Merry Christmas, From No One . . .

With the yuletide clock ticking down on this holiday season, I need a timeout.  A man can hear only so many versions of “Santa Baby” sung in a half-toddler, half-boozy harlot voice before he questions his worth as a human.  And I’ll put up with the tedious debate about “Christmas” versus “Holidays” for only so long before I give in and remove my nine-foot inflatable Old Saint Nick lawn decoration out of deference to those Santa agnostics in the neighborhood.  I’ll replace him with “Slappy Nick,” the non-denominational five-inch garden gnome in a red tunic who appears to be on cholesterol medication and may have had some sherry with lunch.  And I don’t know what it is exactly, but I’m confident wassailing is legal but sounds inappropriate, as in, “Dude, I had some eggnog and wassailed all over her front porch.  In a top hat!”

But nothing causes me more angst during the holiday season than Christmas cards.  They come in wave after wave, crashing into my mailbox with the force of stale fruitcake shards hurled by striking elves.  The cards start arriving in late November and continue through early January, adorned with smiling faces, cats drinking tea, and families at play.  Messages of “Joy and Happiness,” “Merry and Bright,” and “Peace and Hope,” abound.  But as I look past the leaping children, wedding shots and well-groomed pets, I see only evidence of a tradition that needs mending.

First, there’s the “Former Friend,” the most popular Christmas card, and the worst offender of holiday form over function, delivered by the dozens unsigned.  If my address serves as proof that we’re friends, then I’m also best buds with the Yoga Nation catalogue publisher and my local payday loan proprietor.  No note?  Not a word?  At least a stranger like Rayleene!! from The Longhorn gives me a heartfelt, “Thanks!!”  No “Hey guys!  Great karate party last summer!  Have a swell holiday!” or even the delusion but sweet, “2013’s definitely the Mets’ year!”   Apparently the decades of chats, shared secrets and experiences, and common bonds of friendship have sapped you of all strength to scrawl a single phrase.  Merry Christmas to you too, Mr. Potter.

How about the “One Percenter” card?  These float to my home on the wings of partridges in envelopes crafted from select papyrus reeds and unicorn fibers.  The photo invariably depicts a grinning family in its natural habitat, either on the beaches of St. Tropez or the slopes of Hinterglemm, in matching outfits of denim and white shirts or escutcheon-adorned unitard ski suits.  But this audience would just as soon skip penning a note as they would skip the gardener’s tip, so these smiling senders offer tiny clues of caring, often a single red line slashed through the printed greeting, a wry hint that yes, they do wish me a Merry Christmas, and they mean it!  “The O’Sheas are dear to us, Lovey, so be a crumpet and add a red pen mark through our name as proof of our enduring friendship.  Now back to the slopes!”

But few things capture and kill the holiday spirit like the “Dear Everyone” card-letter combo, that two-page rambling essay hand-written in haste, mailed two weeks after the tree’s been tossed to the curb and the Tyco Racing Set’s already been broken and discarded under the divan, right where little Freddy left it on Boxing Day.  These annual family manifestos run the gamut from celebratory, (“The Reform School Reunion was a success!”) to explanatory (“Sadly, the tattoo artist’s fee was better than his spelling . . . “), and from cautionary (“As Cousin Polecat can confirm, chili cook-offs and screwtop wine are not a good match . . .”) to hopeful (“And Whitman, our Princeton graduate, has moved on from Occupy Wall Street into Occupy Basement without a hitch. Job search starts in January!“).

  

So for the remainder of this holiday season, I refuse to listen to another bloated Groban/Bolton/Bublé interpretation of “What Child is This?” or open one more Christmas card until someone sends me one with feeling.  Until then, I’ll be with Slappy Nick and Rayleene!! on my front lawn, wassailing my woes away.

Time's Up! or How I Plan to Survive the End of the World

Are you ready for the end of the world? I just learned that on Dec. 21, Planet Earth will be engulfed by massive solar storms, followed by a cataclysmic reversal in the magnetic poles. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, the planet Niburu will collide into our big blue marble, knocking us into oblivion, bringing everything we know to an abrupt and inelegant end.

