The Fall of the House of Gingerbread

If history has taught us anything, it’s that great houses tend to fall: The House of Tudor, the Ming Dynasty, the Roman Empire, France in the Time of Napoleon—all of which rose and collapsed in a blaze of glory.

So, too, will gingerbread houses rise and fall when you totally wing their construction. I speak these words of truth.

And I can only blame myself.

For the record, I am not a fan of written instructions. I’ll follow a recipe only if it’s short, and I’ll put together a bookcase solely by instinct. I jump feet first into the fray without considering the proper order or outcome of things. Sometimes, I even get away with it and nod smugly at myself, knowing I wasted no time.

I thought this was one of those times, because this is how our (very first ever) gingerbread house looked.

Hold your uproarious applause and accolades, though, because 38 minutes later, it looked like this:

~*~

The Gingerbread

It all began with a lovely (dairy-free/egg-free) molasses dough (courtesy of food.com):

Ingredients:

1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup molasses
1 1/2 teaspoons ginger
1 teaspoon allspice
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon cloves
2 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 cup margarine
1 egg, beaten (or 1 ½ tsp Ener-G egg replacer + 2 Tbs water)
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

Directions:

1. In a medium saucepan, heat sugar, molasses, ginger, allspice, cinnamon, and cloves to boiling, stirring occasionally.
2. Remove from heat; stir in soda (it will foam up).
3. Stir in margarine till melted.
4. With a fork, stir in egg (or egg replacer), then flour.
5. On a floured surface, knead dough till mixed. Divide dough in half, wrap half with plastic wrap; set aside.
6. Roll half the dough, with a rolling pin, slightly thinner than 1/4 inch.
7. Cut your house shapes.
8. Bake at 325F on a cookie sheet for 12 minutes; cool on a wire rack.

I carved the dough into six 3×5 rectangles: 4 for the walls, 2 for the roof. That was my first mistake. The roof slats needed to be taller than the rest of the pieces—construction basics I did not know.

~*~

The Lessons Learned

There were lots of other mistakes I made along the way. I could have saved the construction team—me, GB, the boys, my brother SC and his sweetheart, Kelli—a lot of trouble if I’d just done my research.

I don’t want you to make the same mistakes and then watch your hard work topple into disrepair. So please, heed this advice I’m paraphrasing from How to Assemble a Christmas Gingerbread House on eHow.com:

1) Prep like a pro: Make sure all your tools are at your fingertips.

2) Pick your platter: It should be flat and sturdy, like foil-covered cardboard or a pretty dish. Lay a piece of string across the surface.

3) Lay your base: Place a dab of icing in the center of your base, then place a small box on top of the dab. Make sure the peaked walls run parallel to the string.

4) Frame up: Dab icing along the sides of the box, then pipe the corners. Press your walls firmly against the box.

5) Raise the roof: Smooth icing along the top edges of the walls, then use those edges to help prop the roof pieces against one another to create two slopes. Pipe icing along the peak.

6) Tie it: Pull the ends of the string up and over the roof, then tie them at the peak to secure the roof and wall frames while they dry.

7) Be patient: Wait an hour or so, then remove the string and decorate.

The Hope for a New Tomorrow

Although it was a blow to watch our empire tumble, all was not lost. Amid the smoldering embers of catastrophe, the gingerbread men and women persevered.

It is for them—and only them—that I shall forge on in my efforts and try again next year.

Gingerbread Kelli and SC

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Other Firsts: We’re Not Perfect. Take a Drink.

(courtesy of cdn-www.cracked.com)

It’s Wednesday night, and I’m sitting around a marble countertop at Spagio Wine Cellars with seven other women. We all have children in the same preschool class, and we want to get to know each other so we can schedule play dates with a clear conscience.

It starts innocently enough. One by one, we walk through the door, shaking off the blasting cold with a cheerful hello and a glance at the wine list. We complement one another, which is what women do when they don’t know each other well, and then something totally unexpected happens.

They launch into their very worst stories.

~*~

(I’m changing names here. Nobody wants their kid-related laundry aired with names attached.)

