books

She Stayed Home Anyway

Friday night was supposed to be a bachelor night. My son skipped his camping trip to celebrate his fiancée’s new doctorate. My wife was supposed to be at a women’s church retreat somewhere in southeastern Oklahoma, surrounded by people who say “I’ll pray for them” and “Bless their hearts” every few minutes, and mean it. A room full of actual personalities.

She canceled. She stayed home with me.

I have spent considerable time assembling a list of plausible explanations.

The weather. Earlier this week, an EF4 tornado hit north of OKC. The retreat was a couple of hours away. Most of those women have lived here their whole lives, which means they’d have known exactly what to do. Judy would have been in better hands with them than with her husband, who has graduated from watching tornado coverage on TV to calling it “fieldwork.”

The new job. She finished her second week and told me, “If I knew it was going to be that hard, I would have asked for more money.” The graceful glide into semi-retirement she’d been planning has been postponed indefinitely. A full weekend of singing and fellowship might have felt less like rest and more like a different kind of exhausting.

The wedding. Their photographer canceled this week — a death in the family, and the memorial service landed on my son’s wedding day. The caterer they’d lined up is closing at the end of June. Judy found out about both of these things Friday morning, and before the day was out, she had a list of approximately a dozen photographers to call and filed the situation under problems I can fix. This is her natural environment. When I eavesdrop on her talking to our daughter, I hear a woman who genuinely believes she can solve things, and who is usually right about that. A retreat would have taken her off the field during crunch time.

The house. Between saxophone recitals, a doctoral defense, and family dinners, deep cleaning has been hard to come by. Our son is still living here until the wedding, which means every room is in use, and Judy hasn’t been able to close a door behind her and declare it “clean” the way she likes. Saturday presented an opportunity. I recognize this possibility.

Me. Her first comment was, “You were certainly a factor.” She said it warmly, which is the charitable interpretation, and I’m going with that. I’ll acknowledge I’ve been crankier than usual this week — by evening, I’m running on low-battery notifications, more tired and capable of the sharp word instead of the kind one. I start most mornings reasonably enough, but the day works on me. Talking less or answering in vague generalities is usually the better move. The last remaining bits of common sense do what they can.

She’s always had a heart for a project. Apparently, I still qualify.

The truth is, I don’t fully know why she stayed. My best guess is it was the wedding stuff, and that I was a small contributing factor, and that she weighed a weekend of fellowship against the specific pull of problems she could actually do something about — and the problems won.

I am the guy who takes out the trash and reminds her we need to get to the bank Saturday morning. I am the gardener who calls the perennial company to get replacement plants sent, then makes sure they’re in the ground before we can go out for dinner. Our emotional lanes are pretty well established. The kids don’t bring their big life questions to me. They bring them to Judy, who has the patience to sit with the answers longer than I do. I give responses that are either too vague or too sharp. Not nearly as helpful.

So if she tells herself she stayed home partly for me, I’m not going to argue. I know she has a full world of people who make her feel needed. If I’m somewhere in that number, I’ll take it.

Whether it is with a toilet brush or a phone call, Judy will continue her mission to save the world. Mine is just to make sure she can.

What Grandpa Did in Norman

My son-in-law had a saxophone recital this week. My future daughter-in-law is defending her doctoral dissertation. These are significant life moments, and the family is rallying around both of them with appropriate enthusiasm and support.

I was with the baby.

To be fair, Ellie’s other grandma was in town for the recital, and she graciously babysat Ellie during the day so I could have some Andy time. This left her with a clear conscience when I accepted the recital shift. All of us attended the dinner portion of the evening, which was the part I was looking forward to anyway. The pizza was good.

The recital was held at OU, which meant Ellie and I spent an hour roaming the halls of a building not designed with either of us in mind — me like a slightly confused mall Santa, her like someone who has never encountered a carpeted ramp and intends to fix that immediately.

We walked a lot. With Ellie, walking means holding both her hands while she does something between a march and a controlled fall. Her legs can’t quite keep up with the ambition, but viewed from the side, the illusion of running is convincing. She seems to enjoy it. The grandpa executing the maneuver gets winded faster than he’d like to admit, so we don’t overdo it.

One of the hockey boys had left a neon yellow golf ball in their room, and once I introduced it to Ellie, every white ball I’d ever collected on my walks became an afterthought. We found a carpeted ramp — one of those long, gentle slopes that make stairs optional — and developed a game. She’d release the ball from the top. I’d stand below and try to kick it gently back up toward her. She’d decide, with visible deliberation, whether to crawl up to meet it or scramble down after it.

