricks you into thinking you still have gas left in the tank.

After dinner, my son and I took a walk. He filled me in on honeymoon plans and some work challenges. Good conversation. But when we got back, I was already sliding toward wind-down mode, and I retreated to the den hoping my wife and I could salvage some TV time together.

That was the plan.

That was not what happened.

His fiancée came over for strawberry shortcake and, more dangerously, conversation. I sat in the den watching the clock, wondering at what point a household should put a “Closed” sign on dessert service. My daughter, who had been at the house most of the day working her online job while we babysat, wrapped up her final call around 9:20.

That was my moment.

I walked out of the den and announced: “Everybody needs to leave so I can get ready for bed. I had a busy day and I am tired.”

That line doesn’t invite much counter-dialogue. They shut down their conversations and headed for the door. My son walked his fiancée home. He probably apologized on my behalf and explained it wasn’t personal — just one of his dad’s quirks. That is, unfortunately, a very accurate assessment.

Here’s what I know about myself after all these years: I’m usually a happy, snarky guy. But when the tank is empty and the façade runs out, I become a less pleasant version of myself. He is not the one you want at game night or in a room full of people who are still wide awake and full of things to say. The den is supposed to be where I go to keep him contained. Sometimes it’s just where he simmers until he needs to vent. I am responsible for all of it. I’m just not always able to steer it in the moment.

So to the people who had to deal with that side of me — I’m sorry.

If you’re scheduling time with me, mornings are good, afternoons are fine, and evenings are a gamble. After 8 p.m., you’re probably working with about 75% of my usual civility, and that’s on a calm night. Consider this your operating manual: Andy is at his best — and yes, it’s a narrow best — until about dinner time.

I love you all. I just love you more before 8 p.m.

The Trade-Off

Last night, our final hockey boy took me, my son, and his fiancée out to dinner. Judy was off on her own adventure, which meant I was the oldest person at the table by a comfortable margin and absolutely fine with that arrangement.

He picked Meddy’s, a Mediterranean place we’d been watching open up for weeks without ever actually going. Hockey schedules. Baby logistics. The couch. You know how it goes. But when the offer came, Meddy’s was the unanimous answer, and within about ten minutes of eating, we were all quietly annoyed at ourselves for waiting. Our first visit the previous week demanded this encore.

I got the lamb. Not something I’ve historically sought out, but this version — seasoned vegetables, crispy potatoes, a cilantro salad that overperformed — made a strong case. The only problem was the banana bread I’d eaten around four o’clock, back when dinner was still scheduled for 6:30. By the time we actually sat down, my stomach had already filed its paperwork. I did what I could and left the rest in a to-go box, fully intending to eat it for lunch the next day.

That was the plan, anyway.

The next morning, my son — one month out from his wedding, freshly relocated from his apartment — was heading to work. The coffee hadn’t quite landed yet. I looked at the fridge and, without a single moment of reflection, said: “You want my leftovers from last night?”

I expected a polite no. What I got was “Well, if you’re sure!” delivered with genuine enthusiasm, and honestly, what was I going to do — take it back? The box was gone. My lunch was gone. I stood there with the refrigerator open, staring at my backup options, which were not the same.

To his credit, he’d already eaten the same lamb dish as me at the restaurant the night before, plus half of whatever the hockey boy ordered — some salmon situation that sounded improbable and apparently tasted great. My son can eat! My leftovers went to an appreciative home, which is about the best consolation available when you’ve done something entirely to yourself.

But that wasn’t the part of the night I kept thinking about.

As we were wrapping up, the hockey boy asked to get out of the booth. He slipped away for a minute, came back, and handed me a gift card. “Since Judy couldn’t be here, I wanted to make sure she doesn’t miss out. Make sure you bring her back once she gets home.”

I’ve said before that teenagers aren’t always known for this kind of thing, and the hockey boys who’ve come through our house have been good kids — but “emotionally intuitive” isn’t usually the headline. This one is different. He’s not perfect, but he notices things, and he acts on what he notices, and that’s rarer than it sounds.