Say goodbye to plans for that midwinter cat show road trip, getting started on your coming-of-age teen robot novel, making amends with your vegan friends or doing at least one pull-up before you die – we have only a few weeks until it’s lights out for our little corner of the universe.

Let’s blame the Mayans, those Mesoamerican math nerds who, through a complex series of calculations using their fingers, sticks, chalk and iguana bones, determined that on Friday, Dec. 21, 2012, the world’s taking one big dirt nap, having calculated we have only 1,872,000 days here together. If someone had told me this as a kid, things would have been different.  More time on music lessons and less time with Tom and Jerry, for one. It’s too late now – learning “Frere Jacque” on the Pan flute takes a minimum of eight weeks, and all the sit-ups I can manage between now and then won’t earn me a one-pack, much less six of them.

I've done a little digging, and we have good reason to trust the Mayans’ ability to foretell the future. Did you know the Mayans correctly predicted the pet rock craze, every Preakness winner from 1971 to 1983, the lyrics to Gerardo’s hit song “Rico Suave” and that Fred “Gopher” Grandy would one day be elected to the U.S. Congress? They did not, however, predict the successful career of comedian Carrot Top – even the Mayans didn't see that coming.

Sure, lots of post-Columbian math nerds have “debunked” this “myth” of the world’s demise, but I won’t let my plans for the end be ruined by fact checkers.  They claim the Mayans were good at some things, like pottery, maize-based porridges and human sacrifice, but not at complicated mathematical theorems involving the earth’s journey around the sun, leap years, lunar cycles and the End of Days.

They insist the Mayan Long Count calendar didn't predict this calamity, that they ran out of stone tablets or were distracted by the cute girls at the Olmec-Mayan mixer after a long day of mathlete training – that all this angst about our planet dying is just a reflection of the human race’s sense of uncertainty in an unsafe, unstable and unpredictable world. And because of the Kardashians.

I’m not alone in this – some have been prepping for this day for years, stocking up on foodstuffs, weapons and bodily-fluid-to-drinking-water instruction manuals while others are looking to make a quick buck.

Want to watch the end from a bike seat? For $5,300 you can join the Ruta Maya Doomsday Bike Tour through the jungles of Central America, a 35-day, 1,400-mile guided bike tour, culminating in a visit to an ancient Mayan temple in Belize to watch the horror unfold.

I don’t know about you, but after riding 1,400 miles in the jungle in tight spandex, I’d swap my water bottle for a nice warm mug of hemlock tea and end the misery early.

My plans to prepare for the end of the world are not elaborate, and none involve hoarding canned goods and ammunition in my root cellar.  The last thing I want to see just before my hair bursts into flames from a solar flare is a can of generic creamed corn or the words “Dinty Moore.”

I expect to spend my last few weeks on Earth writing combined holiday/thank you/goodbye notes, picking up my dry cleaning, returning all library books and enjoying equal dollops of mayonnaise and spicy cheese sauce at every meal. If it’s time for our swan song, I’m going down singing.

I’ll miss early morning sunrises, bacon cheeseburgers, zombie movies and my family, and not always in that order. But I’m not really sad. If the Mayans had it right and there’ll be no Dec. 22, then we all suffer the same fate equally. Even the Kardashians.

Bagel Nation

It’s time to choose.  I’ve thought about it, weighed my options and considered the differences.  Time’s up.  This decision I make may be the most important one of my lifetime.  My future hinges in the balance, and its importance cannot be overstated.  What’s it gonna be?  Bagels or donuts? 

I choose bagels.  I know – “But everyone loves donuts!  Donuts are fun!  Donuts are frosted!  Donuts come in round and stick shapes!”  But just like that first kiss with your sixth grade girlfriend in your neighbor’s basement, the first bite of a jelly donut is a brief moment of bliss followed by hours of guilt, regret and lies.

Bagels are more like your college girlfriend who writes in a journal, throws a Frisbee with skill, and has friends with goatees who don’t own sneakers.  Bagels will fill you up with lots of things, but regret isn’t one of them.

