Hockey Players

Oklahoma Hockey (and Other Natural Disasters)

Oklahoma weather forecasters don’t give you a report — they give you a threat assessment. A full week out. Not “bring an umbrella.” More like “settle your affairs and consider your roof a temporary situation.” We’re talking atmospheric tantrums that halt air travel, reroute rivers, and occasionally redecorate entire zip codes. I’ve lived in the South long enough that Ohio has some catching up to do, but Oklahoma still plays in its own division — the one where the meteorologists have agents.

Friday night was billet appreciation night at the Warriors game. It was exactly that. It just came with an unscheduled intermission.

The evening started with a charcuterie spread and adult beverages — a social event, not a meal, which is a distinction that matters when you’re trying to justify the brie. Judy and I were mostly there to spend time with the mother of our age-out boys. The year a player turns 21 is the end of his junior hockey career — and the end of his time with whatever family took him in. Crowds aren’t really my preferred operating environment, and I didn’t know most of the people there, which meant I got to perfect my “engaged bystander” expression for the better part of an hour.

The Warriors came out and went up 2-0. As the last team to squeeze into the postseason, this was not how anyone expected them to play. The backup goalie was in net. Nobody cared. The lead was everything.

Between the first and second periods, all the billet families walked out onto the ice. The boys skated over to whoever feeds them and does their laundry, a photographer snapped pictures, and each family received a personalized engraving — “Gruenbaum” was the name etched into our Warriors billet family keepsake. Genuinely lovely gesture. Also, not the reason anyone is doing this. Nobody stands in their guest room — the one now permanently scented with hockey equipment and teenage ambition — and thinks, you know what would make this worth it? A tasteful engraving. The season tickets and monthly stipend do the actual persuading. The engraving is the cherry on top of the “I have a teenager living in my guest room” sundae. A very nice cherry. But still.

The second period had good hockey. Our boys were competing.

Somewhere between the second and third periods, while the crowd watched chuck-a-puck, my phone buzzed. Tornado warning. My first instinct was purely structural: we’re in a large, well-constructed building, they’ll just keep playing. This is what years of Oklahoma meteorology does to a person — they scream wolf so enthusiastically, so consistently, that eventually you stop flinching and start quietly rooting for the wolf just to see how it plays out.

Then our son called. He’d forgotten we were at the game, but since he was near our house, he wanted to use our storm shelter. Permission granted. Good kid. Efficient crisis management.

The arena announcer — who normally delivers commentary at a frequency only retrievers can decode — was suddenly, remarkably, comprehensible. “Leave your seats now and make your way under the bleachers. This is not a test.” The crowd moved efficiently, calmly, without drama. In Oklahoma, a tornado warning is less an emergency and more a scheduling inconvenience.

Judy had more urgency than most. She was ahead of me almost immediately, and by the time we reached the concourse I’d lost her in the crowd. I checked the rooms along the hallway under the bleachers, doing a quick inventory of the available Judys, which came up short.

Under the bleachers, the true Oklahoma spirit revealed itself. Someone nearby announced, loud enough for several people to hear: “I hope the tornado doesn’t mess up my Amazon delivery.”

Cell signal was rough, so anyone who had it became an involuntary broadcaster — announcing radar updates to whoever was standing close enough to hear. The murmuring started: How long would they keep us down here? Would they wait out the full watch? Would the game even finish? Then a guy who had clearly aced every weather-related exam Oklahoma had ever administered worked his way through the crowd and told everyone to head back to their seats. No report on what happened to the west. No update on what occurred to the east. The information was: go sit down.

The Warriors finished the night with a W. The tornado moved on to inconvenience someone else. And somewhere nearby, a Ring camera confirmed that a package survived the whole ordeal without incident.

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 6 AM Rule

I have a 6 AM rule.

If the airport dropoff requires me to wake up before 6, I am operating in dangerous territory. When I am awake, I am awake — but the manner in which I arrive at “awake” matters enormously. I shake the sand out slowly. I need time to build momentum. If that process starts before the sun has any intention of showing up, I will spend the rest of the day staring at walls, losing verbal sparring matches I would normally win, and napping in chairs I had no plans to sit in. I am, essentially, a human screensaver.

My wife has no such limitations. She can wake at 3 AM, drive to the airport, come home, and go back to sleep like none of it happened. I find this both impressive and deeply unfair.

