Food

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.

Grills, Grandkids, and the Smoke Detector Saga

The Great Grill Misstep

Last night started innocently enough: we grilled up a feast of brats, hamburgers, and some andouille sausage. As usual, after taking the meat off the grill, I cranked up the heat to incinerate any lurking germs. It’s my personal version of a germ exorcism. Normally, I remember to turn the grill off afterward. Normally.

Fast-forward 18 hours. I’m feeding my granddaughter a bottle, gazing out the back window like a serene caretaker, when my brain suddenly asks, “What are those heat ripples coming off the grill?”

Cue the realization.

I stepped onto the porch, and it hit me like a ton of bricks: I never turned the grill off. The gas knobs were still wide open, and when I lifted the lid, I was greeted by a mountain of white ash. My grand plan to “clean it later” was quickly followed by a mental debate: Do I tell my wife about this? Spoiler alert: keeping secrets isn’t my strong suit.

Smoke Alarms: The Plot Thickens

Barely an hour later, with my granddaughter swaddled and happily snoozing in her crib (a rare victory in our new “Grandpa’s 30-hour-a-week daycare” schedule), I finally sat down at my computer. That’s when it happened. The smoke detectors went off.

At first, I thought, Oh no, not this again. A few months ago, we had a smoke detector malfunction, and the screeching symphony was unforgettable. Hoping for a quick resolution, I checked the baby—still sound asleep—and sat back down.

Then the alarms screamed again.

The baby stirred, letting out a pre-nap protest, while my heart sank. Time to play Smoke Detector Roulette. Armed with a ladder, I started disconnecting units. Which one of the seven is the ringleader? Who’s the boss of this noise parade?

Two attempts later, I finally silenced the screaming. Relief washed over me. Then paranoia set in: What if this wasn’t a malfunction? I rushed to check on my granddaughter. No signs of carbon monoxide poisoning. She woke up soon after, demanding bottle number two, blissfully unaware of Grandpa’s mini heart attack.

The Reconnection Gamble

Once the baby was settled, it was time to reconnect the smoke detectors. Hooking them back up wasn’t the hard part—my fear was that one rogue detector would throw a tantrum in the middle of the night. And let’s be honest, my “middle-of-the-night hugs” are more like aggressive shoves.

Theories and Lessons

So, what triggered all this chaos? My best guess is that the unvented grill might’ve released something the detectors didn’t like. Or maybe it was dust. Or humidity. Or, let’s face it, the universe just wanted to spice up my day.

Whatever the cause, I’d like to file a formal request with the smoke detector gods: next time, can you schedule your shenanigans around the baby’s nap?

In the end, I learned two things: always double-check the grill, and never underestimate a smoke detector’s ability to keep life exciting—even if it’s at the worst possible moment.

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

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

1. The Weighty Waltz

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

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

2. The Lab Report Rumba

Yearly physicals now come with a side of mystery:

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

3. The Proximity Polka

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

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

4. The Retirement Riff

Testing out the “retirement dance”:

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

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

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

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

6. The Pickup Truck Two-Step

Still driving the Sienna van to Home Depot.

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

7. The Flexibility Foxtrot

Kids nearby today, but maybe not tomorrow.

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

Final Bow

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

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

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

Act 1: The Brisket Blunder

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

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

Act 2: CSI: Brisket Edition

We launched an investigation:

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

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

Act 3: The Vegetarian Perspective

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

Act 4: Sweet Redemption

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

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

Epilogue: A Weekend Turnaround

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

Toast, Utensils, and Marital Diplomacy: A Slice of Life

Let’s be honest: the kitchen is not just where we prepare food—it’s where domestic philosophy is forged, sometimes on the blade of a butter knife. In my household, we follow a sacred code: “Help the dishwasher out as much as you can.” It’s a noble creed—one that my wife and I mostly share, with a tiny, chocolate-hazelnut exception.

Toast: The Great Equalizer (Almost)

Both of us are toast fans. (We even had a toast song, but that’s a story for another day—and possibly another genre.) While my heart belongs to a bagel with peanut butter, toast comes in at a very respectable second. My wife? She’s all in on toast, topped with Nutella. Frankly, you can’t go wrong with either.

The Knife Dilemma: Peanut Butter vs. Nutella Protocol

Here’s where the marital kitchen harmony wobbles: the post-spread knife ritual.

My method: I lick both sides of the knife clean. Some might call it overkill; I call it preventive maintenance. That knife comes out of the dishwasher so clean, it could double as a dental mirror.
My wife’s method: She wipes the knife clean on her toast. Efficient, elegant, but perhaps a smidge too trusting of the dishwasher’s powers.

The Empty-Nester’s Dilemma

Back when the house was full of kids, the dishwasher ran daily, and any rogue Nutella or peanut butter never stood a chance. Now, with fewer meals and fewer cycles, any residue has time to harden into something the dishwasher considers “character-building.”