It’s 2 AM on a brisk October night, and I’m standing alone on Main Street, my love of bagels leading me here.  I’m on the curb outside The Works, the only area bakery to still boil its bagels, as the baker motions for me to come inside.  I’m here to help bake bagels for the morning rush, watching and learning from Jason Scheiman, one of The Works’ bakers.  Jason greets me, and we walk to the back where Jason starts prepping for the day.  “I have to get the pastries set and in the oven - we want to start the bagels at four so we’re ready for the first customers at six,” he says as he scans the day’s orders on a clipboard.

Jason joined the baker ranks at The Works three years ago, and he handles this early morning shift only a few days a week.   Jason came to Concord by way of Fort Wayne, Indiana, famous not for its bagels, but for being the birthplace of legendary pro bowling commentator Chris Schenkel.  Jason’s been baking since high school, starting in the commercial business before taking this job.  “I kind of fell into baking and found out I was good at it,” he says as he starts in on the muffins, scones and cinnamon twists.

I thought we’d be elbow-deep in flour and yeast by now, making the bagels from scratch, but Jason dispels that notion.  “We’re too small to make the dough ourselves, so we get them frozen,” as he takes me into the deep freezer to show me the bagels in their embryonic stage, palm-size ugly ducklings, frozen lumps, unimpressive and nothing like the bagels I’ve eaten here.  Jason explains how these crude blobs transform into bagels.  “We do all the proofing here – we give them time to defrost and allow the yeast to rise.  Sometimes we proof them for 36 hours,” he says adding, “That lets the flavor develop as the dough sets.  The bagel’s flavor profile depends on the proofing,” he remarks as he shuttles back and forth between the kitchen and freezer.

Jason slides the muffins, cookies and other still-frozen morsels into the giant reel oven, a massive multi-shelved wonder that rotates its five steel planks around and around, like a mini Ferris wheel furnace.  Jason continues explaining bagel baking, saying, “After we take these out of the oven, we’ll get going on the bagels – first we boil, and then we bake.”  Jason motions towards a giant steel kettle, the water bubbling as the gas flames heats it to a boil.  “Boiling bagels is the old fashioned way to do it – lots of places will steam them, but we boil ours.”  For a moment I imagine a toddler learning to swim in this kettle, or maybe the kettle as a kitchen conversation piece for the upscale cannibal – it’s really quite impressive.   

The store’s now filled with an overwhelming scent of sugar, cinnamon and fresh bread as I help Jason slide the pastries out and plate them near the register.

It’s close to 4:00 AM.  Time to start the bagels.  The kettle’s boiling, and the reel oven’s hot and ready for dough.  Jason’s wheeled the huge rack of bagels, now swollen with flavor, next to the kettle, and he starts sliding boards of bagels into the water.  In one motion Jason grabs a giant ladle, gives the boiling bagels a swirl and scoops them out, dumping them onto the prep area.  “The boil’s what gives the bagel that sheen and crust,” he says as he takes the first batch and coats them in cinnamon sugar, pushing them into the oven.  He lets them bake, checking once in a while for the “oven spring,” that telltale moment the baker knows a bagel’s ready.  “It’s about touch without touching,” he says, handling each bagel gently and only for a moment. 

Now it’s my turn, and I slide a board of bagels into the water and fish them out.  I coat one side in sesame, and Jason shows me how to line the bagels on the burlap, a metal board coated in fabric, sesame side down, placing them into the rotating oven.  He teaches me how to flip the bagels off the burlaps onto the metal shelves and how to brush away the water spots so the bagels don’t stick, using an enormous broom to scrub off any water remnants before flipping the bagels.  My first flip attempt is a disaster, and Jason moves me aside to clean up my mess.  By the third or fourth burlap flip, I have the hang of it.  He even lets me grab the huge wooden peel to slide the bagels out of the oven and corral them into their wire bins.  Bakers must have cast-iron fingers because these things are burning hot.  It’s a minor miracle these bagels don’t end up on the floor. 