“My kid’s the class troublemaker, if you’re wondering,” one mom says. When we tell her she’s being silly, she answers, “No, really. Campbell was sent to the office again today. Isn’t that crazy? This is preschool.”

“Tell them about his first trip to the office,” another mom urges. She looks at the rest of us and whispers loudly, “It’s actually pretty funny.”

“The preschool directors called and said, ‘We think Campbell needs to go home a little early today.’ He’d pushed Abigail and dumped soap in the fish tank. I tried to scold him, but I couldn’t keep a straight face. Pushing Abigail was bad, but come on—soap in the fish tank? That is hilarious.”

“You think that’s bad?” another mom says. “On Friday night, we called Poison Control because Joe ate baby powder. I ran upstairs to see why he was coughing, and he was pouring it in his mouth! The Help Line called back three times to check on him and reminded us to watch for a fever in case he developed a lung infection.”

“That’s little boys for you. “

“I send my son to Montessori in the morning and preschool in the afternoon because our nanny can’t handle him.”

I’m just fascinated by these women! It’s the strangest pissing content I’ve ever seen. Usually, moms try to outdo each other with stories that shine the best possible light on their children and themselves. But these women? Oh no. There are no pretenses here. Just honesty. And I love it.

~*~

It all makes me think of a scene in Sex in the City 2.

(What? I saw it, ok?)

As I was saying, it all makes me think of a scene in Sex in the City 2. Charlotte is worried that her husband Harry is having an affair with their beautiful (and bra-less) Irish nanny. Miranda decides to get Charlotte drunk so she’ll talk about her honest, ugliest, most hard-to-admit feelings.

Miranda says something like, “I’ll go first: You know I love Brady [her son] with all my heart. And I love staying home with him. But it’s not enough. I miss my job. Take a drink.”

They both throw back, and Charlotte says something like, “I love my girls, but Rose cries all the time. Sometimes I just have to lock myself in the closet and have a good cry myself.”

And then Miranda says “Good. Good. Now take a drink.”

The two go back and forth until they’re laughing and reassured and completely plastered.  It’s a satisfying scene, because the sentiments are those every mother (and father, I’m guessing) on the planet can relate to.

~*~

Not long ago, H asked me for a snack. I told him it was too close to supper, so he completely melted down. It wasn’t a tantrum-ish kind of fall-apart. Instead, he just wept, and slurred out the quietest, most dreadful words in the world: “Why don’t you love me?”

This, just for saying no to snacks?

I dropped the spoon I was holding. It clattered against the floor. For a moment, I was too stunned to do or say anything. But then I scooped him up, showered his blond head with kisses and searched the last almost-six years of his life to figure out where on earth he could ever have fallen under such a sad impression—or what I could do to erase it—or what I could say to prove just how much my boys are my world.

But how, right? Honestly, how can a parent ever possibly explain what it’s like to love a child? No matter how crazy my boys behave, or how much I hate when they burp or beat each other up or throw tantrums in public or forget to be respectful, I still follow them around with blind, unfettered, goofy, boundless, unconditional love. I don’t understand—I honestly can’t imagine—how for even an instant, my son couldn’t see that.

If you want to know my biggest parental failure to date, I guess I’d say this has to be it.

And the worst part is, it’s a big one. Take a drink.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Other Firsts: The Allergic Kid Shall Eat Pie

 

Courtesy of whatscookingamerica.net

If I could, I would personally thank the guy who invented pumpkin pie. I’d walk right up, pat him on the back, and congratulate him for doing his part to make Thanksgiving—and the world—a little bit better. I’d also golf-clap for the guy who first whipped the cream and dropped a dollop atop said pumpkin pie, because that was a stroke of genius and creativity I can’t even comprehend.

I know I’m not alone in this. People are freaks for the pumpkin pie. Case in point: A few years ago, we met up with some friends to attend the Circleville Pumpkin Festival. We arrived promptly at 8 PM, but by then, not a single slice of pumpkin pie remained. Not a flaky morsel of crust, not a smudge of pumpkin filling—it was as though the whole concept of pumpkin pie had never really existed. We walked from display to display, only to be greeted by empty countertops. The disappointment, it was too much. Shame, shame, Circleville Pumpkin Fest. Shame, shame, I know your name.