The labor of being the free Uber isn’t actually free, by the way. It’s paid for in brain cells and accidental afternoon naps.

Earlier this year — February, maybe, or early March, the details are fuzzy in the way that only pre-dawn experiences can be — I did a 5 AM dropoff. The wakeup was somewhere around 4:30. I won’t describe the rest of that day except to say I spent most of it trying to goose a single brain cell into firing.

So I updated the policy. One pre-6 AM spousal run per quarter.

This coming Saturday, her flight is at 5 AM. The math on that wakeup is not complicated. She asked me something about the flight options — “5:00 or 1:00?” —, and I thought my preference was obvious. She said, “Oh, they gave me the 5:00 flight.” There I was. A man of principle, staring down his principles.

I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do about that. A paid Uber is getting my vote, but votes change

Now, the rules are not the same for everyone. I’ve developed what you might call a tiered system. It is not written down anywhere, but it is very real.

Hockey boys know the score. They’ve seen enough early practices to understand that some hours of the day are not meant for human activity. If their flights are reasonable, I’m happy to run them. If they’re leaving at what the military calls 0-dark-thirty, they’re calling an Uber without any hurt feelings on either side. This is an understood arrangement.

Exchange students have, in my experience, been European, and Europeans apparently book flights like reasonable people. Arrivals tend to land in the afternoon. Departures can get a little early, but my wife handles those. She, as previously established, is built for this.

Family is where the policy gets complicated, mostly because family comes with feelings attached to it. There is an ongoing negotiation in our house about whether saving forty dollars on an early flight is worth what it costs in parental sleep and the general goodwill that holds a family together. I have opinions on this. I keep most of them to myself.

The honest truth is that family members (not our kids) who visit us for weddings usually have rental cars. Which means I can say, with complete sincerity, “Too bad you’ve got the rental — I would have been happy to run you.” And I might even mean it. I just don’t have to specify that my happy shuttle service has operating hours, and those hours start at 6.

The OKC airport, for what it’s worth, is a genuinely pleasant experience. Easy drive, easy TSA, more marijuana dispensaries along the route than I remember from DFW but fewer traffic lights, so it probably evens out. The only real drawback is that flights out of here tend to leave early. If you’re connecting through Dallas or Denver to get somewhere real, your day starts at an hour that tests people.

It tests me, anyway.

My wife is fine.

The “Same Dress” Dilemma: A Hockey Jersey Saga

In the high-stakes world of hockey, your social standing isn’t determined by your bank account or your personality – it’s determined by what you wear on your back. As a billet parent with my largely non-hockey brain, I’ve learned that jerseys (or “sweaters,” if you want to sound like you know where the locker room is) are the ultimate status symbol.

If you’re wearing the jersey of a legend, you’re a god. If you’re wearing a “so-so” player from a “so-so” team, you’re a poser. These are the rules. I didn’t make them; I just live in a house full of sweaty equipment and try to keep up.

The Seasonal Rainbow of Fabric

In junior hockey, there are two normal ways to acquire these holy grails of nylon:

  • The Auction Gauntlet: The team releases specialty jerseys for every possible occasion – Halloween, Military Appreciation, St. Patrick’s Day. If there’s a holiday, there’s a jersey. This weekend, it’s St. Paddy’s. The team colors are orange and black, so naturally, they’ll be playing in bright green. After the Saturday game, the “Popular Kids” see their jerseys go for a mint, while the newbies’ jerseys hit the minimum bid and hope for a pity-purchase.
  • The Billet Buy-In: At the end of the season, for a cool $250, we get first dibs on our player’s jersey. It’s like buying a graduation gown, but with more Gatorade stains.

The Top Prospect Jackpot

Then there’s the rare third way: The Gift. Our resident “Age-Out” player recently went to a Top Prospects tournament – a speed-dating event for scouts. Except nobody’s getting a rose, just a handshake and a business card. After the tournament, he told me he’d give me his jersey from the bottom of his locker. Frankly, I didn’t think I’d ever see it.

The other day, he came home, looked at me, and said, “I have a surprise for you.” He produced a jersey that can only be described as a sentient yellow traffic pylon.