My Heroic Intervention

This morning, as the Nutella knife was headed for the dishwasher, I sprang into action—tongue first. I gave that knife a pre-wash so thorough, the dishwasher sighed in relief.

Let it be known: if the dishwasher fails to deliver, it’s not for my lack of effort. Some people talk about making sacrifices for their marriage. Me? I just lick the knife.

In summary: Marriage is about compromise, teamwork, and occasionally, making sure your appliances don’t face impossible odds. And if you ever need someone to clean up after toast, you know who to call.

The Wizards Of Bob Evans

The purpose of our traveling was to get to a family wedding in Ohio. Since Bob Evans is not in Texas (I think the mashed potatoes and sausage may be in the grocery store), we usually have at least one meal there while visiting.

This trip, it was Saturday breakfast. In complete tourist fashion, I had to chat with the wizards from down on the farm. They had no interesting stories about quidditching or spellcasting. They quickly told me they were Christians and like eating pancakes while wearing pointy hats. Or, was it something to do with putting pancakes on their heads and letting their hats keep them warm? Whatever the true story, they were gracious enough to pose for a picture for this relocated Ohioan. (One of them was too shy to pose. 🙂 )

ReHoming Day

Not sure when this happens in your part of the country. It is more regular than Christmas, but for some it is better than Christmas. If you live in the country, you may not have the opportunity to experience this incredibly emotional day. Oh, yes, most of us call it trash day.

I have developed the habit of putting potentially valuable items out the night before trash day. These have been bicycles and, most recently, suitcases with problematic zippers. In the eyes of a rehomer, these can be great treasures. When I put the regular trash and the recyclables out the next morning, I get to play a little game and imagine the household that would find these items valuable enough to throw into the back of their already full pickup truck.

While my friend took some liberties with the suitcase’s appearance, here is the adventure he wrote for them:

In the quiet town of Oddsville, where the unusual was usual and the mundane was celebrated on the second Tuesday of every month, there lived two suitcases. These weren’t your garden-variety, run-of-the-mill suitcases; no, sir! One was a flamboyant pink with zebra stripes, the kind of suitcase that wouldn’t just turn heads at the airport but would cause full-blown whiplash. The other was a sober black number, with more patches than original fabric, looking like it had been around the world twice and fought a grizzly bear along the way. Their names were Pizzazz and Grit, respectively.

Pizzazz and Grit found themselves in the unfortunate position of being tossed into the trash. Pizzazz was indignant, “I’ve been to Paris, darling! The trash is no place for a suitcase of my caliber!” Grit, ever the stoic, merely grunted, “It’s just another adventure. Could be worse. Could’ve been recycled into a pair of unfashionable shorts.”

Their fate took a turn when the Johnson family, notorious in Oddsville for their love of secondhand treasures and questionable fashion choices, stumbled upon them. Mrs. Johnson, a woman with an eye for potential in the most unlikely places, declared, “These will be perfect for our family trip to the World’s Largest Ball of Twine!”

And so, Pizzazz and Grit embarked on their second life. Pizzazz was dolled up with an array of new stickers, each more eccentric than the last, from a glow-in-the-dark alien proclaiming “I Want to Believe” to a scratch-and-sniff pickle. Grit, on the other hand, was given a thorough cleaning before being adorned with a series of hand-drawn maps showcasing all the “adventures” it could look forward to—like navigating the perilous living room during the annual Great Uncle Ned’s Snoring Competition.

The Johnsons’ trip was anything but ordinary. Pizzazz found herself strapped to the roof of a car, next to a canoe that was used more for storage than water navigation. She couldn’t help but admire the view, though she often wished for a pair of sunglasses. Grit, ever the pragmatist, was stuffed to the brim with snacks, emergency supplies, and the kind of items one brings on a road trip when convinced they’ll be facing a zombie apocalypse rather than a tourist attraction.

Upon reaching the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, Pizzazz and Grit realized they had become more than just luggage; they were part of the family. They had contained everything from mismatched socks to the cherished souvenir twine ball (a mini version of the giant one, because who could resist?). They had been the pillow in a roadside nap, the impromptu table for a picnic, and the carrier of countless memories.

As the Johnsons headed home, the suitcases shared their stories. Pizzazz boasted about her rooftop escapades and the new stickers that now adorned her sides, while Grit recounted the tales of the snacks he’d safeguarded (and occasionally lost to hungry midnight raiders).

In the end, Pizzazz and Grit weren’t just rescued from the trash; they had found a new purpose. They weren’t just containers for belongings but vessels for the Johnson family’s adventures. And as they settled back into the attic, waiting for their next outing, they couldn’t help but chuckle at their good fortune. From trash to treasure, from forgotten to family—this was one adventure they’d never forget.

