Life

Road Humps or Speed Bumps

Beware of the Road Humps…

Now, that I am becoming accustomed to my new walking route, (our city just put some great walking paths in our neighborhood that tie us into other paths and other neighborhoods) I am getting past the new things…the variety of houses, the barking dogs, the whole new set of bike riders and other pseudo-athletes, and, of course, the road signs.

One of the road signs is an electronic sign that provides the speed of the approaching vehicles. I am not a vehicle or able to walk at a pace to be registered by this device, so it has minimal impact on me.
“No Motorized Vehicles”: It seems this sign is not fully heeded…yet. As the paths are being completed and as vehicles claim access (or they find it a really neat short cut to the park for a place to hide and take an extended lunch) I have had to dodge a few vehicles and yield to them. I could do some “planking”, but I am not sure they would realize I was just laying in the road. Since many of the drivers may not be English speakers, they might take it as their responsibility to fulfill my wishes.
The one that gives me the most pause is “Road Humps”. The irony is this name is it sounds like it is a naturally occurring phenomenon. “We can’t help it. The road just has humps. We fix them and they just go back that way. Depending on temperature, time of day, or weather conditions, the humps may vary. It is more like a rash really. The humps are not worthy of being called “speed bumps”, but it they were, we would change the signage to reflect that fact.”

For me, I see “speed” in the title, and I assume what the sign is warning me against will soon impact my speed in some way. The “humps” in the other name makes we wonder if the road has somehow developed some “camel-envy”. It is trying to mimic a bactrian or dromedary?

I am grateful to be getting more familiar with my walking path. Now, as I walk, my mind can wander and not worry about the next right or left turn. Not always does my mind have a thought that spawns many a random thought. But, when it does, I relish the journey and try not to limit its direction. If growing old allows more freedom in what you can think about , I will look forward to what the next decade of my life will look like!

Lucky Guess

As I was getting my daily allotment of the black mango tea calibrated to the proper level of sweetness, I noticed a older lady filling up her gallon jug of “regular” sweet tea. Not having anything else to do as the tea tap poured out the sweetened nectar those in the south consider part of life, I engaged her in conversation.

“Buying it by the gallon. That’s the way to do it! When you buy it that way it certainly saves you money!”, I stated.

“The tea isn’t for me. It is for my husband. He gets cranky if he doesn’t get his tea.”, she commented.

“It would be a shame if your marriage of 50 years ended because the tea jug wasn’t full!”, I prodded.

“It will be 50 years later this month.”, she replied with a slight look of surprise.

“Really, ma’am, I have no special abilities to know how long you have been married–it was just a lucky guess.”, I defended.

“No problem, young man. I got all of my grey hair honestly. It hardly seems like it has been 25 years.”, she reflected.

“I have been married almost 25 years–they sure go fast. Congrats on staying married that long.”

I enjoyed the conversation with the kind lady. As we went to check out, she was right behind me in the line. I offered to buy her drink and her jug, but she quickly showed me the coupon that was going to get her everything for free.

As I checked out, I commented to the cashier, “Good to see the caterpillar is coming back.” (He had shaved his mustache, and he is sporting a new would-be butterfly on his upper lip.) He acknowledged my comment with a grunt or a smile.

As a work from home dad, I don’t get the routine a person gets who regularly goes to a workplace. I enjoy the conversations I am granted during the course of my day. (Phone conversations are not nearly as rich as those in person.) It is not my goal to be memorable, but it is my goal to leave a smile in my wake. Although I believe I left others during the day, this little errand gave me a couple of smiles as well.

Armadillos In The Bed

No, we didn’t get our flower beds aerated. No my wife and daughters didn’t put on their heels and tramp through the flower beds. We suspect, based on previous observations of early morning armadillo activity, we had some visitors who were looking for a meal. Whatever it may be about our beds, they either presently have some grubs or some grandpa armadillo struck grub gold in the past in our beds.