I was thrilled. I asked the important question: “Does anyone else have this?” He told me only one other existed, and it had been auctioned off to a Super-Fan who owns 35+ jerseys and supposedly writes them off as a business expense. (He’s a recently graduated teenager; I didn’t grill him on the intricacies of the tax code, though I’m curious which IRS category covers “Luminous Athletic Wear.”)

The “Who Wore It Better?” Showdown

I washed my new prize and headed to our seats in the top row. (Pro tip: The top row is where the heat rises and the beer-spilling traffic can’t block your view.)

I scanned the crowd, like I had won something, until I looked to my left. There he was. The Tax-Write-Off Titan. He was wearing The Dress. We were identical. Two bright yellow beacons in a sea of orange and black. I looked at him; he looked at me. It was the classic “Same Dress at the Prom” nightmare, only with more ice and fewer corsages.

The Vanishing Act

Suddenly, he was gone. End of the first period? Vanished. Start of the second? Still missing. I had one theory, and it was solidifying fast: he couldn’t handle the competition. He’d seen me – the amateur billet dad – rocking his exclusive investment, and he’d retreated to the concessions to lick his wounds.

As it turns out, I’m not that intimidating. My player later told me the guy actually tracked him down to get a photo together. Apparently, he wasn’t offended; he just didn’t want us standing too close and accidentally directing traffic toward the goal.

So I’ve kept my status. I’m not a poser anymore. We’re not rivals. We’re not even a coincidence.

We’re a construction zone.

The 25-Cent Dividend: A Hockey Billet Dad’s Survival Guide

I wrote this post a few months ago, but as time goes by, it feels almost like yesterday.

With the house filling up with hockey players—all three arrived yesterday—my life has officially relocated to the grocery store. My brain is currently a constant loop of logistical questions:

  • Do I have enough snacks for the kid with the tree nut allergy?
  • Does anyone here survive solely on chocolate milk?
  • Does tortellini count as a “high-performance fuel,” or are we strictly a spaghetti operation?

Between the uncertainty and the sheer volume of food required to fuel teenage athletes, I’ve hit Aldi, Sam’s, Winco, and Costco a combined five times this week. The frequency usually drops once the season gets going and I learn their eating patterns, but for now, I am a professional errand runner.

The Aldi Encounter

My first stop at Aldi this week offered a rare chance to be a decent human being. As I was walking out with my non-bagged groceries (I refuse to pay for bags—it’s the principle of the thing), I saw an older lady parked in a handicapped spot. She was visibly struggling to get out of her car; it was clear she needed something to bear her weight before she could even make it to the cart corral.

As I popped my trunk, I called out, “Just hold on! I’ll bring you my cart as soon as I get it unloaded.”

She looked at me, worried, and replied, “But I don’t have a quarter.”

(Ah, the Aldi quarter—the “annoying” way they force us to return our carts. I get that it saves them from paying someone to chase rogue carts in the parking lot, but I don’t have to like it.)

“Not a problem,” I told her. “Just give me a second to clear this out.”

I backed the cart toward her, handle-first. As she grabbed hold, she sighed, “It is terrible to get old.”

Knowing the truth in that, I just smiled and said, “I’m hoping my kids are there for me when I get there.”

The Payback

Zoom ahead to today.

I walked up to the store, quarter gripped in my hand and ready to claim my cart, only to find one already “checked out.” The previous shopper had left their quarter in the lock.

Now, I could have overanalyzed it, but I chose to take it as a sign. It felt like the carts had orchestrated a small tip for my “General Expenses” fund. I took that shiny coin as a little wink from above—as if God was saying, “I saw what you did the other day. You have your moments!”

If only I could get a few more of those moments… I have a feeling I’m going to need a lot more quarters to get through this hockey season.

The Morning Scrimmage: Why Every Marriage Needs a “Billeted” Punching Bag

My wife and I have been married for nearly 35 years, and I’ve learned one absolute truth: Marriage isn’t just about love; it’s about managing the “chirps.”

I am a natural-born chirper. If I have a witty observation or a mild grievance, it bounces around my skull like a puck rattling around a dryer drum until it finds an exit. My wife, however, is a “slow-thaw” morning person. She is not a fan of dialogue—and certainly not banter—until she’s well into her second cup of coffee.

For the sake of our domestic harmony, I have to get those chirps out of my system without bumping into her morning rhythm. Fortunately, we have “The Boys.”