At one point the ball rolled toward her from above and she spotted it over her left shoulder. Something clicked in her baby brain and she decided the correct response was to lead with her right leg, which required a small full-body flip. She didn’t intercept the ball. But she committed to the plan completely — a tiny, determined engineer working a problem she hadn’t quite solved yet.

I lost the golf ball somewhere in all of this. I ordered a six-pack of colored ones on Amazon that night.

When two college students passed by during our ramp experiments, I mentioned something about developing her eye for the putting game. They smiled the way young people smile at old men doing inexplicable things with babies. Politely. With their whole faces.

We found a bench and ate. Cheerios, and some apple-strawberry star-shaped things that dissolve before they become a choking hazard. I favored the method where the snack is secured between my lips and Ellie retrieves it with her fingers. As the session went on, her hands got progressively damper. Baby slime. Nothing toxic.

A man walking the hallway stopped and watched us for a moment. “First grandchild?” he asked. I confirmed. He nodded like he knew something. “She’s the one who’ll pick your nickname.” Then he kept walking.

I would like a nice nickname…

The motion-activated faucets in the bathroom are not designed for a man holding an infant with one hand. You do what you have to do.

When my wife texted that the recital was over, I handed Ellie off to her assembled fans and faded into the background, which is where I do my best work. By the time dinner wrapped up, we were four hours in and dangerously close to disrupting my pre-sleep routine. The pizza held up its end.

Today is the dissertation defense. I was encouraged to bring Ellie, but it only takes one wrong moment — one well-timed shriek during a committee question — to make that a memorable afternoon for the wrong reasons. She has worked too hard for that. And frankly, I’m not sure the room needs both Ellie and me in it. There may be some older professors present with limited social skills, but they’re not variables I can control.

Phase two of Grandpa Goes to Norman happens from home. Better snack inventory. Bibs within reach. No motion-activated anything. No college students watching me lose a golf ball.

And maybe, if I keep spoiling her at the current rate, she’ll give me a decent nickname.

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 Call That Postponed My Retirement

This is a further explanation of two of the titles included on my “semi-retired” business card. (Dual Format Bookworm and Spousal Support Engineer)

The phone call came two months ago, and just like that, the Summer of ’26 vanished.

It was an offer my wife couldn’t — and, logically, shouldn’t — refuse. A similar role to her current one, fully remote, better pay, working with a well-respected colleague from her past. I wasn’t in the room when she took the call. I heard about it afterward, which is probably how most husbands learn the major plot twists in their lives.

I considered a counterargument. The best I had was “I have over 6,000 books on Kindle and Audible.” Most of them were free. The rest I bought on sale, fully intending to read them immediately. That argument, it turns out, doesn’t hold much water against a high-level role with better benefits. So we pushed the goalposts. Summer of ’29 it is.

To understand why I didn’t put up more of a fight, you have to understand our roles. For 35 years, my wife has been the undisputed Bread-Winner. I’ve made several noble attempts at being a Dough-Winner, but her bread is simply better baked, more plentiful, and has a much more reliable crust.

As we navigated kids, fostering, and a move to Texas, she was the one traveling when the company called. She worked evenings and weekends to make the bosses happy, while I waved from the sidelines — or texted her from the same room to see if she remembered she had a husband. My retirement is technically rock-solid and investment-backed, but it is not the golf-and-slow-coffee variety. It is a series of Supporting Roles. I am the Head of Domestic Logistics, and my CEO just signed a three-year extension.

Here’s the part that gets me. She’ll be home. Physically present, same house, same zip code — and completely unreachable. My wife working remotely is not my wife being available. It’s my wife in a digital fortress with a closed door and four consecutive video calls.

I was hoping to pass the childcare baton this year. Instead, I’ve been re-enlisted. I am currently a specialist in diaper-related hazardous waste management — an unpaid internship with zero upward mobility, but I’m told the exposure is great. By the time 2029 rolls around, our granddaughter will be four and likely helping her mom manage two or more siblings.

Then there are the hockey boys. Another three years of work means another three seasons of high-protein breakfasts and civilized-living lessons. It’s all penciled in. As long as they like toddlers and don’t commit any sins beyond redemption, the house stays full.