We don’t have anything valuable enough in the beds to worry about it. Wednesday morning, I noticed a couple holes around the yucca. And, this morning, their were more holes and they had spread out over a wider area. If I go out tomorrow and find they have plugged something into the outside outlet and set up equipment to harvest the grubs, I may take a greater interest in their plans. Otherwise, it is just a story to tell and something to distract us from all of the darn squirrels!!

Relighting The Pilot

Each time the pilot goes out on the water heater, it falls upon the oldest male (me) to get it relit. And, tonight was no exception. If the people who showered earlier in the day would have mentioned the water was not that warm for their showers, I might have been able to avoid the unavoidable “near” shower experience. Unfortunately, I was well along the path to jumping into the shower before I realized my predicament–get an uncomfortable shower over with or have a warm shower and enjoy it? I opted for warm.

When the pilot goes out, I say a silent prayer that I will not blow our house or any of its occupants into a million pieces. It seems relighting the pilot light is so traumatic for me that I need to relearn how to light it every time. With a “grill lighter”, flashlight, and screwdriver in hand, I approach the water heater with all due respect. I reread the directions attached to the side–hanging on every word. I allow the words to fully marinate my brain as I disconnect the necessary water heater pieces so I can have the best possible access to the pilot. I look at the hardware–fully capable of releasing the natural gas that could blow me and my fellow house occupants up if not completely respected–and seek any memory of our previous interactions. As I reread the directions, our past entanglements become slightly less distant memories. I commit to holding the lighter in the “presumed” pilot area. (without the grill lighter I would be dead. When the directions say use a “match”, I go into a semi-panic. I think certainly the spot I have the lighter is wrong. It must be closer to the edge than I am trying to light. Certainly I am going to blow myself up. I shift my prayer to “Please at least protect the downstairs and my family from anything stupid I may do within the next few minutes”….) I push the red button down and watch to see what havoc my lighter creates. Even after my finger cramps, I still find a way to hold the button down. When my lighter finger cramps, I hope the 60 seconds have passed. After releasing the lighter flame, the pilot remains lit; my body remains intact within our attic, and I shift my prayer to “Please keep the pilot lit. Please, please, please!”

Past “lightings” have involved ripped pants, stretching of patience beyond any previously stretched amounts, and hugging of the water heater as I was certain my last moments were upon me. The lighting ritual seems to be an annual occurrence. Sometimes it is the natural gas line freezing shut (pretty rare–when it gets cold, I now wrap the gas meter to discourage this outcome), or as it apparently was today, it was an overly mischievous breeze. I do not ever want to take this relighting for granted, but my muscle memory seems to be much better than the trauma-wiped actual memory. A bit of self-hypnosis before again approaching this task might be a good option. Or, maybe the better option is the gift of a hot water heater blanket to my under-appreciated and only occasional foe.

My Semi-Lucid Camera

No this is NOT a selfie!

As I continue to explore the new paths in our neighborhood, I like to have my camera on my hip. I don’t have a fancy camera, but I have had it for over 4 years. I have used this camera for SO many things:

I have taken pictures of the kids at so many different sporting events, fairs, and other activities.
It has gone on many vacations with the family. It was fastened to my hip for most of our trip to China last year.
I have taken lots of videos of the kids blowing out candles, cooking food, doing quirky human tricks, and a variety of other oddball things that only I would consider entertaining.
I have taken work pictures for eBay, blogs, and whatever other place I needed. I probably through in quite a few videos as well!

As my camera has aged, our affection (I like to think it is shared, but I know he just thinks of me as the annoying guy who pushes his buttons and yanks out his guts [the SD card and the rechargeable battery]) has grown. I have relied on him for all of those special moments that words just would not be able to do justice to. This was how our relationship went for the past few years until last week. He started letting me down more often then not. I missed a few key shots:

The chickens wandering in the front yard along my walk route. There was no fence or anything. Even telling you now, you are going, “Really? There were chickens wandering without a fence. If you had a picture, I might believe you!”
At the cross country meet, I went to snap a few pictures, but the camera still needed to take a nap or something….