The Peanut Butter Defense

Currently, our kitchen is populated by billeted hockey players. They are the perfect targets. They provide the friction I need to reach my “optimum flow” without waking the dragon — my wife, who is lovely precisely because she hasn’t spoken yet.

Take, for instance, the “Bagel Bandit.” This kid has a specific talent for “nutty perfection.” He’ll smear peanut butter on a bagel and then, as a final flourish, leave a thick glob on the knife before dropping it in the sink. Within minutes, that peanut butter undergoes a chemical bonding process that makes it “dishwasher-proof.”

On a morning when my wife is still on her first cup, I’ll drop a line on the Bandit:

  • “The dishwasher is a machine, son, not a miracle worker. Clean the blade.”
  • “If you lick that knife clean, the dishwasher will thank you for your service.”

The “Agile” boys—the ones with a high hockey IQ—will fire back. The “Slow-Mo” rookies just nod and say, “Okay, next time,” while they internally calculate how many minutes until practice.

The Buffer Zone

There is a method to my madness. My wife knows I like to banter, and as long as I don’t go too hard on the kids, she lets me run my plays. In fact, she’s grateful. By the time she’s ready for conversation, I’ve already burned off my sass on a 19-year-old defenseman.

The boys are the grease that keeps the marriage rolling through the years. When my wife is an “obstacle” to my flow—meaning she just wants to eat her toast in peace—the hockey boys step in to cover the difference.

The Sentiment in the Sarcasm

I’ll admit, the sentimental side of this gets hidden under the layers of trash talk. But it’s there. My wife gets the lion’s share of my heart, and whatever is left over goes to these boys who have become part of our daily chaos.

We had a visitor the other day who mentioned he does the dishes for his billet mom because she’s been ill. I looked at my most “agile” resident and asked if he’d ever consider such a noble act.

He didn’t miss a beat: “Well, if you were gravely ill, I might consider it. But since you’re healthy, I guess I’ll just keep letting you sharpen your wit on my dish-loading skills.”

After he made his comment, we exchanged a glance. We both knew the chirping wasn’t entirely one-sided.

The Long Game

How long will we keep these “billeted victims (their term, not mine)”  around? Only until the grandchildren are old enough to hold their own in a verbal sparring match. I need a house full of relatives with finely honed wits to keep me humble.

Until then, I’ll keep chirping at the boys. It keeps my mind sharp, the sink (mostly) clear, and my 35-year marriage exactly where it needs to be: in a state of graceful, quiet, peanut-butter-free peace.

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.

Hockey Boy Broth

When we moved to Oklahoma to be near our soon‑to‑arrive granddaughter, we bought a house with space for a backyard hot tub. A few months later: hot tub, pergola, grill, generator — the full “we can survive anything but a direct tornado hit” package. Part of the deal was that my wife would handle the chemicals. This was a great plan until it wasn’t.

Somewhere between the third and fifteenth water test at the pool store, I became the reluctant caretaker of the tub. Over time, I learned enough to keep the water clear and the employees from greeting me by name. I even became a semi‑competent “hot‑tub whisperer,” spraying filters, checking levels, and pretending I knew what alkalinity actually meant. My wife and I enjoyed the tub a few nights a week, letting the jets work on our aging joints. The jets are its whole personality.

Then the hockey boys arrived.

They live with us during the season — not our kids, but “our kids” for those months — and they discovered the hot tub like explorers stumbling upon a natural spring. They didn’t use it constantly, but when they did, they treated it like a giant, silent crockpot. No jets. No circulation. Just two teenage athletes sitting motionless in 104‑degree water, marinating like slow‑cooking briskets.

I tried to explain — gently at first, then with the passion of a man who has seen too many water‑testing printouts — that the jets are not optional. The jets keep the nasties moving. The jets are the sanitation system. The jets are the difference between “spa” and “soup.”

They nodded politely and continued soaking in contemplative silence, scrolling through hockey reels, texting, singing, or simply existing in the tub like two large dumplings. If I’m lucky, I might get thirty seconds of jet activity before they settle back into their preferred mode: simmer.

And that’s when it hit me. Chicken broth. Beef broth. Vegetable broth—all available at Walmart. Human broth? Not on the shelves for a reason. Yet here I am, steward of the simmering teenage stock, responsible for skimming the surface and restoring balance to the backyard cauldron.