Bit by bit the bins fill up – wheat, sesame, onion, salt, garlic, and multi-grain followed by plain, poppy seed and a dozen or so pumpkin bagels.  The Works will sell about ten boards of plain bagels alone today, almost 250 of that variety, and even more on a weekend. 

Jason and the other bakers are here every day of the year, except for Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.  “People love our bagels, so we’re open all the time,” Jason tells me while we take a break, the wire bins full of warm bagels as the sun starts to peek through the early morning darkness on Main Street. 

Before I head home and leave the job to the professional, Jason motions for me to grab one of the bagels I made.  It’s just out of the oven, and I slice it and add more than a little bit of cream cheese.  This one sesame bagel with plain cream cheese is better than the thousands of donuts I’ve eaten in my lifetime.  With each bite my conviction grows – I made the right choice, and life is good with more bagels.

Confessions of a Sideline Parent, or "Pass it to Dakota!"

I’m not a crazy sports parent.  I’m not that dad climbing on the dugout, howling at the ump for justice.  Don’t call me the father who coaches his child’s every movement from his deluxe fold-up sideline recliner despite a soccer knowledge consisting of “foot good, hand bad.”  And in no way am I part of that dual-headed parenting beast, the mom-dad lacrosse combo that scolds any teammate who stands in the way of family greatness by screeching, “Pass it to Dakota!”  I’m not that guy.  Well, at least not anymore. 

Sure, I’ve said things – we’ve all said things, but I was only practicing “active parenting.”  Screaming, “Hey kid, take that piano off your back!” or “Mr. Referee, your incompetence is outdone only by your ineptitude,” or “You call that goal keeping?” was my way of letting everyone know I was paying attention.  Granted, I might have chosen a more elegant way of speaking.  But that’s in the past.

I didn’t learn those things from my parents.  Not much of an athlete growing up, I’d like to think the solo bike rides to my soccer and baseball games had more to do with the lingering effects of the OPEC oil embargo than my parents’ secret shame at Timmy’s two left feet.  And when my parents did watch, they never said a word.

When I was twelve, I started playing junior tennis, finally experiencing the power of direct parent participation.  My mom would drive me back and forth across the greater New York area to tournaments, resigned to the fact my Schwinn would only get me so far.  At one match, under an enormous bubble roof in Queens, my mom parked the car and wished me luck.  I arrived at the court and met my opponent.  His name was Barry Stambler, a boy I’d played a few times before.

I was no Harold Solomon, but I’d won a few matches in my day and had beaten Barry weeks prior.  But today Barry brought a secret weapon – his mother.  Mrs. Stambler settled in courtside as we began.  She sat mute and motionless, save for her crocheting Barry’s victory cardigan as her son made swift business of me.  She might as well have been yodeling, “We are the Champions” as Barry picked me apart, game by game, his cross-court groundstrokes combining with the soft clicking of his mom’s knitting needles to deliver a  prompt and humiliating defeat.  With each ace I wondered where my mom was, hoping the Stamblers would at least get me to the bus station.

Before I had kids, I’d laugh at the nutty dads who made the game all about themselves.  In high school, it was normal to witness men in pinstripe suits throw haymakers at one another during their sons’ heated lacrosse rivalries.  “Who does those things?” I’d ask myself. 

Pretty soon out of the parenting gates, I’d become the thing I mocked.  I once demanded a skating instructor move my son from the novice Brown Bears to the more advanced Golden Geese mid lesson, shouting at the teenage girl trying to corral dozens of confused children that she’d misjudged my son’s talent.  “He deserves to be with the Geese!  He’s a goose, not a bear!  He’s a goose!”  He was five years old and had never worn skates until that morning.

My parenting nadir came at a 3^rd grade soccer tournament as my son’s team played for the title.  I was relentless, providing constant “encouragement” to his teammates and launching a steady diatribe against the opponents.  “Hey, number fifteen – watch the elbows!” I said to a blonde-haired boy on the other team.  He was eight, and I, a grown man with a wife, two kids, a driver’s license, receding hairline and a college degree, pointed at him, telling him to “Watch it.” 

