Are you tired of the same dinner routine? In a suppertime stupor you can’t snap out of? Yearn for a world where every meal is magnificent? A magical universe that combines cooking and cleaning at the same time? Well, friend, I know of such a place, one where, with a push of a button, you can prepare a three-course meal and wash your pots and pans in one easy step. I’ve been to this world, and it’s glorious, a marvel of modern technology!
I call it “Dishwasher Cooking,” and everybody’s doing it. No other culinary method combines the raw power of soapy, steam heat with the elegance of poaching. Think of the time you’ll save! No more waiting, no more idle time, no more wondering when to ring that dinner bell.
Try my new “Dishwasher Cooking” method for two nights, and you’ll go from zero to hero in no time! Instead of angry chants of “We want food! We want food!” you’ll bask in choruses of “Mom/Dad/Legal Guardian is the best! Mom/Dad/Legal Guardian is the best!” This revolutionary approach to meal preparation and kitchen clean-up is so amazing that you’ll wonder where I’ve been your whole life!
You may remember that 1970’s movement where car owners, like you and me, learned how to cook dinner while driving their cars! A baked potato, a small rump roast, even glazed carrots and blueberry buckle - tucked next to the engine block - roasting all the way to Aunt Flo’s house in Terra Haute.
But in these days of spiraling gas prices, who wants to leave home to cook a meal? Dishwasher cooking solves that pesky problem. You can stay right in your own kitchen and make supper! Still have doubts? Check out the phrase, “dishwasher cooking” online. With only a few keystrokes you can learn about these simple methods and great recipes from around America, where scores of people have discovered the joys of blending nutritious meals with the ease of running the dishwasher. Satisfied? I knew you would be.
Here we go! The first night’s menu is both simple and complex, a unique blend of fresh ingredients cooked to perfection in any standard dishwasher. We start with a salmon fillet, smothered in lemon juice with a whisper of olive oil, wrapped air-tight in aluminum foil. Then we take a handful of Brussels sprouts, mix them with oil, salt and pepper, wrapping them up snuggly in foil. For dessert, Fuji apple slices, lemon and brown sugar, bundled in foil, nice and tight. Find a spot on the top rack, load the day’s dirty dishes into the bottom, add soap and run the normal cycle. Choose the optional Hi-Temp Wash to give that salmon the extra care it deserves. Then sit back and relax while your dinner cooks and your dishes clean! Play a game of Parcheesi, knit a sweater or catch up on your Matlock episodes. These two hours are yours!
What’s that? A hint of fish smell seems to be filling up the kitchen? No worries! That’s the salmon on its way to poached perfection! The odor’s getting stronger? “Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness,” I always say. Maybe choose that big candle, the one that smells like cinnamon. That should help. The Brussels sprouts? No, they won’t taste like lemon soap, silly! Those sprouts are wrapped tighter than two coats of paint. Now have another glass of wine and relax. Dinner will be ready in no more than one hundred minutes.
And we’re done! It’s time to eat. Let’s try some of this delicious salmon. Excuse me? Dry? No, I said “poached,” not “parched.” Well, don’t eat if you don’t like it. “To each his own,” that’s my motto. But these Brussels sprouts are to die for, I’m sure. Let’s take a bite and enjoy their leafy goodness. Where are you going? Nauseous? Don’t be foolish. These vegetables would never make anyone sick – I hear there’s a touch of the flu going around, anyway. The apples? Crunchy wet apples are the European way of preparing them. No need to be rude. Fine, I’ll discard these apples, and we’ll focus on tomorrow evening’s meal.
Ah yes! You’re back again! How very wise of you. No sense holding a grudge about going to bed hungry last night, is there? And yes, I apologize for the Brussels sprouts. What did you call them? The “stunted offspring of cabbage and misery?” I’m not sure that makes sense, but you’ve made it clear you did not approve, and we don’t need to dwell on the past.
Let’s get started, shall we? We’ll combine a dishwasher full of dirty plates, cups, knives and bowls with a tablespoon of Cascade detergent, a dash of Jet Dry and my famous “Dishwasher Lasagna Florentine.” You’ll be the hit of the house with this crowd-pleaser.
Take your no-boil lasagna sheets and lay them flat on aluminum foil, coat them with tomato sauce, spoon on a hearty serving of ricotta cheese and fresh spinach, and sprinkle mozzarella cheese on the top. Add another layer, top it off with more lasagna sheets, toss in a handful of mozzarella and seal up this wonderful casserole tight, making sure there are no holes in the foil. Place this bundle of culinary joy on the bottom rack, hit the button, and relish these moments of true relaxation.
Do we have to discuss the Brussels sprouts again? Accept my apology, and let’s move on. Besides, think of how delicious this spinach lasagna will taste in no more than two hours. Well, now you’re just being petty. Sure, I overcooked the salmon and you made me re-run the dishes to get rid of the fish odor – for what it’s worth, that stink was in your mind. I thought the cutlery smelled fine.
Dinner is served! My stars! See how delicious that lasagna looks! Ooh, watch how the creamy ricotta oozes over the sides, mixing with the tomato sauce. This will be wonderful, I have no doubt. Gummy? Did you say, “gummy?” I’m not sure that’s an apt description of this casserole. Granted, perhaps the steam heat creates a less traditional texture for the lasagna, but it’s still delicious. Isn’t it? Yes, there is a difference between “edible” and “delicious.” Like my mother always says, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride!” And no, we can’t put it back in the dishwasher, not unless you want to wait another two hours. Why, yes, I would love a bowl of Lucky Charms. No sense going to bed hungry again. Thanks for asking.