Our other boy aged out this season, so he’s done and onto college near his home in Wisconsin. This one, if he can get through the injury-trade-coach lottery that determines everything in junior hockey, we’re hoping comes back. We’d take him again without a second thought.

So yes — I gave away a perfectly good lunch for no reason. But I also watched a teenager think of my wife before I did.

Some trades are worth it.

Amateurs

We hit every red light on the way home from the last regular-season hockey game. Every single one. It was nearly 10:00 on a Saturday night, and the lights had not gotten the memo

My wife, in a tone that does not brook dissent: “What incompetent traffic engineers.”

This is not an unusual comment from her. We both share the impulse, actually. I come at it with sarcasm. She comes at it with how she would fix the problem. Neither approach accomplishes much, but both get to the root of who we are. I default to humor. She sees a problem and intuitively knows how to solve it.

If she could clone herself, she’d dispatch a copy to every corner of society plagued by inefficiency. We’ve had car-ride conversations where she single-handedly fixed healthcare, immigration, and the tax code before we reached the driveway. I realize the world is a lesser place for having only one of her — but if there were an army of her fixing the planet, I’d still only be married to the original. I can barely keep up as it is.

So I couldn’t let her traffic comment go without a small test. “We’re good at making brisket in the oven but not on the smoker,” I said. “Does that make us incompetent?”

Her reply, patient and obvious: “No, dear husband. We are smoking amateurs. We are not incompetent.”

This is the woman I love. Her humor is surgical. It doesn’t land with the same splash as mine, but it challenges me every time — and it’s a daily reminder that I don’t have a corner on wit in this household.

She had also handed both of us an escape hatch before Easter Sunday arrived.

We’ve attempted brisket on the smoker three or more times this hockey season. None of them were shoe leather exactly, but they involved more chewing than I prefer. Yesterday we swallowed our pride, pulled out the oven bag, and went with the hard-to-fail method. Six-plus hours, then a little time in the crockpot while we’re at church.

We may be amateurs in the backyard. At the table today, we’re professionals.

The Pudding Aisle

My daughter and I had a cooking project last Tuesday. She went through my “make these someday” recipe stack, picked her favorite, and we drove to the store to collect what we needed.

I always end up in the pudding aisle.

I’m a pudding voyeur from way back. Pre-COVID, the butterscotch section alone gave me options — store brand, off-brand, multiple sizes. Now it’s just Jell-O, one size, take it or leave it. I leave the chocolate lovers their big box. I don’t need to understand them.

The cook-or-instant question isn’t really a question. Pudding is not meant to meet cold milk in a bowl and get stirred into submission. It’s meant to dirty a pan. It’s meant to thicken slowly while you stand there wondering if you’ve stirred constantly enough to avoid burning it. There’s a small gamble involved, and I appreciate that in a dessert. If you reach for the instant box, you’ve already answered something about yourself.

My daughter — the one I babysit for — has been known to locate the butterscotch box sitting in my cabinet, waiting for someone with patience and standards. I’ll make it for myself if I have to. But knowing someone thinks me worthy of a cooked product is a better feeling than I probably should admit.

Way back when my wife and I were dating, my future mother-in-law bought me a butterscotch pie. To make me feel welcome, I think. She didn’t bake it herself, which, in retrospect, was the correct level of effort for someone who hadn’t decided about me yet. I didn’t make nearly enough of a fuss over it — being a young man of profound emotional stupidity, I offered the bare minimum of gratitude. I’m making up for it now by gatekeeping the pudding aisle. It’s called growth.

I used to make homemade butterscotch pudding too, in the double-boiler era. Every recipe I look at now just says “saucepan.” If you’re currently content with the pre-made plastic-cupped pudding from the refrigerated aisle, I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.

Many of my taste preferences have shifted over the decades. The butterscotch ones have not moved an inch. They remain loyal, patient, and occasionally indulged.

And I probably shouldn’t mention this, but my granddaughter tried a small spoonful the other day. The look on her face was familiar. I’m choosing to believe it’s genetic.

Feeding the Ungrateful

The first night with a new hockey player, we made pasta with roasted cherry tomatoes. He had told us beforehand, “I eat everything.” After dinner, he quietly revised that to “everything but tomatoes” — with the look of someone who’d just been served a plate of gravel. Good to know. Lesson learned.