And that is how I feel about pumpkin pie.

My five-year-old is allergic to dairy and eggs. This means he has never had a slice of pumpkin pie (!!!), and this wounds my heart in ways I can’t explain. I searched and searched for a good allergen-free recipe, gave up, and then stumbled across one last week. And so, today, at approximately 6PM, my boy will seize his fork and claim the same pie-eating freedom the rest of his fellow countrymen enjoy–all because some other guy, who probably also had food allergies and couldn’t eat the goodness, found a way to make sure he could.

How’s that for American ingenuity?

~*~

Dairy-Free, Egg-Free Pumpkin Pie!

Crust

1 cup ground graham crackers
½ cup dairy-free margarine, melted
2 Tbsp sugar

Pie Filling

2 cups canned pumpkin
¾ cup brown sugar, firmly packed
1 ½ cup water
6 ½ Tbsp cornstarch
1 tsp allspice
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp ground cloves
½ tsp ginger

Process

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
2. Mix crust filling, then press into a pie pan.
3. In a medium saucepan, combine all ingredients for the filling. Cook over medium heat until mixture begins to thicken, stirring constantly
4. Pour filling into pie crust.
5. Bake 30 minutes until firm.
6. Pile on the whipped cream and dig in.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Other Firsts: Bring It, Puppet.

google image: blog.ivman.com

I went to high school with an engineering genius.

The guy was wicked-smart, very easy on the eyes, and my friends and I were kind of sweet on him. His dad was a well-known local engineer, so we all knew where he’d gotten his smarts. We called him “The Physics Professor” behind his back.

Even so, he was our competition. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t beat him. I’ll use a few of our old Physics assignments as proof:

• Drop an egg from a 50ft platform. The egg must not break. While my classmates and I attached hand-made parachutes to feather-stuffed boxes, The Physics Professor filled a small Tupperware container with hair gel, slipped the egg into the middle, and shoved it off the top of the football stadium bleachers. My egg broke. His was unscathed.
• Build a mousetrap catapult. My catapult had a 15-foot trajectory. The Physics Professor’s distance? Far. Like, 75ft or something equally crazy.
• Build a 12-inch structure strong enough to hold a brick. Use only toothpicks and putty. I Lincoln-logged a tower. It took dozens of toothpick boxes to make that mind-blowing bit of engineering happen. The Physics Professor rigged a to-scale replica of the Golden Gate Bridge. And? It held two bricks.

We shook our heads at him, because we all knew: His dad did his homework. That was the only plausible explanation. His near-perfect SAT score had nothing to do with it.

~*~

Assignment: This week, we’ll read Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Choose a character in the story,
make a puppet, and bring it to school on Share Day.

H is hopping on one foot. “Make a puppet?” he asks between jumps. “What kind?”

My index finger skims the page. “You pick. Stick puppet, finger puppet, sock puppet, paper puppet…”

“SOCK PUPPET!!!” he shouts, hopping faster in his excitement.

I should have known H would pick the thread and needle option. Clearly, his heart is set on it. But since my adorable son can’t sit still, and he’s only 5 years old for godssake, I realize I’ve just signed up to sew my kid’s homework.

“Let’s make the Mama Bear,” he says decidedly. He walks to the craft closet and pulls out a piece of blue paper. “I’ll draw the blueprints. Let’s get to work.”

Let’s get to work, indeed.

~*~

Mama Bear is 90% fuzzy brown sock, 5% cotton stuffing, 1% plastic (for the eyes and nose), 1% decorative feathers and 3% lace doily. I hold her up to the boys, who are now three-inches deep in crayon sketches of hearts and smiley-faced robots.

“Whaddaya think, guys?” I say. “Does she look more ‘kangaroo/rat’ than ‘bear’?”

“She does kind of look like a rat,” H says kindly.

“I don’t fink she wooks wike a bear!” O decides. “I don’t fink she wooks wike anyfing.”

“I should move her eyes and ears closer to her nose. That might help.”

H points to the blueprints. “I think you just need to start over.”