Well, I am not stupid. I thought to myself, “I have never bought a new battery for this camera. Certainly that is the problem.” Two days later, I was able to test this theory when the new battery arrived. Initially, I thought it was more than the battery. After I charged the battery, I popped it into the camera and grew to expect this type of result when I wanted to take a picture:

I turned the camera on and prepared to take my picture.
After waiting for the camera to come to life, I aimed it at my intended target.
I was usually greeted by the lense being sucked back into the camera with no desire to help me capture any memories.

Starting this morning (the day after I bought a new camera online w/ an expected delivery tomorrow), the camera seemed to be embarrassed by its recent behavior. It was cooperating about 50% of the time. (As an example, it only took 3 tries to take my first picture.) By the time I got to my 2nd and 3rd desired picture, the camera was “almost” reliable. At my 4th picture, it did make me try twice, but it took the picture without complaining again and it seemed to be ready for more. (It was not easy, but I kind of pictured a dog who was trying to please—his tongue was hanging out and all of his body language was saying, “Let me help. I want to play.”)

At this point, this camera, at best, will be my backup. I am not sure if it is rethinking the whole “death” idea, or if the internal battery needed extra time to recharge off of the newly acquired battery. Whatever the problem was or is, now that the camera has broken my trust, this camera will….soon be in the trash heap. (I completed the last few words after the recent adventure at the state fair.)

At the Texas State Fair, the camera was on my hip, but the camera was barely lucid. He acted like he just left a sanitarium and had no idea what he was supposed to do. He would stick his tongue out at me, and quickly pull it back in. (The lense would quickly suck back in as I tried to take the pictures.) He would pretend to take pictures and leave me disappointed later when I could not find the pictures I was certain he had committed to memory. He was not reliable, and without a good camera, I am better enjoying the moment then fooling around with an electronic device that has made different career plans.

The camera, when acting according to its DNA, takes pictures. Not being an artist, my brain needs a good image to remember all of the subtle details of the camera captured event. A good picture can add color to an otherwise boring description provided by a somewhat overburdened brain. While my active memories only seem available in black and white images, a camera captured image from MY camera can provide my brain the adrenaline boost it needs to propel my descriptions into a color palette that make the events seem like it just occurred.

Fortunately, the new camera awaited me on the front porch when I got home from the fair. It is a little bulkier, and it only came with a manual in Japanese. In its first outing (daughter’s cross country meet), it appears to know what it was designed to do. If it gives me a few years of mostly lucid service, I am eager to trust it with helping me preserve some amount of the past…regardless of how lucid I am when the pictures are reviewed.

Warm-ups Or Leftovers?

As my daughter was designing at attachment for her team’s robot project, I had a pretty good food conversation with one of the other parents. (In the spirit of full disclosure, I am supposed to be a coach on for the team. Since they are one of the older teams and have been doing this for a few years, my services are more along the lines of asking them questions “why?” rather than being there to keep them from losing focus.) After the other parent told me of her younger daughters refusal to use cake mixes out of the box because making it from scratch was so much better, we talked about a couple of things we make for dinner. (Her same daughter who is home-schooled will search out recipes on the internet and give her mother shopping lists. She makes dinner 1 or 2 times per week, and she rarely watches anything other than Food Network on TV.) When it came to the portion of the meal remaining on the table after everyone has eaten their fill, I received a temporary blank stare when I used the term “warm-ups”. Not sure if it is a Midwest term, but maybe it is an attitude. Sure I know what she means when she says “leftovers”, but it set me to thinking….