We have been feeding a rotating cast of hockey players, exchange students, and our own four kids long enough to know that the dinner table is not a democracy. It’s a negotiation, and we are usually the ones making concessions.

The extra challenge with hockey boys is their shelf life. One week you’ve learned a kid’s specific enthusiasm for jalapeño sausages, and the next week he’s injured or traded, replaced by someone who eyes a Hebrew National hot dog like it’s a personal insult. Being nimble is the only way to survive. This year, broccoli has been universally accepted. Brussels sprouts with a hot honey glaze were a shocking upset victory. The Hebrew National — gold standard of my youth — has not had a good season.

The safe foods exist for a reason. Grilled burgers, sliders, tater tots, mac and cheese, and pizza that warms up well in the toaster oven. Both the meat-lovers’ and the BBQ chicken versions are improved by bacon, which I consider self-evident.

Speaking of bacon — I call it the Paradox of the Bacon. Bacon on a pizza: consumed without hesitation. That same piece slides off onto the plate: suddenly toxic, fit only for the trash. I don’t know what molecular threshold determines when meat loses its dignity, but it is apparently non-negotiable. The unwritten rule, imported from somewhere I was not consulted, is that wasting food is acceptable provided you were enjoying it moments earlier. That wasn’t taught at my table. But staging an intervention for young men unlikely to change their habits based on my disappointment is not a good use of dinner conversation — especially when they’re already eyeing the door.

The complications stack up fast. My wife picks out mushrooms with the precision of a diamond sorter, so mushrooms get roasted separately now and left to fend for themselves. Tomatoes are a minefield. Meat in the sauce gets carefully excavated like a crime scene. My son’s fiancée has moved us to vegetarian baked beans, whose label cheerfully claims they “Make Burgers and Hot Dogs Even Better” — which feels like a passive-aggressive way to sell beans, but here we are. Seafood options evaporated after a quiet veto years ago. Chicken and pork are cheaper anyway.

And then there is the brisket — the meat that doesn’t care about my feelings. We have invested. It has returned nothing but chewy heartache. The oven is kinder than the smoker, but the oven is already running the sides, and getting everything to the table at the same temperature at the same time is a project I have not solved.

What I’ve learned is that you don’t perfect a recipe for an audience that eats around it. You stick to the reliable choices, you guard the refrigerator’s sovereignty against the slow creep of warmups that age out or multiply, and you remember that the dinner table is really just a place to sit together.

They know this, too. Which is why, when the meal doesn’t land, the move is always the same: “I think I’m going to run out for ice cream.”

You go get your ice cream. I’ll be glad I didn’t double the recipe.

The Sunday Vortex: A Sacred Trust (and a Lot of Bacon)

I ask myself, “Am I really living in Oklahoma?” more often than you’d think. Usually, it’s somewhere between church, junior hockey logistics, and negotiating a meal that works for seven people—one of whom has apparently decided bacon is the enemy. That’s Oklahoma life. The clock runs it, the weather comments on it, and the menu is always up for debate.

The Granddaughter Tax

Sunday mornings start at Bible study and church, where our daughter and son-in-law reliably end up beside us. The real perk, though, comes at the end of the service: a brief, glorious window with our granddaughter. I made some nonsense noises until she reached for me, and I want to be clear—that is a win.

I make no claims to being her favorite person, but I am absolutely certain I am her favorite grandpa. (I’m also her only one, but I’ve learned not to audit the wins. You take them.)

Diplomatic Dining

One phone call with my daughter confirmed the headcount. The plan: bacon pasta. The complication: one vegetarian at the table. Her solution was delivered with the energy of someone explaining gravity to a confused golden retriever: “Pull out some of the pasta before adding the bacon, Dad.” I said, “Of course,” like I’d always known that. I had not always known that. The vortex does things to your brain.

The Wind’s Opinion

I managed to squeeze in my walk before the cooking started—a small miracle. After a mid-90s Saturday, Sunday was manageable, though the Oklahoma wind let me know about it for thirty minutes.