But I do not start over. Instead, I sew and sew and sew that bear until I can sew no more. In the end, I’m fine with the result, but I’m positive The Physics Professor’s dad would have done a better job.

~*~

The summer before I left for college, The Physics Professor and I went on a few dates. Instead of asking him about his favorite color or song or what movies he wanted to see, I asked him this question: “Did your dad help you win all those science fairs?”

He very politely drove me home. And he never called again.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Other Firsts: The Post in Which I Have Nothing to Say

Google image from Christian Spanring’s blog

Guess what I did this weekend?

Nothing. I did nothing.

And it was nice.

~*~

Since I opted for a lazy weekend, and have no stories to tell, here’s a Roadside Shoe! from Carol at Wanderings of an Elusive Mind.

Carol sent me this photo from a recent trip along the coast. The shoes were in a pull-off area along the highway where she and her husband parked to walk down to the beach. I like how Carol is always baffled by the awesome mystery of the Roadside Shoe!. “I could see finding them on the beach,” she said. ”But in the rocky pull-out area? I just don’t understand.”

What to know about Wanderings of an Elusive Mind: Carol’s posts are always thoughtful and open-hearted. Plus, her daughter Kat (of Banterings of a Basketcase) often comments on her work. I think that’s pretty adorable. 

Have a Roadside Shoe!? Send it to 36x37blog@gmail.com. I’ll feature your shoe pic here, and if you have a blog, I’ll pimp that, too.    

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Other Firsts: The Grim Reaper and The Fire Starter

“Help me, Obi-wans. You’re my only hope.”

On Monday, I told you about my friend Katy, and how she sacrificed her ankle to protect our kids from drowning (or at least getting their pants wet) in the creek behind her pop-up camper. Today, let’s rewind that scene one hour to go Trick or Treating across Lazy River campgrounds in Granville, OH.

This is a first for me. And that’s not just because we’re Trick or Treating away from home. It’s because I’ve never taken my kids Trick or Treating before, period. GB takes them out, and I stay home with a bowl of candy in my lap, waiting for a knock at the door. I’m ashamed to admit it, but there it is. And I have the weirdest case of social anxiety to blame for it.

Because here’s the thing: Mostly, I’m fine in a crowd. Assuming we’ve met before and I know your name, we can sit down and have a laugh or a nice conversation. The problem only arises if we’ve met before and I can’t remember your name—which sends me into such a frenzy of shyness and embarrassment that I’ll skip the neighborhood Christmas party to avoid it, or I’ll lay as low as I can at Parents’ Night.

But this? This is perfect. I’m not expected to know anyone but Katy and the four kids we’re leading around: Optimus Prime, Frankie Stein, Obi-wan Kenobi #1 and Obi-wan Kenobi #2.

For the most part, everyone on the Trick or Treat route is normal, friendly and generous with the Snickers bars. We prompt the kids to say please and thank you, and we’re on our way.

Then we meet up with this guy:

I never thought I'd actually find this costume online! Thanks, Google Images!

He’s handing suckers and marketing postcards to all the little kids passing by. When Madeline approaches, he says, “Wanna touch my eye?” and when she does, he screams like he’s been felled by his own sickle. Then he laughs and says, “I’m kidding! My eye is fine!”

He looks at Obi-wan #1 and says, “What about you—wanna touch my eye?”

Obi-wan #1’s face says no, but he follows proper Trick or Treat etiquette and grabs the eye anyway. The Reaper screams again, laughs to himself, and hands a sucker and a postcard to each child.

Then he turns to me. “Heeeere,” he says, in the creepiest voice possible. “Yoooou can have a sucker, toooooo.”

We all take a step back. The Reaper says, “You sure have pretty moms, kids. That’s why they get these suckers.” He hands a lollipop to Katy, she and I look at each other, and we leave without speaking.

When I look down at the postcards my boys have shoved into my hands, I see that The Reaper is promoting his martial arts business. Of course, I think. Of course, martial arts.