I am proposing the use of “warm-ups” or “leftovers” is an attitude. In our house, we rarely if ever use the word leftover. Leftover sounds like something you tolerate. (Although, the Caribbean beans and rice did fall into this category. Our “rice-lovers” had a hard time accepting the coconut milk taste in the rice.) Leftovers are something that are the last thing picked when the foods on your table were picking teams. It is an unwanted thing your refrigerator needs to be bribed to keep alive for the few days necessary before the container is either full of mold or too sloppy/stiff to be able to believe the microwave could revive it. Whoever the chef is on any given night (chef is used loosely, but is much more complimentary than, “person charged with cooking and responsible for all of the blame if the meal goes horribly wrong”. We make every effort to be flattering, but the number of second servings speaks louder than, “Great job. I really loved it!”) usually pulls from something they know will be good. (If our exchange students, they either call or email their mothers to get ingredients and/or ideas. For the “natives”, we build on things we know will be eaten and expand from there.) When I hear “warm-ups”, I think of taking a glazed donut out of a box from Krispy Kreme and putting it in the microwave for a few seconds. A warmup is something to look forward to. It is something to be savored. The term implies good (possibly slightly decadent) eating ahead!

In our household, warmups better describes the dining remaining for these reasons:

Warm-ups is a much happier term in our household. Since my daughters and exchange students all pack lunches everyday, the ability to rapidly consume the warmups allows us to view any food left over after a meal as only a temporary contributor to refrigerator clutter. Each girl usually has 2 – 4 plastic containers at the end of each meal. It depends on the individual night (they pack the night before because cross country demands a very early wake up call) how frustrating their towers of protein and veggies are to navigate when something is needed at the back or bottom shelf.
Taste better warmed-up: This is a possible lie we have cultivated to improve the enthusiasm for “maturing” meals. The argument does have some validity with a couple of our meals. The jambalaya has been accused of being too hot on day one. As the rice mixture matures, it tends to become a little less potent. It still tingles the tongue, but it doesn’t rattle the tear ducts.
Kudos and praise: When the warmups pile up and it is one of those summer lunch meals, the counter top is covered with lidless plastic containers. Bounties are placed on certain containers, and rewards are offered for emptying a container. Special rewards are offered for those who are capable of consuming the contents of two or more containers at one meal. If necessary, peer pressure is placed on the potential diner who refuses to consider any of the offering and claims, “I am not hungry.” When they reluctantly pull out a plate, choose a warm up and take their place in line at the microwave, they are again embraced and accepted as a fellow soldier in the battle to exterminate the warmups and admitted leftovers from the household.

Despite the bickering over what is a warmup or a leftover, I will fully agree with the title of “leftover” being assigned to anything that remains in the refrigerator for over a week. Once the criteria is met for disposing of the “aged” food, we ask ourselves what we could do different so we don’t have to throw the food away next time. Do we need to make it differently? Do we need to make less? Do we need to find a new way to repurpose a warmed up meal? (We will often make roast and carrots in the crockpot. The roast does not usually get eaten well as a warmup, but it usually does pretty well as beef and noodles. While breathing life into a pork roast as pork ‘n noodles does not seem to be quite as winning of a plan.) Do we need to make LOTS of something and just freeze the balance knowing its reception will be much warmer if the intended diners believe it is fresh (assuming the taste it not too badly compromised) rather than a “revisit”?

We do realize less cooking would help us have less dishes to wash. The table is a place to cultivate belonging. It is a time where the grunting/chomping that goes with oral consumption is blended with the chatter of school, work and relationships. When we pray over a meal, it is like we are making the table and everything that transpires around it sacred. When we arise and clean up, the sacredness is broken. In the spirit of this mood, why would anyone want to introduce anything to make the experience less than the bonding/coaching/parenting experience it should be. If you are ever hear on a warmup night, you are allowed to sit at our table and refer to the items eaten out of the plastic containers as either leftovers or warmups, but one needs ketchup, and one needs a good appetite. Which do you want to eat?

Assistant Phys Ed Coach – Sorta

Still attempting to break in my new shoes. I am very grateful the new shoes came to me broken…

As I nearly reached the halfway point of my oval, 1-mile, walking path, the connected Christian school was conducting PE class. The days objective was the 1-mile run. As the runners lined up and took off on on their teachers “Go”, I was about 200 yards behind the “enthusiastic” runners. The runners didn’t go for much more than 200 yards before they went behind a bathroom/picnic building. On the other side of the building (bathroom and picnic tables) where the path emerged, the runners were transformed into very slow walkers.