Still, as much as I complain — and as much as my wife wishes I’d complain less — I’m glad they’re here. Their presence breaks up the quiet, gives the house a pulse, and reminds us that life is more than routines and chemical levels. I’d rather manage the broth from the hockey boys who live with us for the season than from strangers we don’t love.

So I sigh. Then I smile. Then I go check the chlorine.

Adventures in Hosting Hockey Billets: A Culinary Comedy on Ice

Do you know what a billet is? In the fascinating world of junior hockey (and probably in many other corners of the universe), a billet is basically a kid who crashes at your place during the season. It’s like having an extra teenager but without the luxury of sleepovers being optional.

These young gents somehow manage to become part of our family dynamics, for better or for worse. Despite their potential to be younger than 18, they’re essentially barred from turning 21 until after the New Year’s confetti has settled. Now, let’s talk about their culinary preferences – if it’s served at a drive-thru, chances are, they’re all in. And don’t even get me started on their cleaning skills; let’s just say they believe in the “out of sight, out of mind” cleaning philosophy.

But wait, there’s more! They have this inexplicable aversion to drinking water from anything other than a plastic bottle, and when they finally decide to tidy up their mess, it’s a production worthy of a mini-cleanup crew.

Yet, despite these quirks, here we are, embarking on our fourth year of playing host to these hockey hopefuls. Surprisingly, most of them are charming and grateful for the roof over their heads. We even engage in riveting conversations after dinner, where they enlighten us on the intricacies of hockey (and occasionally, inquire about our day).

Our biggest challenge? You guessed it: the limited menu dictated by the hockey season. It’s like a culinary Groundhog Day, with pizza, burgers, and lasagna making repeat appearances on the menu. I once attempted a culinary revolution with my “FlavorTown” creations, only to receive lukewarm reviews at best. The struggle is real, my friends.

Currently, we’re hosting two hockey enthusiasts. One is a culinary daredevil who’ll devour anything in sight, while the other is a tad more discerning. As we eagerly await the arrival of a new recruit, we’re crossing our fingers for another member to join the “I’ll eat that” squad. If not, well, it’s back to the drawing board, or should I say, the repetitive menu board, while my wife indulges in her frequent salads. (Did I mention that vegetables are more of an optional garnish in the hockey world?)

Ants In Our Drains

Obviously, this is a play on “ants in our pants.” If only it were not true!

A few weeks ago, our downstairs toilet was having problems. We were not immediately certain it was the toilet. The biggest clue was the bathroom had an earthy smell to it. To me, it was clear it was not emanating from the sink. So, after trying to clean up the earthy smell with products designed for the tank, we eventually found a plumber who would come to the house when he said he would.

The twosome shows up and provides a quick estimate. Once I saw how easily the toilet moved side to side, I knew the “unless we find something else” would quick in. In this case, the ring that secured the toilet to the floor and to the sewage was rusted through. When the integrity of the pipes was compromised, the ants were granted access. Even with the toilet now fixed, we are still fighting the consequences of this breach. How might you ask? Good question…

  1. To remove ants from your sink, use a half cup of baking soda with an equal chaser of vinegar. Rinse in 10 minutes with hot water. Ideally, this will work. When the resident teenage boys leave licorice in the sink overnight, the success of this treatment is uncertain.
  2. For your garbage disposal, ice cubes with baking soda are supposed to circulate in the pipes once they are chopped up by an “angry to be invaded” disposal. Not sure how well this worked. Because of the kitchen’s proximity to the “breached” bathroom, ant traps were set out previously. At today’s lunch, the hockey boys discovered ants feasting on the hamburger buns. The backup package proved necessary when the “extra roughage” argument was rebuffed.
  3. I bought a squirt bottle for equal parts of water and vinegar. It is mixed but not yet tried. I am uncertain what impact vinegar would have on the hockey boys. Would they melt or lose their appetites or some other unpredictable outcome? I might test the mixture’s effectiveness as they travel for an away game this weekend.

Early in this experience, I poured myself a bowl of honey nut cereal. The ants were not well camouflaged. The milk only proved they didn’t have scuba equipment. I threw in a few dried cranberries before eating and drinking the contents of the bowl. If I am going to win this battle, I will have to do it while staring them down–antenna to eyeball.