“You’re unbelievable,” another dad said to me.  I know!  I was sure he meant my shrewd analysis of this boy’s unchecked aggression was to be applauded.  Afterwards, at the trophy ceremony, I wondered why no other parents would make eye contact.  Did I have a problem?

This change from shrieking monster to normal human father was gradual.  A few years ago, my son’s middle school basketball team was locked in seesaw battle with a rival, and the gym was packed.  A lone voice rang out above the squeaking sneakers and cheerleaders, coming from an unnaturally tanned gentleman seated next to either his college-age daughter or second wife.  He ranted non-stop about the quality of refereeing.  “You are horrible!  That wasn’t traveling!  Who taught you the rules?  You’re ruining the game!”  This went on, at full volume, for most of the first half.  Is that what I sounded like?

It takes a boor to know a boor, so I stood up and said, “They’re doing the best they can.  Please stop,” prompting him to shout back, “If you don’t like it, then don’t listen!” 

I responded, “That’s impossible – we can all hear you!”  At this point, my wife tried to disappear, my daughter began crying, and Mr. Tanorama’s second wife started wondering if the daddy issues that led her here may have taken a sharp turn from Easy Street to Koo Koo Town.  Mr. Tanorama never said another word. 

But the real epiphany came while watching lots of indoor soccer.  There are few environments less conducive to positive parent participation than an indoor soccer complex.  It’s like a petri dish of bad parent bacteria, moms screaming at grandmas about sportsmanship, dads cursing at pre-teen strangers to make better passes, and the kids completely oblivious, their parents’ vitriol blocked by eight feet of thick Plexiglas.  Clusters of adults shouting at a wall of glass demanding immediate change.  They might as well be at home yelling at C-SPAN. 

The truth is that now my sports parenting outside voice is different than my inside voice.  On the surface, I’m calm and reserved - one might even call me pensive and aloof.  But inside I’m a stewing vat of put-downs and zingers that would ruin a 7^th grade girls’ soccer game in seconds.  But I keep silent and let those moments pass, hiding behind my camera or a cup of coffee, keeping my former Ugly Sideline Dad mask hidden.

It’s better this way.  Parents make friendly chit chat about politics or religion, I retain some sense of personal decency, and everyone drives home happy, win or lose.  Besides, this is all about the kids, right?  It’s all about the kids.

Man vs. Meat

I’ve made some bad decisions in my life. Celebrating my love of taffy minutes after costly dental work, taunting a 6’ 4” meaty-fisted bouncer, letting the glassy-eyed older brother of a friend “cut” my hair with rusty shears. Michael Dukakis. But this one tops them all. This time I may have gone too far. I’ve just finished my first mouthful of the Inferno Challenge burger, and I can’t feel my face.

It didn’t take much for me to accept this dare. There’s a place out in Boscawen that’ll put your picture on the wall if you finish a super-spicy one-pound burger in twenty minutes. So here I am at the Smoke Shack Southern Barbeque restaurant (“Where the Swine is Fine”) with my two kids, hoping they don’t see me burst into flames. Eating a one-pound burger and fries is old hat, but what I didn’t expect was the heat. This thing is like a loaf of hot magma with cheese, and my lips are searing. My wife is here too, offering me words of encouragement like, “Take your time,” and “Just how much life insurance did you say there was?” My head’s spinning and my entire face, mouth, lips, throat and stomach are engulfed in intense heat.

When I arrived twenty minutes earlier, I scanned the Wall of Fame, confident I’d soon join the ranks of the Challenge winners, this hale band of conquerors proud in their Polaroid portraits. There’s Jumbo Ketchum next to Haley Levesque right near Nathan Small, Andy Turgeon, Jack and a nameless photo of a kid who looks like he just escaped from a Doomsday cult, stopping in for a meal en route to the deprogramming. And then there’s Mark, who owns the fastest Challenge completion, finishing this monster chili pepper-infused beast in ten minutes.