So we’re staying in the wind and the Oklahoma heat a little longer. Our local kids will be here at least two more years before their academic pursuits take them elsewhere, which means delaying retirement only adds one year of real extension anyway. I participated in this decision. I agreed it was the right call. My counterargument was weak, and I knew it.

I am a reluctant retiree, but I have people — and one very small person — depending on me most days of the week. I don’t get paid, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get compensated.

I’ll get to those 6,000 books eventually. I just need my wife to retire first.

The Voice (Or: How I Learned to Nag Without Technically Nagging)

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

Somewhere after the last kid left for college, I developed a second voice.

Not a concerning one. Not the kind that tells you to do things. More of a guest narrator. A color commentator for the small, unresolved frustrations of domestic life. Specifically, my wife’s share of them.

It sounds exactly like my wife. Except sassier. And with slightly more self-awareness than she’d probably volunteer on her own.

Here’s how it works. The dishes pile up. Judy is, by longstanding treaty, the designated dishwasher. When the stack starts achieving architectural ambitions, I don’t say anything. I just wander past the sink, tilt my head, and murmur — in a voice that is not quite mine — “I wonder when the dish fairies are coming. You’d think they’d have been here by now.”

She knows exactly what’s happening. She’s been married to me long enough to read the subtext, which is: the dishes need doing. The Voice is just the delivery system. It’s a nag wearing a disguise, and the disguise isn’t even that convincing. But somehow it lands softer than the direct version, and we both know it.

The lamp incident lasted several months. We had a lamp behind the chair. The recliner ate its cord. I asked about a replacement — once, twice, roughly fourteen times over what felt like a minor geological era. When I finally deployed The Voice, it came out as: “Boy, I wish I could remember to buy that lamp. Andy hasn’t mentioned it today, so I guess he doesn’t want it anymore.” She smiled. She did not immediately buy the lamp. But the smile was acknowledgment, which is honestly most of what you’re after.

Then there was the peanut butter and jelly incident. These are the ones that make me regret The Voice’s existence.

I had made warmups — real food, intentional food, food that required actual effort and lived in the refrigerator with the reasonable expectation of being eaten. Judy opened the fridge, considered her options, closed it, and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I watched this happen in real time. I said nothing in my own voice, because my own voice would have had an edge to it that the situation didn’t technically warrant. So The Voice showed up instead.

“I know there are perfectly good warmups in there,” it said, with Judy’s cadence and Judy’s calm, “but the peanut butter and jelly is really speaking to me today. And honestly — Andy probably won’t even notice. He loves to throw uneaten food away.”

She laughed. I felt seen and also slightly ridiculous, which is more or less the emotional signature of a successful Voice deployment. The warmups, for the record, were eventually eaten. By me.

The bedtime reading situation is its own category. We both read before sleep. When she stops first, there’s an announcement — delivered with genuine tenderness but also the logistical clarity of a boarding gate closing — that I should probably wrap it up soon. When I stop first, I roll over and go to sleep. If I’m feeling spirited, I’ll glance over my shoulder and say in The Voice, “Don’t read too long, you know how it keeps me awake,” then pull the covers up with the serene expression of a man who has made his point.

I get sassier as the day goes on. Judy has documentation. By 9 p.m., The Voice has loosened up considerably and is operating with real creative confidence.

My wife is a kinder spirit than me — she has accepted this fully. Not just tolerated it. Accepted it. She even has her own version of my voice, which she deploys occasionally. Her renditions are, I will note, significantly more complimentary than mine. Her version of me seems to be a wiser, more generous person. I’m not sure who she thinks she married, but I appreciate the optimism.

Her responses track pretty cleanly to guilt level and degree of offense. Snoring gets a genuine “I’m sorry.” The dishes get something like, “They are piling up — I wish the dishwasher would come back from vacation.” The lamp gets a smile and a “Yes, I should get to that,” delivered with the calm of a woman who has decided to manage me rather than fight me.

The honest version of what The Voice is doing is this: it’s nagging with the volume turned down and a laugh track turned up. It keeps us from having the same conversation with teeth in it. After enough years of marriage, you develop these little systems — ways of saying true things without making them into a confrontation. The Voice is mine. It is weak camouflage. She sees right through it every time.

And she still seems pleased she married a sassy husband — which, after all these years, I’ve decided to take as a win.

Amen Ambassador

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

I’ve been involved with a program called “Let’s Start Talking” (LST) for a good number of years now. My daughters and I even trekked to Hungary almost a decade ago for a mission trip under their banner, but my real “boots on the ground” work happens right here at my desk with my “readers.”