Maybe my “Dishwasher Cooking” isn’t for you. It takes an adventurous soul to try something new, and perhaps you’re too stuck in your ways. I’m happy to discuss this in more detail, but let’s finish off this box of cereal. I can’t think clearly on an empty stomach.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Open Letter to the Squirrel at 13 Mooreland Avenue
I saw your footprints. I saw them in the snow, and I know what you’re doing. Please don’t deny it. You make us both look silly. Where are you going? Come back here. Do you think this is a joke, some kind of funny dance that ends with us in a warm embrace? Well, we’re not dance partners, I’m not laughing, and the only punch line is me in tears, like always. This charade’s gone on long enough, and I’m tired. Tired of the sneaking around, the lurking in the shadows, the furtive glances and the scurrying away from confrontation.
We were happy here once, weren’t we? Content to be ourselves – you running and climbing and me trying to keep this house in order. But then something changed. I tried to ignore the noises late at night, pretending they were in my head. How could anyone with such zest for life be anything but wonderful? I was wrong, the first of many mistakes I made in this relationship. But no longer.
Fine. I admit it. I tried to trap you – the steel cage and peanut butter were a bad idea – I know that now. No, I wasn’t really going to hurt you – just scare you a little. Remember how we talked about that farm way upstate? We’d take a drive – me in the driver’s seat and you in the trunk under a blanket. We’d go up there to check things out – you wouldn’t have to stay. It was just a chance for a break – the two of us deserved it. But you ruined it, eating all the peanut butter and making a mockery of my plan. The trap sits discarded and useless. I can still see the outline of your tiny paw prints in the Skippy you left behind. And they make me sad.
This isn’t just me and you. My daughter sleeps upstairs, and I can't imagine what she thinks when she hears you rummaging around, doing whatever it is you do up there in the dark. If we don’t fix this, she’ll hold a grudge against you forever. Because I know – I lived this at her age. My dad, the window, the pellet gun and the cursing, crying and frustration – kids don’t forget that stuff.
And now you do this? Your daily backyard spectacle? For everyone in the neighborhood to see? My god, what happened to you?
I take the time to try to make this place look better, to invite some bird friends over to enjoy a meal, and you go and ruin it like you always do. So I guess I’m the fool. I thought the birds were hungry – that they really liked the seeds. But no. I came home and saw you embarrassing yourself on the feeder, stuffing your little nose into its holes, cramming every morsel into your inflated cheeks. I bet you’d climb inside that feeder and roll around like a kid in a McDonaldland Ball Pit if you had the chance. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You warm-blooded, diurnal rodent sicko. I don’t even know you anymore.
See? There I go. Calling you names. You make me so angry I can’t help myself – it used to be so different. I was the one defending you. “Critter!” they’d call you, but I wouldn’t listen. “Varmint!” they’d howl, but I’d tell a funny story about you and that acorn. I don’t have the energy anymore. Not after this.
Can’t you even appreciate the money I spent on that Baffler for the feeder? I saw you staring at me from the bushes that day, those dark, soulless eyes filled with betrayal. For a few days I was happy – friendly birds stopped by for a snack, and you were off frolicking with your pals, or so I thought. You were waiting, weren’t you?
Am I impressed that you can jump from the tree to the feeder, that your tiny fingers and toes can grip the tube as it sways back and forth? Well, maybe. You always were a great jumper. Stop! I won’t get pulled into this again. Sometimes I wonder if you even care if you hurt yourself. What’s next? Power lines? Busy intersections? When does it end?
I already told you. I don’t want you as my pet – I don’t want to control you, tell you where to spend your nights, or who you can cavort with. Shack up with the moles next door for all I care – but leave my house and yard alone. Decent birds stopped coming by weeks ago. Now only the crows visit. Nobody deserves crows.
I could buy a BB gun. I’m a pretty good shot, for the record. Your little behind-the-tree circling move wouldn’t be so clever anymore. Just try to jump from branch to branch in a cast and crutches. I’ll be the one letting out a high-pitched chattering screech, and you’ll be the one in misery.
I’m giving you a choice. Leave my feeder alone and find another home to wreck or continue on this destructive path. Don’t force me to take extreme measures. Maybe that peanut butter won’t be filled with wholesome peanutty goodness the next time. Maybe the tree trunk will be lined with axle grease. Or maybe my dad’ll come up for a long weekend. He’ll bring along a friend this time, a friend named Mr. 1981 Pellet Gun. And then you’ll be sorry.
It hurts me to write this. I’ll give you one week to decide. My patience, like the wild bird seed, has been pillaged and left on the ground for scavengers. For the sake of the community, for me, my family, and for your well-being, I hope you’ll make the right choice.
We were happy here once, weren’t we? Content to be ourselves – you running and climbing and me trying to keep this house in order. But then something changed. I tried to ignore the noises late at night, pretending they were in my head. How could anyone with such zest for life be anything but wonderful? I was wrong, the first of many mistakes I made in this relationship. But no longer.
Fine. I admit it. I tried to trap you – the steel cage and peanut butter were a bad idea – I know that now. No, I wasn’t really going to hurt you – just scare you a little. Remember how we talked about that farm way upstate? We’d take a drive – me in the driver’s seat and you in the trunk under a blanket. We’d go up there to check things out – you wouldn’t have to stay. It was just a chance for a break – the two of us deserved it. But you ruined it, eating all the peanut butter and making a mockery of my plan. The trap sits discarded and useless. I can still see the outline of your tiny paw prints in the Skippy you left behind. And they make me sad.
This isn’t just me and you. My daughter sleeps upstairs, and I can't imagine what she thinks when she hears you rummaging around, doing whatever it is you do up there in the dark. If we don’t fix this, she’ll hold a grudge against you forever. Because I know – I lived this at her age. My dad, the window, the pellet gun and the cursing, crying and frustration – kids don’t forget that stuff.
And now you do this? Your daily backyard spectacle? For everyone in the neighborhood to see? My god, what happened to you?