To drown out the gale, I’m working through a women’s mystery on Kindle Unlimited. It’s not my usual lane, but it’s included in the subscription, and it’s kept me out of the WWII concentration-camp romance spiral my wife has apparently completed in its entirety. We all make different choices.

A Word About the Hockey Boys

If you’re not familiar with junior hockey, here’s the short version: we host young athletes—gap-year guys sharpening their skills before college hockey—from late summer through May. They are large, they eat aggressively, and they usually solve our bacon problems by limiting themselves to a pound (It is a lot!), so we just make a little more than that.

This weekend, the “supply chain” was offline. The boys played in Amarillo on Friday and Saturday before trekking down to Odessa. They were mid-trip on the long haul back to OKC today, and while I rooted for them from my living room TV, the scoreboard wasn’t kind. With the boys on the road, I was forced into a rare position: I had to cook bacon that didn’t first have an appointment with breakfast.

The Bacon Manifesto

I cook bacon in the oven now. Parchment paper on the bottom, grease pooling in a shallow golden layer, the result being what I can only describe as perfect floppy bacon—cooked through, never burnt, yielding. Yes, the house doesn’t smell like a diner fire right away, but the taste is entirely there. This is what growth looks like.

Between the bacon, the banana cake my wife had staged for the oven, and the focaccia already doing its thing on the counter, the kitchen was finally catching up to what a Sunday is supposed to feel like.

Why It’s Worth the Chaos

Broccoli roasted, focaccia out, and the bacon supply retired with dignity. We sat around a table that had needed some diplomatic negotiating to populate and celebrated our granddaughter’s latest month-iversary (two days early, but who’s counting?).

We do a lot for the hockey boys, and we’re glad to. But for the family meal, there is something that feels less like an obligation and more like an anchor. The week is loud. The vortex is always spinning. We’re pretty lucky to have this one on our weekly calendar.

Crack Cookies

This is a further explanation of one of the titles included on my “semi-retired” business card. (Oven Overlord)

Our top-secret weapon for a post-dinner win comes in a bucket from Sam’s Club.

It’s a tub of Pillsbury chocolate chip cookie dough so user-friendly that even a “hockey boy” could manage it — provided he could find the kitchen. We choose to ignore the manufacturer’s optimistic suggestion of “76 cookies per tub.” In this house, we measure servings by “emotional necessity,” which usually caps out at about four trays.

The strategy is non-negotiable: the cookie must hold together just long enough to betray you. A one-inch perimeter of stability — just enough integrity to transport the cargo — wrapped around an inner inch of pure gooeyness. Science. Probably.

We recently put the bucket to the test over two meals. The first round was a tactical recovery mission. Dinner had been Hamburger Helper — a fuel-only situation, full stop. The boys inhaled half the cookies before bed. My pride insists they were carbo-loading for the long journey up the stairs. My gut knows better.

My own approach is considerably more refined. I tell myself I’m practicing moderation by using a spatula to surgically extract a center that wasn’t cooling fast enough to disengage from the pan. It’s not gluttony if it’s quality control.

The second half of the tub was reserved for higher stakes. The kids were over for a proper comfort meal — roast beef, mashed potatoes, and actual vegetables. It was the first time we’d all been together in weeks, so the cookies weren’t just dessert. They were bait.

My technique is a humble “scoop and hope.” One of my kids, however, treats cookie dough like a precision engineering project — rolling multiple scoops into one Mega-Ball for maximum gooey-density. I don’t argue with the process. I focus on outcomes. With my wife running point on the inner gooey, the rest of us took a tactical walk to let the oven do its work. We all knew it was a distraction. We went anyway. The cookies would be ready when we got back, and that was enough.

When we got back, the cookies did exactly what they were designed to do. Between the milk and the ice cream, the evening didn’t just end — it lingered.

Babies eventually need baths. Adults eventually need to wind down. But for a few extra minutes, nobody was checking their watch or heading for the door. Turns out three inches of underbaked dough is the only thing fast enough to catch time and slow it down.

Crack cookies or not — it was the highlight of my week.