As I passed their phys ed coach, I asked her, “Is it okay if try to motivate them a little if I pass them?

“Sure”, she said. “They often go pretty slow on the back of the course.”

I took this as my license to try and encourage them in my best coaches voice as I passed the kids. Out of the 10-12 that started, it appeared 1/3 of the kids ran the mile per instructions, and 1/3 was a group of guys walking slightly faster than the group of girls bringing up the tail. Although my feet may have been working a little extra hard due to the thrill of a challenge, the girls were pretty easily vanquished. Because the girls were so involved in their conversation, my heavy foot falls right next to them made them jump a bit when I began my passing move.

“Your teacher said I should remind you to keep running.” I said somewhat encouragingly–I know I was smiling big when I said it.

As I kept walking, the girls continued to get farther in my rearview mirror. Now, I could focus on the boys in front of me. They were spanning the whole width of the sidewalk. As were their female classmates, they revealed in no outer way they were aware of me about to pass them. Because they were boys, I am pretty sure my encouragement was more like what a football coach might say.

“Your teacher wanted me to remind you not to walk. She knows how you guys always use it as social time.”, I preached-a sneering smile likely adorned my face.

My sermon did have some brief success. The boys grunted before picking up their pace (in fact they ran) for a couple of hundred yard. When they resumed their previous slow walking speed, I knew we would meet again. “Ditto” was all I needed to say as I passed them the second time. They laughed a little bit, but based on the reaction of their feet, they were not very interested in anything that would interfere with their social time.

As I came to the part of the path where my non-responsive high school friends had started their lap, I did have to give their teacher an update.

“In the boys defense, I did have to pass them twice.”, I proclaimed.

I believe she understood the ramifications of the comment. At least, it gave her something to chew on. As I continued my walk, I heard her raising her voice to get the slackers over the “finish” line. It appeared the two groups had merged as they came into the final stretch. I am not sure how the boys slowed up enough to let that happen! If I get the chance to coach again, I will need to crank the encouragement up a few notches!

Whether the teacher admitted to the license she granted me or not, I hope the kids I interacted with do remember me. Whether I am the weird guy who spoke to them or, if the encounter was slightly humorous, the guy who walks really fast, I hope I am not some phantom they hide in their brain only to be brought back to life under deep hypnosis. I believe it is our obligation to stretch ourselves forward a generation or two. (The older we get, the harder it is to stretch forward. The older we get, the more we hope others are willing to stretch from ahead back to us.) The more the next generations sees others noticing them, the more value they assign to themselves. (I have not done studies…it just makes sense to me. And, since much of what I do has a spiritual “side” to it, I think the kids need more “good” people [I may not be good, but I am not dangerious ;-)] in their lives. If you are not a mentor of a particular kid, exhibit a quality that is one worth emulating, like walking fast or whatever.) If the world wants to devolve into chaos, our influence may lessen the impact of the chaos in our communities. Touch a life today. Make them smile, and see who smiles bigger-you or them!

My Daughters Embarrassing Parents

At this Saturday’s cross country meet, it was one of those “close” meets. It was less than 15 minutes from the house, so we got to sleep a little more than most Saturdays. And, this may have been part of the problem with our excessive energy levels and the need to “share” it with the unsuspecting masses. (The above picture is of both my daughters at the sidewalk running the perimeter of the course. It appears someone with limited mental capacities took two big steps through the wet concrete while nobody was looking. And, nobody looked again until after it dried. The secondary theory is some super hero living among us stepped on the sidewalk without “turning down” his super powers. He inadvertently burnt a “hole” into the concrete before he realized what he had done. As you can see from my daughters footwork, the steps weren’t baby steps…)