I take the time to try to make this place look better, to invite some bird friends over to enjoy a meal, and you go and ruin it like you always do. So I guess I’m the fool. I thought the birds were hungry – that they really liked the seeds. But no. I came home and saw you embarrassing yourself on the feeder, stuffing your little nose into its holes, cramming every morsel into your inflated cheeks. I bet you’d climb inside that feeder and roll around like a kid in a McDonaldland Ball Pit if you had the chance. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You warm-blooded, diurnal rodent sicko. I don’t even know you anymore.
See? There I go. Calling you names. You make me so angry I can’t help myself – it used to be so different. I was the one defending you. “Critter!” they’d call you, but I wouldn’t listen. “Varmint!” they’d howl, but I’d tell a funny story about you and that acorn. I don’t have the energy anymore. Not after this.
Can’t you even appreciate the money I spent on that Baffler for the feeder? I saw you staring at me from the bushes that day, those dark, soulless eyes filled with betrayal. For a few days I was happy – friendly birds stopped by for a snack, and you were off frolicking with your pals, or so I thought. You were waiting, weren’t you?
Am I impressed that you can jump from the tree to the feeder, that your tiny fingers and toes can grip the tube as it sways back and forth? Well, maybe. You always were a great jumper. Stop! I won’t get pulled into this again. Sometimes I wonder if you even care if you hurt yourself. What’s next? Power lines? Busy intersections? When does it end?
I already told you. I don’t want you as my pet – I don’t want to control you, tell you where to spend your nights, or who you can cavort with. Shack up with the moles next door for all I care – but leave my house and yard alone. Decent birds stopped coming by weeks ago. Now only the crows visit. Nobody deserves crows.
I could buy a BB gun. I’m a pretty good shot, for the record. Your little behind-the-tree circling move wouldn’t be so clever anymore. Just try to jump from branch to branch in a cast and crutches. I’ll be the one letting out a high-pitched chattering screech, and you’ll be the one in misery.
I’m giving you a choice. Leave my feeder alone and find another home to wreck or continue on this destructive path. Don’t force me to take extreme measures. Maybe that peanut butter won’t be filled with wholesome peanutty goodness the next time. Maybe the tree trunk will be lined with axle grease. Or maybe my dad’ll come up for a long weekend. He’ll bring along a friend this time, a friend named Mr. 1981 Pellet Gun. And then you’ll be sorry.
It hurts me to write this. I’ll give you one week to decide. My patience, like the wild bird seed, has been pillaged and left on the ground for scavengers. For the sake of the community, for me, my family, and for your well-being, I hope you’ll make the right choice.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Dick Clark and the Season of Shame
You’re running out of time. It’s almost December 31st, and everyone needs a New Year’s Resolution. What’s it gonna be this year? Finally grow out those mutton chops? Learn to speak Klingon? Arm wrestle Justin Beiber? Do some sit-ups, climb a mountain, gut a deer, paint a fence?
It’s always the same for me. “This is the year I lose weight.” Dick Clark’s been my diet coach for a long time. New Year’s Eve meant confronting all the soda, Suzie Q’s, Bits O’Honey and bowls of Count Chocula I’d eaten in the previous 364 days while rockin’ to the televised hits of Toto, Billy Squire and Juice Newton as Dick narrated the ball’s descent. Just a snippet of “Auld Lang Syne” still makes me spit out whatever I’m trying to swallow whole before everyone screams, “Happy New Year!” While my siblings or friends tooted paper horns, counting down the seconds, I rehearsed my resolution - that this year, 1978, 1985, 1996 or 2009 – pick a year, any year – would be the year I finally shed unwanted tonnage.
This Friday night won’t be any different. I’ll huddle in front of the TV, cursing Dick’s persistence, wishing I could say 2011 would be the year I instead kickbox an angry kangaroo, spend a night in Delaware or vote Libertarian. But no. 2011 is THE year I lose weight.
I’ve decided to embrace the root of my lifelong strife and go out in blaze of cheesy greasy glory, targeting five fast food creations that defy nature, their very existence calling into question the molecular order of things. From the DoubleDown chicken sandwich to the McRib, from the Cheesy Bites Pizza to the Grilled Stuft Burrito, with a handful of Sausage Pancake Mini Maple-flavored bites thrown in for good measure, I aim to earn this year’s resolution with every fat-saturated caloric chew. I’ve convinced Maisie, my 11-year old daughter to join me. Kids today need to know there are consequences for the actions their parents force them to do.
Maybe these artery-obstructing choices are, “The Five Foods You’ll Eat in Hell,” but I’m not so sure. Everyone’s always smiling on the commercials, and who doesn’t love extra cheese slathered in imitation garlic butter? People without New Year’s resolutions, that’s who.
KFC’s our first stop, and my daughter’s having second thoughts. “Will I feel gross after I eat it?” she asks, not entirely serious but worked up enough to make me wonder if she’ll hyperventilate herself out of this trip.
We split two of the Colonel’s latest creations – the Double Down and the Doublelicious, the former having gained notoriety by substituting two boneless fried chicken pieces for the bun, holding together a generous helping of bacon, cheese and mystery sauce. We split them and share our booty. “This is a swirling vortex of yumminess,” Maisie says, but less than an hour later, she’s filled with remorse. “I feel sick. Why did you make me do this?” I’d answer but can’t, the salt from the sandwiches rendering my tongue useless.
The next day we tackle the newest menu item at Dunkin’ Donuts – Sausage Pancake Mini Bites –udder-sized meat-type sausages wrapped in a thin, maple-flavored pancake. It takes a leap of faith every time you bite into mass-produced sausage, and this effort requires something more like a catapult. As the mini bite reaches my lips, the pancake gives a little, like a soggy eggroll, but I continue, eating the fleshy tube in two bites. Maisie takes one nibble and announces she’s done.