What exactly is a “reader”? In my case, it’s a revolving door of international men who want to polish their English. Before COVID, this involved actual human contact at coffee shops or libraries. These days, it’s mostly me staring at a webcam. We use LST materials that cleverly disguise English challenges—like the dreaded verb conjugation—inside biblical lessons on sin, grace, and salvation.

I’ve worked with men from Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Vietnam, and Ecuador(all pre-Covid and in person). I’ve learned about their customs, tasted their food, and generally enjoyed the “armchair traveler” lifestyle. I did have one female reader from Hungary once (early-Covid), but that taught me a lesson in boundaries. She was preparing for marriage and telling me things about her fiancé that made me want to bail out of the conversation. I figured any marital advice she needed should come from a woman, not me. I arranged a “handoff” to a female teacher, but she apparently wasn’t a fan of the trade. She never showed up again, though I see her on Facebook with a baby now, so she clearly survived my attempt at mentorship.

The Current Roster I currently have three regulars. They are all academically driven, though their personalities couldn’t be more different:

  • The Long-Hauler (Asia): I’m keeping his specific country a mystery to avoid any international incidents. We’ve been at this for five years. I’ve “walked” with him through a doctorate in Europe and watched his son grow up via pixels. We spend 40 minutes talking about everything from personal pictures to politics before I “cherry-pick” devotions that contain enough big words to keep him on his toes.
  • The Enthusiast (Brazil): He’s been around for about four years. He is the walking definition of the Brazilian stereotype—emotional, enthusiastic, and loud. He’s met my granddaughter on Zoom (he asks about her every call), and I’ve met his mother. She doesn’t speak a lick of English, but she’s promised me a world-class meal if I ever show up in her kitchen. He is a fantastic, high-energy contrast to my more reserved Asian reader.
  • The Academic (Poland): He started with me in high school and is now a university student. He’s an only child who passionately describes every meal and movie in his life. Because of the age gap, I have to work a little harder to stay “relatable” (pray for me). He’s Catholic by heritage but mostly just a moral guy with no real interest in faith. I keep showing up anyway. Even if the conversations aren’t always “deep,” we both usually learn something by the time the timer hits zero.

The Logistics of Grace Aside from “showing up,” the hardest part of being an Amen Ambassador is basic math. Keeping track of time zones is a nightmare. Europe changes their clocks on a different schedule than the US, and my Asian and Brazilian readers don’t change their clocks at all. I much prefer the 9:00 AM meetings over the 8:00 AM ones—mostly because my brain functions significantly better with that extra hour of blood waking it up.

Could I do more? Probably. But at this stage, my wife and I have agreed that our own kids and grandkids are our primary mission field. We’re working to give them a foundation that won’t crack when life gets messy. If I’m held to account on the other side of the grave, I’ll be fine knowing my family came before any other “mission goals” I might have entertained.

God might have other things He’d like us to take on, and those may have to live in the “regret” folder of my mind for now. But I refuse to let my family be part of any regret.

Billet Life: Hosting Hockey’s Next Generation

This is the first of the titles included on my “semi-retired” business card.

Slapshot Supervisor

Being a billet parent is like being a cross between a dorm supervisor, a hockey team cheerleader, and an all-you-can-eat buffet manager. It’s not a job for the faint of heart, but it’s one filled with laughter, camaraderie, and enough hockey talk to last a lifetime. Here’s what it’s like to open your home—and your fridge—to junior hockey players.

What Is a Billet Parent?

We’re not coaches, and we’re not just landlords. A billet parent provides a home for junior hockey players, typically aged 17–20, during their season. These players are chasing their dreams of making it to college hockey and beyond, and we get a front-row seat to their journey. For a small stipend to cover food, water, and endless snacks, we become a temporary family for these young athletes.

Fast Facts About Junior Hockey Players

  1. Age Range: Most players are 17–20, though some turn 21 during the season.
  2. Goal-Oriented: Their primary aim is to earn a college hockey scholarship, adjusting their plans as the season progresses.
  3. Agents: Many players have “agents” who assist with trades and team placements, though the details often remain a mystery to us.
  4. Parent Connection: While we provide day-to-day support, the boys usually stay closely connected to their families.
  5. Cultural Mix: Players from Minnesota are often grounded, while those from boarding schools can bring quirky habits.