Two pop-up campers later, when we’re out of earshot, Obi-wan #2 whispers, “I knew that guy wasn’t real because I could see his man neck under his hood.” I laugh until my eyes well up with tears. That’s when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

It’s The Reaper, and he’s in my personal space. He hands me another postcard and says, “Come take a self defense class.” My inner monologue freaks out, but I muster a quick “Thanks,” grab the Obi-wans and bolt.

Well this is a first, for sure: I have never before been hit on by a 7ft-tall, googley-eyed phantom trained in the art of taekwando. It was just so weird.

~*~

It’s Sunday morning, and I’m making pancakes in our tiny kitchen. H and Madeline are planning their future together, and I’m dropping chocolate chips into the batter. The cabin is smoky, so I hit the fan on the microwave above the range and start flipping the bacon.

When the smoke alarm goes off, GB opens the door. It’s almost a conditioned response, because our smoke detector at home is too close to the oven, and it goes off almost every time we cook. After a minute or two, he walks into the kitchen and says, “Do you smell smoke?” and then “Why is the stove turning black right behind the frying pan?”

I lift the pan, and see that the toaster cord has somehow fallen onto the gas range. The plastic has melted, and a flame has sparked.

I told GB once that he has trouble in crisis situations. It wasn’t a fair thing to say at the time. And now, as I’m standing frozen with fear and a pan of sizzling bacon, he proves how wrong I am by saying, “It’s ok. Just turn off the burner.”

With shaking hands, I do. And then I watch as he calmly blows out the fire.   

We blink at each other, then he pats my shoulder, smirks and walks away.

~*~

I feign confidence as I walk through the doors of the campground registration post. A friendly guy sits behind the counter, so I cloak myself with every ounce of charm I can muster, and hand him our keys. “How was your stay?” he asks brightly.

“Oh, it was great, thanks. Although…well, see, I set fire to the toaster. It wasn’t plugged in at the time. I’m wondering how you’d like me to replace it?”

He looks at me for a moment. I can see on his face that he’s bracing himself. “What’s the damage?”

“Oh! Well, it’s not anything really. Just a melted toaster cord. But I’d hate for someone to plug it in and, you know, be electrocuted or something.”

He leans forward conspiratorially and says, “You know, don’t worry about it.”

“No really, I…”

“It’s fine, I promise. Just come back and see us again.” He nods, so I nod back. Then I turn on my heels and leave. I suspect I’ve gotten away with something, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

So. As far as weekends go, this one was lovely but strange. And while it was chock-full of new “experiences,” we are never going back to Lazy River.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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(100th Post) Naan-sense, and Celebrity Sightings!

Vindaloo.

I like the word. Vindaloo.

I had big plans for today’s post. I knew it would be my 100^th, so I really wanted to play it up. Do something special. Tell you about how my colleagues joined me for my very first Indian lunch, and how the Chicken Paradise was so spicy and so delicious it almost brought tears to my eyes, and how the server made sure I knew that the hellfire in my mouth was only a “mild spice.” And how I have a special place in my heart now for naan.

Naan. I like that word, too.

That was my plan. I was going to spin that into an 800 word story, much like my first Sushi experience. Lucky for you, Jen said she was planning to spend a day in New York before flying out to Cabo, and Jack suggested going to Soho to watch for celebrities.

Next thing I knew: Scoop on Celebrity Sightings!

~*~

“New York is crawling with them, and you’d never know it. They fit right in there, because real New Yorkers don’t care. You wouldn’t believe who I’ve seen just sitting outside at a sidewalk café.”

He begins by saying he once spotted Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro—one of them in a Broadway play. (I’ve admired and confused those two esteemed actors all of my life, so I’m equal parts “Wow!” and “Which one was Scarface?”)

(google image from tumblr.com)

This is when the conversation gets interesting.

“I saw Bruce Springsteen at a shop once. I’d just seen his show in Cleveland the week before, so I wanted to tell him how much I’d enjoyed it. Bruce was just standing there with his hands on his hips, staring at the ceiling, while his wife and kids checked out a display of sunglasses. I said, ‘Hey man, I loved your show last week.’ He said thanks and introduced me to his family. Can you believe it? He wasn’t a musician at that moment. He was just a nice guy—a husband and a dad waiting around at the mall.”