“That tasted really gross. Why are we doing this again?” I don’t answer, gobbling down the remaining bites. The hint of artificial maple lingers in my throat like the syrupy perfume of an IHOP assistant night manager who knows her way around a waffle iron.
I spend the next week trying to figure out when I’ll fit in the rest. It’s not easy finding time for fast food.
Pizza Hut’s Cheesy Bites pizza is like the Ishtar of pizzas. “A pull-apart crust with 28 cheese-filled bites!” brags the Pizza Hut website. Sadly, just as Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty couldn’t save a lousy movie, Pizza Hut’s inability to execute on its vision leaves us bereft. This pizza resembles a giant circular Sasquatch plaster casting with mozzarella-filled toes. This yeti needs a manicure. I keep the large man-beast comments to myself so we can dig in, and we eat most of the pizza before giving up. “That was not worth it,” Maisie says. That doesn’t stop me from eating a dozen bites and four slices, reminding myself 2011 is my year.
Two days later I enter McDonald’s, scanning the menu for the McRib. It’s not there! McDonald’s has been playing cat and mouse with McRib lovers for years, selling it at random times in out-of-the-way locations, creating a semi-myth about the ground pork, pickle and onion sandwich to the point where you had a greater chance of sharing a McDLT with Whitey Bulger than finding a McRib in your neighborhood. The woman behind the counter asks for my order, and I say, “So you guys don’t have the McRib.”
“Yes we do,” she says as she points to a small sign pasted to the register. “Get one before they’re all gone – the famous McRib!”
I buy a McRib Large Extra Value Meal and head home. Maisie’s waiting (she’s no quitter), and I split the sandwich in two. It looks nothing like its photo – the sauce thin, the pickles sad and the few errant white onion shards bunched in the corner in what looks like fear. As for the rib aspect of the sandwich, I wonder what tiny creature was deboned for my lunch – McRabbit? McBadger? Hamburgler? But this sandwich isn’t gonna eat itself so we dig in.
“This has a weird taste,” Maisie complains, swiping my fries and leaving the kitchen. She’s given up on this quest, resigned to the idea that New Year’s resolutions are for processed pork lovers. I finish hers and mine in a few gulps.
I’m left alone for the final challenge – a visit to Taco Bell where I’ll dine solo on a Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.
One might assume that any food using intentionally poor spelling is hiding something, but after one bite, the only thing this Stuft masterpiece is hiding is its fabulousness, and I don’t care how it’s spelt. The burrito sits warm in my hands, its top grilled brown, bite after bite revealing pockets of rice, cheese, beans and just enough chicken to explain away the misspelling.
I’ll miss you the most, Grilled Stuft friend. You’ve warmed my belly, caressed my heart and made me wish I didn’t own a calendar. That way, every day would be carefree, just like the playful way you tease me with each tickle of my taste buds. I love you, Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.
But this is serious. In only a few days I must declare my intentions for 2011, and this burrito’s thrown me off. Maybe I could sneak away to Taco Bell once in a while – I mean, it’s kind of like a church, right? I could claim sanctuary and declare 2011 as the Year of “Tim and the Yo Yo” or “Tim Learns Jazzercise!” No. I’ve been down this road - 1986’s cheese fries are today’s chicken burritos and 2016’s frosted apple fritters, so it’s time to man up. No more stuft burritos, no more mini maple corn dogs for breakfast and no more Spam-flavored hype hoagies – just me and my muesli and maybe a scoop of yogurt if I’m feeling dangerous.
I say goodbye to you, my five cheesy fried meat-laced friends. But if we do run into each other, let’s pretend we never met. Dick doesn’t need to know. It’s easier that way.
It’s always the same for me. “This is the year I lose weight.” Dick Clark’s been my diet coach for a long time. New Year’s Eve meant confronting all the soda, Suzie Q’s, Bits O’Honey and bowls of Count Chocula I’d eaten in the previous 364 days while rockin’ to the televised hits of Toto, Billy Squire and Juice Newton as Dick narrated the ball’s descent. Just a snippet of “Auld Lang Syne” still makes me spit out whatever I’m trying to swallow whole before everyone screams, “Happy New Year!” While my siblings or friends tooted paper horns, counting down the seconds, I rehearsed my resolution - that this year, 1978, 1985, 1996 or 2009 – pick a year, any year – would be the year I finally shed unwanted tonnage.
This Friday night won’t be any different. I’ll huddle in front of the TV, cursing Dick’s persistence, wishing I could say 2011 would be the year I instead kickbox an angry kangaroo, spend a night in Delaware or vote Libertarian. But no. 2011 is THE year I lose weight.
I’ve decided to embrace the root of my lifelong strife and go out in blaze of cheesy greasy glory, targeting five fast food creations that defy nature, their very existence calling into question the molecular order of things. From the DoubleDown chicken sandwich to the McRib, from the Cheesy Bites Pizza to the Grilled Stuft Burrito, with a handful of Sausage Pancake Mini Maple-flavored bites thrown in for good measure, I aim to earn this year’s resolution with every fat-saturated caloric chew. I’ve convinced Maisie, my 11-year old daughter to join me. Kids today need to know there are consequences for the actions their parents force them to do.
Maybe these artery-obstructing choices are, “The Five Foods You’ll Eat in Hell,” but I’m not so sure. Everyone’s always smiling on the commercials, and who doesn’t love extra cheese slathered in imitation garlic butter? People without New Year’s resolutions, that’s who.
KFC’s our first stop, and my daughter’s having second thoughts. “Will I feel gross after I eat it?” she asks, not entirely serious but worked up enough to make me wonder if she’ll hyperventilate herself out of this trip.
We split two of the Colonel’s latest creations – the Double Down and the Doublelicious, the former having gained notoriety by substituting two boneless fried chicken pieces for the bun, holding together a generous helping of bacon, cheese and mystery sauce. We split them and share our booty. “This is a swirling vortex of yumminess,” Maisie says, but less than an hour later, she’s filled with remorse. “I feel sick. Why did you make me do this?” I’d answer but can’t, the salt from the sandwiches rendering my tongue useless.