How It All Began

Our billet journey started during the fall of 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. A friend from Minnesota connected us with a young player who needed a billet home. We filled out the paperwork, welcomed him in, and haven’t looked back since. Now, six years later, we’ve hosted players from as far away as Canada and beyond, first with the Lone Star Brahmas in Texas and now with the OKC Warriors in Oklahoma.

The Players We Host

Over the years, we’ve housed a variety of players, including:

  • Returners: Familiar faces from previous seasons.
  • Newcomers: Boys trying out for the team or moving up a level.
  • Short-Term Guests: Players staying for just a week during tryouts.
  • Mid-Season Additions: Players cut from other teams, looking for a fresh start.

Some stay a week, others the whole season. It’s always a revolving door of hockey bags, sticks, and personalities.

Why We Do It

This isn’t just about hockey—it’s about building relationships and shaping young lives. Here’s why we keep coming back:

  • Meaningful Connections: While we don’t expect lifelong friendships, we treasure the bonds we form. A quick text on their birthday or after a big game keeps the connection alive.
  • Faith and Values: As Christians, we aim to model kindness, integrity, and hospitality. We say grace at dinner and welcome the boys to join us at church (though they rarely do).
  • Food, Glorious Food: Feeding teenage hockey players is no small feat. We often serve big breakfasts on game days and keep the pantry stocked for the team’s bottomless appetites.
  • Shared Moments: From listening to their hockey banter to watching them grow, these moments make it all worthwhile.

The Unknowns of the Season

Every season brings its own set of surprises:

  • Will all three of our initial players stay, or will we be making airport runs for mid-season replacements?
  • Will they be adventurous eaters or stick to pizza and burgers?
  • How many extra players will show up unannounced for dinner?

One thing’s for sure: by spring, we’ll have a house full of memories and an empty fridge.

Final Thoughts

Being a billet parent is a unique and rewarding experience. It’s not without its challenges—like constantly restocking snacks or navigating the occasional personality clash—but the joy of watching these young men chase their dreams makes it all worthwhile. Whether we’re hosting three players or twelve, we’re proud to play a small part in their journey, one slap shot at a time.

Confessions of a Title Tinkerer: How a 40-Year-Old Business Card Inspired My Latest Obsession

The card that I have been thinking about the past few decades. How could I put my spin on it?

When Inspiration Strikes (And My Family Worries)

Sometimes, I get so laser-focused on a project that my family starts giving me that look. You know, the one that says, “Are you okay, or do you need an intervention?” Well, I’m happy to report that I’ve finished the 1.0 version of my latest obsession. And no, it’s not a new app, a groundbreaking invention, or even an NFT. It’s… a business card.

But not just any business card.

Blast From the Past: The Original Card That Started It All

Back in the good ol’ days of selling cell phones—closer to 40 years ago than 30—I came across a business card that stuck with me. It was a bold, hilarious card with no contact information, clearly a joke (or maybe a way to avoid being constantly called). But it wasn’t just a joke—it was art. It described someone’s services in a way that was both ridiculous and oddly compelling.

Fast-forward to today, and this quirky little card still “lives” rent-free in my brain. So, naturally, I decided to create my own version—a card that reflects my personality and skill set, but with a nice guy twist.

The Creative Process: When Chatbots and Family Weigh In

Crafting my own version of this card wasn’t as simple as slapping a few titles on a piece of cardstock. Oh no. It became a full-blown project. Here’s what went into it:

  1. Family Feedback:
    • I tested multiple titles on my family, only to get vetoed with comments like, “That’s not you,” or “Please don’t put that on a card.”
  2. Chatbot Creativity:
    • I fed some titles into a chatbot, asking it to come up with catchier versions. It responded with alliterative gems and ideas that screamed, “Include me!”
  3. Trial and Error:
    • I experimented with formatting, swapped titles in and out, and gauged success based on whether a title made me laugh or at least smile.

The result? A business card brimming with quirky, creative job titles that feel just right.

What’s Next: Titles and Their Stories

The card itself is done, but the project isn’t over. Each title on my new business card represents a different facet of who I am, and I plan to write a post about each one. These posts will:

  • Explain why I chose the title.
  • Dive into how it reflects my personality, skills, or sense of humor.

It’s a mix of self-reflection, storytelling, and (hopefully) entertainment. Entertainment or not, I am going to write them anyway. 🙂

The card I ended up with. It is the 1.0 version. I may shuffle a title in or out. Wherever the 2.0 version goes, I have a good start!

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?)