The Last Supper: A Tale of Food Warmups and Their Inevitable Demise

(Today’s entry written by an anonymous guest)

Ah, leftovers. The culinary ghosts of dinners past, lurking in the depths of our refrigerators. They start their journey with such promise, don’t they? Packed away in their little containers, they’re like edible time capsules, waiting to transport us back to a meal that was, presumably, worth remembering. But as with all good things, the appeal of leftovers has its expiration date—both literally and metaphorically. This is a story of how food warmups become less an act of sustenance and more a dance with destiny.

Act 1: The Rekindling

It begins with a spark of optimism. You open the fridge, and there it is—the lasagna from three nights ago, looking just as hearty as the evening it was born. The microwave chimes its readiness, and you eagerly await the reunion of flavors. But alas, it’s never quite the same, is it? The once-crisp edges now tread a fine line between chewy and charred, a culinary tightrope that not all dishes navigate successfully.

Act 2: The Cooling Off

By day two of the leftovers saga, the relationship between you and that once-beloved dish starts to cool, much like the center of a reheated piece of lasagna that refuses to warm up. You open the fridge, see the container, and think, “Maybe I’ll just have a sandwich.” The lasagna, with its slightly less vibrant sauce and noodles that have seen better days, begins to understand that its time in the spotlight may be coming to an end.

Act 3: The Forgotten

Days pass. The lasagna is pushed further back into the fridge, making room for newer, fresher meals. It becomes part of the landscape, like a forgotten landmass on the map of your refrigerator. Occasionally, you’ll catch a glimpse of it and think, “I should really do something about that.” But action seldom follows thought in the kingdom of leftovers, and the lasagna remains, a testament to meals gone but not quite forgotten.

Act 4: The Final Goodbye

The inevitable can only be delayed for so long. One day, armed with a trash bag and a sense of resolve, you finally face the lasagna. It’s not quite the meal you remember; time and refrigeration have taken their toll. With a sigh that’s part regret and part relief, you bid farewell to what once was, acknowledging the cycle of food warmups and their eventual disposal. The lasagna has worn out its welcome, but fear not—it makes room for future meals and the promise of new leftovers.

In the grand theater of the kitchen, the saga of leftovers is a tale as old as time. They remind us that not all meals are meant to last forever and that sometimes, the best thing we can do is let go and make room for the next culinary adventure. So, here’s to the leftovers, the food warmups, and their eventual journey to the great compost bin in the sky. May they rest in peace, or at least in biodegradable pieces.

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?)

The Jambalaya Compromise

When you are billeting (they live with you) a house full of junior hockey players (3 of them are 18 and one of them is 19), you get the opportunity to eat with them on a regular basis. With their practices often being in the afternoon with minimal food consumed prior to practice, the call to “eat dinner together” has varying levels of enthusiasm. Depending on how long ago they ate their post-practice Chik-Fil-A or Chipotle, they may not be hunger. And, if they are hungry, there is the distinct possibility the meal won’t tickle all of their taste buds.

Over the past 4ish months they have been living with us, we have found a couple of meals that will reliably pull them away from their video games and voluntarily bring them downstairs to eat with us.

Pizza: I cannot lie. We make a pretty good pizza. My role is “dough maker” and sausage and bacon fryer. If we have the full crew on that night, we make at least one each of the following: pepperoni, sausage, and barbecue chicken.
Sliders: We will make 36-48 of these. Aldi’s has the best price on the bread, and the boys love them for warmups. Since “second dinner” is usually consumed by at least half of the boys, this is a big deal.

The rest of the things we make for them have less than full enthusiasm.

One of them doesn’t like gravy.
One of them didn’t think he liked meatloaf, but he is possibly the best eater now.
Only one of them likes roasted sweet potato cubes with rosemary. This is one of our favorites. It is unfortunate.
One of them (quite possibly one of those already referred to above) doesn’t like tomatoes in any form.
A random thing–one of them likes lots of whipped cream on his pancakes and some baked items.
They will all put roasted broccoli on their plate, and sometimes they will eat it.
After the boys were gone one night and found out there was Chinese in the refrigerator, two of the boys came down to claim it as their second dinner that night.
The visit to “flavor town” left the curry and gumbo out in the cold. The fried rice entered the semi-regular meal rotation.

With these facts in mind, I felt compelled to try something new with them. Unfortunately, the available protein was pointing me toward Jambalaya. How did I handle this? I made the jambalaya as an “optional” lunch item. My gut told me one of the boys would very likely enjoy it. Two of them might think it is okay. One of them would definitely find the tomatoes and the spice beyond his range. (It would be a street he would never visit in Flavor town.) This compromise – a meal for all but only if they wanted to try it without having it as their only dinner option- allowed everyone to participate as they chose.

In the end, I did get my jambalaya. The one who enjoyed it added hot sauce because he could. The other Chinese lover thought it was good. And, the other two didn’t even try any–no matter how hard we nudged them. It made plenty and and the “second dinner” stores were replenished for a couple of days. If I can find another rice-centric recipe, I am going to try it!

Walking Down Life's Road With Andy