The next day we tackle the newest menu item at Dunkin’ Donuts – Sausage Pancake Mini Bites –udder-sized meat-type sausages wrapped in a thin, maple-flavored pancake. It takes a leap of faith every time you bite into mass-produced sausage, and this effort requires something more like a catapult. As the mini bite reaches my lips, the pancake gives a little, like a soggy eggroll, but I continue, eating the fleshy tube in two bites. Maisie takes one nibble and announces she’s done.
“That tasted really gross. Why are we doing this again?” I don’t answer, gobbling down the remaining bites. The hint of artificial maple lingers in my throat like the syrupy perfume of an IHOP assistant night manager who knows her way around a waffle iron.
I spend the next week trying to figure out when I’ll fit in the rest. It’s not easy finding time for fast food.
Pizza Hut’s Cheesy Bites pizza is like the Ishtar of pizzas. “A pull-apart crust with 28 cheese-filled bites!” brags the Pizza Hut website. Sadly, just as Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty couldn’t save a lousy movie, Pizza Hut’s inability to execute on its vision leaves us bereft. This pizza resembles a giant circular Sasquatch plaster casting with mozzarella-filled toes. This yeti needs a manicure. I keep the large man-beast comments to myself so we can dig in, and we eat most of the pizza before giving up. “That was not worth it,” Maisie says. That doesn’t stop me from eating a dozen bites and four slices, reminding myself 2011 is my year.
Two days later I enter McDonald’s, scanning the menu for the McRib. It’s not there! McDonald’s has been playing cat and mouse with McRib lovers for years, selling it at random times in out-of-the-way locations, creating a semi-myth about the ground pork, pickle and onion sandwich to the point where you had a greater chance of sharing a McDLT with Whitey Bulger than finding a McRib in your neighborhood. The woman behind the counter asks for my order, and I say, “So you guys don’t have the McRib.”
“Yes we do,” she says as she points to a small sign pasted to the register. “Get one before they’re all gone – the famous McRib!”
I buy a McRib Large Extra Value Meal and head home. Maisie’s waiting (she’s no quitter), and I split the sandwich in two. It looks nothing like its photo – the sauce thin, the pickles sad and the few errant white onion shards bunched in the corner in what looks like fear. As for the rib aspect of the sandwich, I wonder what tiny creature was deboned for my lunch – McRabbit? McBadger? Hamburgler? But this sandwich isn’t gonna eat itself so we dig in.
“This has a weird taste,” Maisie complains, swiping my fries and leaving the kitchen. She’s given up on this quest, resigned to the idea that New Year’s resolutions are for processed pork lovers. I finish hers and mine in a few gulps.
I’m left alone for the final challenge – a visit to Taco Bell where I’ll dine solo on a Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.
One might assume that any food using intentionally poor spelling is hiding something, but after one bite, the only thing this Stuft masterpiece is hiding is its fabulousness, and I don’t care how it’s spelt. The burrito sits warm in my hands, its top grilled brown, bite after bite revealing pockets of rice, cheese, beans and just enough chicken to explain away the misspelling.
I’ll miss you the most, Grilled Stuft friend. You’ve warmed my belly, caressed my heart and made me wish I didn’t own a calendar. That way, every day would be carefree, just like the playful way you tease me with each tickle of my taste buds. I love you, Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.
But this is serious. In only a few days I must declare my intentions for 2011, and this burrito’s thrown me off. Maybe I could sneak away to Taco Bell once in a while – I mean, it’s kind of like a church, right? I could claim sanctuary and declare 2011 as the Year of “Tim and the Yo Yo” or “Tim Learns Jazzercise!” No. I’ve been down this road - 1986’s cheese fries are today’s chicken burritos and 2016’s frosted apple fritters, so it’s time to man up. No more stuft burritos, no more mini maple corn dogs for breakfast and no more Spam-flavored hype hoagies – just me and my muesli and maybe a scoop of yogurt if I’m feeling dangerous.
I say goodbye to you, my five cheesy fried meat-laced friends. But if we do run into each other, let’s pretend we never met. Dick doesn’t need to know. It’s easier that way.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
A Reason to be Thankful
He was a nine year old boy, and he needed my help. I didn’t know his name, where he lived, where he went to school or if he had brothers or sisters. I didn’t know his parents, the color of his bike or what posters hung on his walls. I knew only that he was sick and that somehow we were linked. Something in our blood, a chemical signature, like a fingerprint far below the surface, matched up perfectly, and the boy would die unless I helped him.
The phone call came on an early fall day four years ago. A woman left a message, asking if I was the Tim O’Shea who’d joined the National Marrow Donor program while donating blood almost seven years earlier. If I was, please call them immediately. “It’s about donating bone marrow, and it’s important that we speak,” the woman said.
I had donated blood a while back, and it was unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. An unfortunate combination of a fainting spell, paramedics, an ambulance ride, and a visit to the ER earned me a permanent ban from donating blood. A tersely worded letter from the Red Cross demanding I never donate again emphasized this point a few weeks later. I do remember, prior to the fainting and crying, being asked if I wanted to join the Marrow Donor program. I checked the box and thought nothing of it for over seven years until I got the call.
I called back and learned that my blood stem cells might be a match for a sick boy. “This boy, your potential match, has an aggressive form of leukemia, and this is the only course of treatment left for the family,” Dottie, my case manager, said. I asked where he lived, if I could meet him but was told no. “A year after you donate, if you and the family both agree, you can find out more, but for now, we need to know if you’ll donate.” I didn’t hesitate. It’s not every day you’re asked to try to save someone’s life.