Having sat in the intermittent sun for over 2 hours, having endured nearly 3-4 races already of primarily 2 miles each (The HS boys run 3 miles) and with it getting on toward lunch time even though our commute home was short, we were excited to have my youngest daughter run her race. As all of the girls lined up on one end of the field, there is always some narrowing of the course that takes place by design. They know not all of the kids will maintain that line for very long as they work their way down the course. So, by the time the course goes a couple of hundred yards, the width of the course is probably 1/2 the width it was originally. On Saturday’s run, my wife hops out to take pictures of the runners (specifically my daughter and teammates as they line up). As she looked to the left and saw all of the parents encroaching on the course, she could not help but put her I-want-to-help-people hat on. Even though she did not have any event related paraphernalia on, she started pushing and/or strongly requesting the crowd back up so the cross country runners would have a little more space to jockey for position before the course “officially” narrowed. Her words did not fall on deaf ears. They people backed up without much hesitation. She acted like she had authority, and I suppose most of them pulled out the GPSes on their phones and realized the course went right through where they were standing. Regardless, the athletes got a little more space to shuffle into the position where they would run/walk the better part of their race.

I used the term athletes above somewhat loosely. I am truly confident some of the girls found out the day before they were running a race the next day. I believe many of them were walking before they were 100 yards into the race. One whole team of girls provided the entire tail for this beast that weaved its way through the course. After my daughter and her teammates worked their way through the course, my opportunity to embarrass “my ladies” presented itself.

The last 100 yards of the course was a straight away right behind the teams tent. I was impressed by many of the girls who hit this last stretch. They seemed to be able to pour it on and pass 3 or 5 or 10 people in that last stretch. It made me wonder how many of these “2 Milers” were really sprinters masquerading as 2 milers. When the sprinters stopped appearing, we had a huge quantity of the “participant” class. I started walking down the line yelling out words of “encouragement” to the runners. Things like, “You aren’t allowed to walk once you turn the corner.”, “Don’t be last. I can walk faster than you are running.”, “I don’t tolerate any walkers back here–get moving!”, “You can rest all weekend. Right now, you need to finish your race strong.”, and “You may have walked most of the rest of the race. Right now, you need to finish for yourself and your team.” I probably did get a little more colorful at times. If I said anything else, it was quotes like these that provided my inspiration. Although my lips may not have always obeyed my self-imposed rule, sometimes, in the moment, the creative “encouraging” phrases just can’t be held in! 😉

I was mostly relieved of my duties as the last few girls struggled in. Faster fellow teammates were running/jogging alongside their slower counterparts in matching jerseys. Everyone at the race-participants and parents-realizes someone has to be last. If done correctly, you can be in last place with class. I am not a proponent of the the fluffy, “Everyone is a winner.” Everyone who tries and tries to always be there best, is a winner in my book. Bad days excluded, not all girls who ran this race were winners. (More accurately stated, they probably don’t have a winner’s attitude. Without the proper foundation, they don’t have anything to build on.) I am not blaming coaches or any of the other parents who were there this weekend. If parents make kids their priority, maybe kids will find the inner winner. As middle schoolers or older who don’t already have a winning attitude, there is likely to be lots of losing in life before they find their inner winner–if they ever do.

Now, back to those embarrassing parents….it is our job to take pictures when they don’t want to pose. It is our job to give hugs and tell them we love them and are proud of them no matter who is around. And, if the coach says something inappropriate to them and makes them want to be done with cross country forever, it is our job to tell them not to quit and to get up on Monday at 5:00 AM so they can go through another week of fun. Behind every “winner” is a parent (or an adopted “parent”) who is willing to be whatever needs done to best prepare their kids for life….or the next meet. I love my winners!

Tonight’s Walk Around The Neighborhood

After enjoying our 4th Asian/2nd Korean meal since our exchange students arrived, my wife and I took off on our walk. After we settled into our walk pace with only the occasional yo-yo-ing as either my wife or I assumed the lead, we dodging a few sprinklers and the set of grandparents walking all of their grandkids, the walk really only had two, make it three, alright four is my limit, highlights.