Our server, Lexi Potter-Craigue, takes my family’s order and outlines the rules. “You have to finish everything in under twenty minutes – the burger, the bun, the jalapenos and all the fries. Don’t ignore the fries. You can drink anything you want – I don’t recommend soda. Stick to water or milk. Oh, and you’re gonna be in a little bit of pain,” Lexi says as she walks back to the kitchen after telling me a woman eight months pregnant met the Challenge earlier this year. “No pressure,” my son says to me.

I follow Lexi into the kitchen, and she introduces me to Joe Carey. Joe’s been working as a chef at the Smoke Shack for two years, and he walks me through the Challenge burger recipe, taking a metal mixing bowl and showing me the four types of peppers he’ll mix into the pound of ground beef. “I don’t wear a mask when I do this, but some guys do.” As Joe pours the liquid and flakes into the bowl, the other employees make slight moves away from him. It’s never a good sign when the people entrusted to serve the food don’t want to be near the food. “Are you eating that?” another chef asks me, and I nod my head. “Opportunity of a lifetime,” he says with a wide grin.

The Scoville Scale is a universal method used to gauge a pepper’s hotness. For example, a red bell pepper in your salad has zero Scoville heat units and no rating while a police officer’s pepper spray in your face has a upwards of 2 million heat units, earning a 10 out of 10 on the heat scale.

“We start with jalapenos,” (a mere 8,000 heat units and a 4 on the scale), “followed by the habaneros and the Scotch bonnets,” (both rated 350,000 heat units and a 9 on the heat scale), “and then we add the ghost peppers,” Joe says with no emotion. The ghost pepper, or Naga Jolokia, is one of the world’s hottest peppers, earning a 1 million Scoville heat unit and a 10 rating. “Naga Jolokia!” is probably what I’ll be yelping after the first bite, based on the tingling in my nose and eyes from this concoction Joe’s now kneading through his fingers. A few moments later Joe cooks the burger alone in a skillet. “We can’t use the grille because everything else we serve today would smell like this,” he says, the burger a bubbling brick of amber and orange in the pan. The scent is overwhelming as I return to the table.

Just as my wife and kids finish their lunches, enjoying every morsel on their plates, Lexi arrives with my meal. The burger sits in the center of the plate, surrounded by a burial mound-sized heap of Cajun-seasoned French fries. Lexi brings a glass of whole milk and water as well as a small bit of ranch dressing. “Your twenty minutes starts when you start eating,” she says.

I begin with three quick bites, hoping to head-fake my senses before the alarms go off. No such luck. In seconds my entire mouth is engulfed in flaming pain. I sip the milk to ward off this sensation, but it doesn’t work. Five minutes into it and I can’t talk, and any words of encouragement my family offers now sounds like Satan and his henchmen chortling in a distorted, slow-motion guffaw. Past winners – Jumbo, Jack and that kid from the cult – stare down at me impassively as I try in vain to balance fries with bites of what I’m now sure of is a special slice of hell on a bun.

My bites have turned to nibbles, and my hands and shoulders are shaking. The heat’s now deep in my stomach and even the fries, only lightly dusted in Cajun spice, hit my lips like yellow jacket stings. It’s been close to fifteen minutes when I give up. When your extremities start to tingle and your chest hurts, it’s time to reassess. “That was really sad to watch,” my daughter says, inquiring about the ice cream menu.

It’s 2 AM, more than half a day since the SS Inferno hit the rocky shoal that is my gullet, and I’m wide awake. It’s like I have the flu combined with the aftermath of a fortified wine bender. My stomach feels like a possum’s trying to mate with a Wankel rotary engine, and the noises emerging from behind my belly button sound like a family of tone-deaf tree frogs playing the Glockenspiel. Things are not good. The ghost peppers are more than haunting me - they’re mocking me for every bad decision I’ve made in my life. With every lurch my innards make, my conscience tells me to think twice the next time, to look before I lunch on something so intense.

And in the deep darkness of the pre-dawn, I vow to never make another bad decision. Except if it involves ice cream – nothing bad happens after too much ice cream.