The goal in any potential marrow match is to determine how alike the tissues of the donor are to the potential recipient. By comparing the proteins, or “antigens,” on the surface on my cells to this boy’s, the Registry determined that our marrow cells matched up perfectly, a ten out of ten. “You’re an excellent candidate for a donation,” a nurse told me during one of the many tests I took leading to the procedure. I asked Dottie if this meant we were related. “Maybe there is a connection somewhere in your families’ past, but we can’t tell for sure,” she shared.
The process moved quickly, leaving no time for ancestral musings. In the course of four weeks, I went from a guy who’d been branded a Red Cross blood drive outlander to a healthy matched donor cleared for a marrow donation.
By mid October, four weeks since Dottie and I first spoke, the surgery was scheduled. A few days later I was en route to the Cancer Center at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital in Hanover, thinking about how scared that little boy must be – and how his parents must be filled with the same dread, or worse. I comforted myself imagining that maybe they were buoyed by this tiny bit of hope I was asked to float their way.
My time in the hospital was short, murky and painful. After I went under, the doctor used a big hollow needle to extract three large vials of liquid marrow from the back of my pelvis. I felt fine when I woke up, but once the anesthesia wore off, I was in a lot of pain. Meanwhile, the medical team rushed my cells to the hospital where the little boy waited for his last chance at life.
I spent two days on the cancer ward, reminding me the goal was to help kill this disease, stopping its morbid march through the boy’s body. I shared a room with a lifelong smoker, a gravelly-voiced man in his fifties who’d been told a few days earlier his lung and throat cancer was inoperable. Later that night we split a pizza and talked about everything but cancer.
My recovery was slow, slower than they’d told me, and after two weeks of more than lingering discomfort, they sent me back to Hanover for more tests. They found nothing. Was this pain was in my mind? Donating was the first thing I’d done in my life purely for someone else, and maybe I didn’t want to let go of it, even if it hurt. In a few weeks, the pain subsided, and I went back to my life and routine, thinking about the boy once in a while, hoping he was better.
In early February, Dottie called with the sad news. “Unfortunately, Timothy,” she said, her voice growing quiet, “the patient passed away last week. He’d been sick for so long. Sometimes it just doesn’t work.”
I’d like to tell you I cried that day, but I didn’t. I didn’t know what to feel. “At least you helped him live through the holidays, and I’m sure the family was grateful for that,” Dottie said just before we said goodbye.
A year later, I learned more. His name was Mark, and he lived in southern Florida. I sent a letter to his parents, a mixture of explanation, condolences and apology, never expecting to hear from them. In their position, I wouldn’t form a bond with someone whose sole reminder is what could have been but wasn’t. They never wrote back.
I later found Mark’s photo online, embedded in an office newsletter on an FBI field office’s website. I read that Mark’s dream was to become an FBI agent and how, one last time, at his funeral services, Mark wore his “Junior Special Agent” badge. I learned that Mark was first diagnosed with cancer at two years old and how the disease had spread through his body year after year. I read about how the local FBI office honored him with a special day of remembrance, and how one of the last things Mark did was to make sure the FBI had his application on file once he got better. I finally cried that day, seeing Mark’s smiling face in the photograph, frustrated that our perfect match was anything but.
I wish this story had a happy ending, but it doesn’t. Mark and I shared an imperfect connection - maybe the science wasn’t right, or I had an unseen flaw, or he was just too sick. I do find solace knowing I did a good thing once, even if it wasn’t enough. I made a difference for a little while, and that for that I’m thankful.
The phone call came on an early fall day four years ago. A woman left a message, asking if I was the Tim O’Shea who’d joined the National Marrow Donor program while donating blood almost seven years earlier. If I was, please call them immediately. “It’s about donating bone marrow, and it’s important that we speak,” the woman said.
I had donated blood a while back, and it was unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. An unfortunate combination of a fainting spell, paramedics, an ambulance ride, and a visit to the ER earned me a permanent ban from donating blood. A tersely worded letter from the Red Cross demanding I never donate again emphasized this point a few weeks later. I do remember, prior to the fainting and crying, being asked if I wanted to join the Marrow Donor program. I checked the box and thought nothing of it for over seven years until I got the call.
I called back and learned that my blood stem cells might be a match for a sick boy. “This boy, your potential match, has an aggressive form of leukemia, and this is the only course of treatment left for the family,” Dottie, my case manager, said. I asked where he lived, if I could meet him but was told no. “A year after you donate, if you and the family both agree, you can find out more, but for now, we need to know if you’ll donate.” I didn’t hesitate. It’s not every day you’re asked to try to save someone’s life.
The goal in any potential marrow match is to determine how alike the tissues of the donor are to the potential recipient. By comparing the proteins, or “antigens,” on the surface on my cells to this boy’s, the Registry determined that our marrow cells matched up perfectly, a ten out of ten. “You’re an excellent candidate for a donation,” a nurse told me during one of the many tests I took leading to the procedure. I asked Dottie if this meant we were related. “Maybe there is a connection somewhere in your families’ past, but we can’t tell for sure,” she shared.
The process moved quickly, leaving no time for ancestral musings. In the course of four weeks, I went from a guy who’d been branded a Red Cross blood drive outlander to a healthy matched donor cleared for a marrow donation.
By mid October, four weeks since Dottie and I first spoke, the surgery was scheduled. A few days later I was en route to the Cancer Center at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital in Hanover, thinking about how scared that little boy must be – and how his parents must be filled with the same dread, or worse. I comforted myself imagining that maybe they were buoyed by this tiny bit of hope I was asked to float their way.
My time in the hospital was short, murky and painful. After I went under, the doctor used a big hollow needle to extract three large vials of liquid marrow from the back of my pelvis. I felt fine when I woke up, but once the anesthesia wore off, I was in a lot of pain. Meanwhile, the medical team rushed my cells to the hospital where the little boy waited for his last chance at life.