As we rounded one of the 4 courts we walk (the walk in total is about 3 miles), an older hobbit-like gentlemen with a 4-pointed cane visually separated himself from the HOA-demanded, brick mailbox. As we got closer to him and prior to him looking up, my wife said, “How are you doing tonight?” Without missing a beat, he looked up and said, “I hate healthy people!” (His response was definitely an exclamation point.) Instead of risking saying something that might falsely assume he was joking, I simple replied, ” We like you too!” In my one previous encounter with this neighbor, he did seem a little eccentric. I am not completely sure what the “boring-psychotic” spectrum looks like, but this guy just graduated out of eccentric.
Over the past 2-3 weeks, we have continued to pass the same location at just over our half way point in our walk. At a built up stone wall with grass behind, there is a brush that I do not believe has moved during the whole period. Initially, I thought the girl who gets on the school bus there used it to kill time and get beautiful prior to getting on the bus. (This was the theory after the “she-just-left-it-there-this-morning” hypothesis soon was realized to be horribly incorrect.) My present theory unless I become brave enough to try and physically move the brush is the many hairs on the brush have become semi-sentient. They will/make themselves to go into the soil, and they are now bringing nutrients and moisture up into the brush, the giver of life. Should I start to see a stem, I will go to the tree under the cover of darkness and dig it up so it can be transplanted in my backyard. I do not know what a crop of brushes will look like, but it is sure to sell on eBay.
The house that has been “Just Listed” for the past month has apparently reached its statute of limitations. The real estate police came out and let them know once you exceed 30 days, the word “Just” can’t be used on your real estate sign UNLESS it is the name of your realtor. Also, on the same real estate sign, they have 3 baby signs underneath the parent signs. (I believe the three say, “Pool”, “Unbelievable”, “Must See”, respectively.) We are convinced the listing price will go down $10,000 per “baby” sign removed.
The “Yard of the Month” sign finally moved yesterday. The other house had been allowing the sign to camp in their yard for the past 5 or 6 weeks, and I think their bushes, perennials and annuals were feeling the pressure. When plants can’t relax, no amount of water can relieve the stress. The newly appointed “yard” seems to be dwelling in the yard with the second best flowers in the neighborhood. The yard with the best flowers must be a recent recipient of the coveted award or they must be behind on their HOA dues. We thought planting all of our roses in the spring would have paid off, but the sprinkler guy adjusted all of the heads in the front bed, and the petunias all died. We will be sure to be early with the dues next year!

We enjoy our walks, the Texas fall night, and the healthy bodies God has blessed us with. Although not all walks bring the incredible insights I received this evening, I continue to be grateful my wife is by my side, and I can always hold out hope the kids finally did the dinner dishes while we enjoyed our walk.

Milk To The 4th

We like milk. Well, at least we used to. Now it seems regular milk is simply not good enough for our population of mammals. Where once we had a total of 3 types of “cow” milk (Our kids drank 2%, my wife(on the rare occassions she drank milk) and I drank skim milk, and our undernourished foster child drank whole milk) living in our refrigerator, we now, today as I write this, have a variety of things that have never seen the inside of a cow.

The milk-ish products in our frig include the following:

Gallon of 2% milk: Our only shout out to the milk of my youth. (Growing up, we got milk directly from our neighbor who milked the cows. We got whole milk that was unpasteurized and unhomogenized. Once the milk settled out, my mother scraped off the cream that rose to the top and made yogurt. I don’t remember eating any of the yogurt, but she told me she used the dehydrator to make it. My daughter has heard this rumor and wants me to put the dehydrator on my Christmas list so she can experiment. Since getting the blender for Father’s Day, she has had far more fun with it than I. Why shouldn’t she ask for it?)
Almond milk: My mother has been buying Almond milk at Aldi’s for a number of years. She has been cheering its merits for quite some time. I have tried it, but remain a traditional mammal. The non-traditional mammals will drink it knowing full well there is no guarantee when or IF the carton will be replaced when emptied.
Soy milk: This one was one I did not really ever planning on drinking. Our Chinese exchange student doesn’t ask for much, so when she requested the soy milk, it seemed hard to turn her down. She drinks it very diligently….a cup in the morning and at night. [I believe.] (My experience with Chinese students [I am guessing adults, too.] is they are very disciplined. And she certainly is that. She likes sweets, but limits (at least she gives all appearances of limiting) her consumption of them. She may sneak an extra cookie into her lunch, but she is rarely seen getting a snack after dinner.)
Coconut milk: This one is my fault. I had this incredible plan to make a Caribbean feast for dinner. I had 15 or so skinless, boneless chicken thighs marinated w/ a bottle of Caribbean Jerk marinade. Since I was such a good planner the night before, I had set 4 cups of beans in a bowl with 12 cups of cold water. They expanded nicely and after cooking in the crockpot all day, they were ready to be blended with some rice in an INCREDIBLE (or not) Caribbean Beans w/ Rice. Since last time we made rice, I doubled it and there was barely any left over for school lunches. I determined I was going to get ahead of the curve and double it. The plan was good, but I failed to factor in the impact of the coconut milk on the flavor of the rice. Needless to say, the rice wasn’t a hot mover at dinner. When the containers came out for pre-packing tomorrow’s lunch, the rice was almost completely absent from the festivities. Only one container had the rice paired with some broccoli. I don’t fault them for not being more enthusiastic. A happy, satisfied cook is much more likely to experiment and sometimes hit one out of the park. Right…..a half gallon of coconut was purchased for the bean and rice experiment. It was cheaper than buying 2 cans, and it may tempt us into other experiments.
Hazelnut creamer: We have had one of these in the frig for quite some time. I am NOT a black coffee drinker. My wife sometimes dances with the black brew. I am also a recovering sugar user–why does my wife stay married to me? I usually don’t use full strength creamer. I will splash the creamer and make up the difference with milk. I have attempted to take walks with other flavors of creamer, but I usually reach the bottom of the cup unsatisfied.
Chocolate Caramel creamer: Since my son moved back home while commuting to school, he has revealed a variety of new habits. The habit that pleases my wife the most is his graduation to coffee drinker. As an added bonus, he usually has coffee in the morning and another cup in the nightish time. The chocolate caramel is definitely his creamer of choice. My daughters have also been known to make an iced coffee where this creamer is an ingredient. If our youngest son would only start drinking coffee, my wife would know her job as mother was a successful one.

I suppose milk to the 6th might also have been an appropriate title. Having sometimes been overly a purist, I was not sure exactly if the creamers qualified for a “power of milk”. In my desire to be accurate, I may have inadvertently offended any whose entire dairy consumption comes from their coffee cup. (Better milk than those little, non-dairy creamer cups–yuch!)

Also, I have failed to address any cheese present in the frig. For those who are curious:

we have mexican shredded cheese for our frequent tacos, carnitas, and fajitas
cream cheese for any of those bagel purchased at the discount bread store,
American cheese-we really don’t eat it. It is only to show our support for America–kind of like putting out the flag on various holidays,
Provolone-one of the best cheeses ever. When it goes on a hamburger, the meat gives it a big hug and takes a bite out of its neck in a pseudo-vampirian embrace,
Mozzarella-the pizza cheese of choice–as long as it hasn’t already gone moldy,
Parmesan- a nice thing to have around for those Italianish things us Americans think we do so well.
The final holdout…sour cream– not a cheese, not a milk. It is a big glob of dairy goo that is all too necessary when I make banana bread.

Maybe at some future day, I can give a tour of the vegetables presently residing in our frig. (Even more exciting, the ice cream and dairy products residing in our freezer.) It is not as good as an adventure movie, but may compete with “Honey Boo Boo”. (I doubt they have many vegetables in their refrigerator.) Making a milk “suicide” (in my youth, a suicide was a little bit of each soda/pop available at the fountain. Cream soda was essential for a good one.) might just be the right way to bring closure to my dairy adventure….

Walking Down Life's Road With Andy