I spent two days on the cancer ward, reminding me the goal was to help kill this disease, stopping its morbid march through the boy’s body. I shared a room with a lifelong smoker, a gravelly-voiced man in his fifties who’d been told a few days earlier his lung and throat cancer was inoperable. Later that night we split a pizza and talked about everything but cancer.
My recovery was slow, slower than they’d told me, and after two weeks of more than lingering discomfort, they sent me back to Hanover for more tests. They found nothing. Was this pain was in my mind? Donating was the first thing I’d done in my life purely for someone else, and maybe I didn’t want to let go of it, even if it hurt. In a few weeks, the pain subsided, and I went back to my life and routine, thinking about the boy once in a while, hoping he was better.
In early February, Dottie called with the sad news. “Unfortunately, Timothy,” she said, her voice growing quiet, “the patient passed away last week. He’d been sick for so long. Sometimes it just doesn’t work.”
I’d like to tell you I cried that day, but I didn’t. I didn’t know what to feel. “At least you helped him live through the holidays, and I’m sure the family was grateful for that,” Dottie said just before we said goodbye.
A year later, I learned more. His name was Mark, and he lived in southern Florida. I sent a letter to his parents, a mixture of explanation, condolences and apology, never expecting to hear from them. In their position, I wouldn’t form a bond with someone whose sole reminder is what could have been but wasn’t. They never wrote back.
I later found Mark’s photo online, embedded in an office newsletter on an FBI field office’s website. I read that Mark’s dream was to become an FBI agent and how, one last time, at his funeral services, Mark wore his “Junior Special Agent” badge. I learned that Mark was first diagnosed with cancer at two years old and how the disease had spread through his body year after year. I read about how the local FBI office honored him with a special day of remembrance, and how one of the last things Mark did was to make sure the FBI had his application on file once he got better. I finally cried that day, seeing Mark’s smiling face in the photograph, frustrated that our perfect match was anything but.
I wish this story had a happy ending, but it doesn’t. Mark and I shared an imperfect connection - maybe the science wasn’t right, or I had an unseen flaw, or he was just too sick. I do find solace knowing I did a good thing once, even if it wasn’t enough. I made a difference for a little while, and that for that I’m thankful.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Halloween is Hell
Halloween is here again, and I pray for a swarm of locusts to keep us indoors. I dread this day, remembering the evils Halloween visited upon me as a child. Once I became an adult, I thought I could ignore it, but as a parent, I realize Halloween is relentless, spreading its misery around like a sugar-crazed trick-or-treater flinging razor-filled apples into the crowd.
I’ve warned my kids about the horrors of Halloween, but they’ve had none of it. “Kids will beat you up!” I’d say as my son pried JuJu Bees from his molars. “They’ll all laugh and point at you,” I’d scream as my daughter lobbed Sweet Tarts into her brother’s mouth. “You’ll wet your pants, and they’ll make you dress like a savage,” I’d cry, and that’s when they’d walk out to check on the status of their outfits.
My earliest memory of Halloween didn’t have much to do with the actual holiday – it had more to do with the costume. From the first day of preschool, I learned to fear costumes. For tucked away in a back room sat the Costume Box! My classmates and I dreaded fingerpainting days and mudpie meetings, knowing the slightest spill or smudge meant a teacher-supervised trip to the back room for a set of clean clothes. Instead of the standard fare of Toughskins, jumpers and hand-me-down tee shirts, we’d be dressed in a selection from the Costume Box. It was filled with princesses, knights, sailors, nurses, pilots, dancers and cowboys. Every day an unlucky classmate would make a mess and be dragged into the back room, only to emerge minutes later, transformed into a mini member of the Village People.
My day of reckoning came one morning after spending so much time worrying about staying clean that I forgot to make it to the bathroom. I burst into tears, not so much from poor bladder control – more from the truth awaiting me in the Costume Box. As my teachers hustled me off, I lobbied hard for the construction worker outfit, thinking the tool belt would distract the kids from noticing I wasn’t wearing any underpants. But no! They had crueler designs – buckskin Indian chaps and an elk-bone chest plate, and I’m sure they contemplated war paint but figured my tears would make it run. I spent the rest of the day alternating between making a wigwam out of crayons and hiding from the kid in the General Custer outfit. I knew then I didn’t want any costumes in my future.
My first real Halloween experience took place in kindergarten. My mom coaxed me into wearing a dime-store devil costume, a non-breathable vinyl coat and a mask of the Lord of Darkness himself, complete with two tiny red horns that lit up at the press of a button. As I approached the school bus on Halloween morning, the entire busload of kids ran to the windows and laughed. I panicked, pressing the button and lighting up my horns again and again and again, prompting louder laughs, making me cry and run back home, a pint-sized Lucifer humbled in front of his minions.
So traumatized was I by the wholesale Rejection of Satan that I avoided Halloween completely until sixth grade when my friends and I fixated on the laziest Halloween costume next to the “eyes-cut-out-of-a-sheet-ghost” look – the Bum. The Bum, or Classic American Hobo consisted of a ratty sweatshirt, tattered pants, and an old bowler or stained sunbonnet. We’d take a cork, burn the end and smear our faces, just enough for a cartoonish five o’clock shadow. We were aiming for the rail yard tramp of yesteryear look but ended up like a squad of midget Emmett Kellys, wandering from door to door in search of the perfect popcorn ball.
Armed only with our charcoal-smudged faces and pillowcases, we spent the night bartering and cajoling for candy from every house in town. After a few hours, we struggled down the street, our bags bulging with booty. If there’s an easier mark out there than a pack of pre-teen bums wandering down the poorly lit street, lugging pounds of candy and fruit, I’d like to see it. With three blocks to go before home, a pack of kids jumped us. I don’t remember much except getting hit and tossed to the ground. As I rolled over, a girl a few years older than me was on top, slapping me back and forth across the head, knocking my derby aside, screaming, “Give it up, little boy! Give it up!” I did what any pudgy twelve-year old holding $35 worth of stale sweets would do – I took my lumps and held onto that bag for dear life. My assailant eventually grew tired of thumping me and gave up, running off with her cohorts into the night. I sat up and smiled, thinking we’d won, only to find that my fellow bums had surrendered their loot at the first sign of trouble. Despite being the last tramp standing, I couldn’t decide which was more painful – getting my butt thoroughly kicked by an 8th grade girl or having to share my candy.
As a parent, I’ve confronted Halloween head-on in hopes that my distaste would discourage my kids from participating. But I’ve had no luck. Many times my wife and I have listened to our son’s sermons on the curative powers of nougat, and there’s nothing like finding Kit Kat wrappers under your daughter’s pillows in early February.
But I’ve refuse to share in their love of Halloween. The sad truth is that I resent Halloween – the happy faces, the confident choosing of costumes, the careless disregard for dental hygiene. And I have a way to go before I can put this nightmare to rest. I see no end to the costume parades, the endless stream of wrappers, and the ringing doorbells. But one day, who knows when, I’ll be rid of Halloween, and my world will be a better place. And at that point, I’ll buy my own candy.
I’ve warned my kids about the horrors of Halloween, but they’ve had none of it. “Kids will beat you up!” I’d say as my son pried JuJu Bees from his molars. “They’ll all laugh and point at you,” I’d scream as my daughter lobbed Sweet Tarts into her brother’s mouth. “You’ll wet your pants, and they’ll make you dress like a savage,” I’d cry, and that’s when they’d walk out to check on the status of their outfits.
My earliest memory of Halloween didn’t have much to do with the actual holiday – it had more to do with the costume. From the first day of preschool, I learned to fear costumes. For tucked away in a back room sat the Costume Box! My classmates and I dreaded fingerpainting days and mudpie meetings, knowing the slightest spill or smudge meant a teacher-supervised trip to the back room for a set of clean clothes. Instead of the standard fare of Toughskins, jumpers and hand-me-down tee shirts, we’d be dressed in a selection from the Costume Box. It was filled with princesses, knights, sailors, nurses, pilots, dancers and cowboys. Every day an unlucky classmate would make a mess and be dragged into the back room, only to emerge minutes later, transformed into a mini member of the Village People.
My day of reckoning came one morning after spending so much time worrying about staying clean that I forgot to make it to the bathroom. I burst into tears, not so much from poor bladder control – more from the truth awaiting me in the Costume Box. As my teachers hustled me off, I lobbied hard for the construction worker outfit, thinking the tool belt would distract the kids from noticing I wasn’t wearing any underpants. But no! They had crueler designs – buckskin Indian chaps and an elk-bone chest plate, and I’m sure they contemplated war paint but figured my tears would make it run. I spent the rest of the day alternating between making a wigwam out of crayons and hiding from the kid in the General Custer outfit. I knew then I didn’t want any costumes in my future.
My first real Halloween experience took place in kindergarten. My mom coaxed me into wearing a dime-store devil costume, a non-breathable vinyl coat and a mask of the Lord of Darkness himself, complete with two tiny red horns that lit up at the press of a button. As I approached the school bus on Halloween morning, the entire busload of kids ran to the windows and laughed. I panicked, pressing the button and lighting up my horns again and again and again, prompting louder laughs, making me cry and run back home, a pint-sized Lucifer humbled in front of his minions.
So traumatized was I by the wholesale Rejection of Satan that I avoided Halloween completely until sixth grade when my friends and I fixated on the laziest Halloween costume next to the “eyes-cut-out-of-a-sheet-ghost” look – the Bum. The Bum, or Classic American Hobo consisted of a ratty sweatshirt, tattered pants, and an old bowler or stained sunbonnet. We’d take a cork, burn the end and smear our faces, just enough for a cartoonish five o’clock shadow. We were aiming for the rail yard tramp of yesteryear look but ended up like a squad of midget Emmett Kellys, wandering from door to door in search of the perfect popcorn ball.
Armed only with our charcoal-smudged faces and pillowcases, we spent the night bartering and cajoling for candy from every house in town. After a few hours, we struggled down the street, our bags bulging with booty. If there’s an easier mark out there than a pack of pre-teen bums wandering down the poorly lit street, lugging pounds of candy and fruit, I’d like to see it. With three blocks to go before home, a pack of kids jumped us. I don’t remember much except getting hit and tossed to the ground. As I rolled over, a girl a few years older than me was on top, slapping me back and forth across the head, knocking my derby aside, screaming, “Give it up, little boy! Give it up!” I did what any pudgy twelve-year old holding $35 worth of stale sweets would do – I took my lumps and held onto that bag for dear life. My assailant eventually grew tired of thumping me and gave up, running off with her cohorts into the night. I sat up and smiled, thinking we’d won, only to find that my fellow bums had surrendered their loot at the first sign of trouble. Despite being the last tramp standing, I couldn’t decide which was more painful – getting my butt thoroughly kicked by an 8th grade girl or having to share my candy.
As a parent, I’ve confronted Halloween head-on in hopes that my distaste would discourage my kids from participating. But I’ve had no luck. Many times my wife and I have listened to our son’s sermons on the curative powers of nougat, and there’s nothing like finding Kit Kat wrappers under your daughter’s pillows in early February.
But I’ve refuse to share in their love of Halloween. The sad truth is that I resent Halloween – the happy faces, the confident choosing of costumes, the careless disregard for dental hygiene. And I have a way to go before I can put this nightmare to rest. I see no end to the costume parades, the endless stream of wrappers, and the ringing doorbells. But one day, who knows when, I’ll be rid of Halloween, and my world will be a better place. And at that point, I’ll buy my own candy.
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