(google image from http://www.thelatestnews.in)

(That’s exactly what you want to hear about Bruce, isn’t it? Jack’s story makes me think of a recent quote from my boy Jon Stewart: “Have you hugged Bruce Springsteen? I have. And it was nice.”)

“One time, on the street, I saw this women. She looked really familiar. I kept watching her, thinking, ‘Do I know her from somewhere? Why do I feel like I’ve seen her before?’ Then she smiled at me. Julia Roberts! We just stood there, smiling at each other.” He jokes, “It’s like we had a ‘moment.’”

(google image from genxnews.com)

~*~

A few days later, I’m at Starbucks with Angela and Shannon. Angela joined the editorial team a few weeks ago, and she has flown in from Seattle so I can train her in person. She’d picked the Indian restaurant the other day, so she’d heard all of Jack’s stories. I think she kept quiet then because she knew she could trump him.

Now we’re talking about Seattle, and the late 80s-mid-90s Grunge Rock scene. Angela says she worked at the Sorrento Hotel when Grunge was at its height, and since she worked in Sales and Reception, she encountered a lot of celebrities.

“I helped Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love check out once. They used everything in their room but the towels. They pulled the mattresses off the beds and threw those Styrofoam packing peanuts all over the floor. And they had a huge doll collection lined up around the room.”

(google image from music.ninemsn.com.au)

“Oh wow…did you see it?” I ask. I’d always heard that Kurt wrote “Doll Parts” for Courtney’s band, Hole, and now I know why.

“No, we heard it from the cleaning staff. They always let us know what was happening upstairs.”

We laugh.

“I also helped Duran Duran check out once. They were past their prime by then. It was kind of sad to see them standing around all tired in their crushed velvet jackets.”

(google image from kevchino.com)

“Do you remember Alice and Chains? I checked in Layne Staley once. All the bell hops were like, “OH MY GOD, THAT’S LAYNE STALEY!!!” I think Layne thought I was cool because I wasn’t freaking out on him. But really, I just didn’t know who he was. I was surprised, though. He was such a little guy with that great big voice.”

(google image from heavenrocks.co.uk)

“And remember Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island? A bell boy got high with her in the back.”

(google image from blogs.dixcdn.com)

~*~

I love stories like this. And I’m not even the sort of person who reads celebrity gossip magazines. It’s just that I like flash reminders from the universe that we’re all just people skulking across the same soil at the same time. Basically we want the same things: To breathe in the air, and to survive; to form connections and blood lines and friendships and spiritual understandings; to find knowledge and comfort in the lessons others learned before us; and to communicate what we’ve learned—to pass it along, like ancient storytellers, from generation to generation.

Celebrities do all of these things in the public eye. They surge and stumble, and they face our reactions to that. Some handle it, some don’t, but if they can, they stick with the limelight. I think that’s mostly because they use their art as a means to be understood. That’s another thing we all want: Understanding.

And when you think about it, isn’t that what a blog is? A chance to stake claim on your own soil, and to be understood in spite of yourself? Or in my case, to help me find out at age 36 who the hell I’m supposed to become?

Happy 100^th Post birthday to you, little blog. We have roughly 100 more of these posts to go. And if we walk away from this on April 17 meaning something to only each other, that will be alright with me. And that will be enough.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Other Firsts: Coach Awesome

H, other kids, Coach Awesome

I almost sprint from my car to the playing fields. H’s first night of golf lessons began at 5:00 PM, and thanks to a snare of Monday traffic, I’m 45 minutes late. I can see him in the field at the far end of a straight line. He’s smiling and holding a club, but instead of swinging, he’s shouting. 

The second coach is saying something. I’m too far away to hear exactly what, so to me, he sounds like a grown-up from a Charlie Brown cartoon. 

Coach #2: Wah wah wah wah, wah wah wah wah. 

Kids: Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh! 

Coach #2: Wah wah wah wah, wah wah, wah wah wah wah. 

Kids: Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh! 

I join GB on the sidelines. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s trying not to look cold. 

“What’s going on?” I ask, watching the kids jump up and down. 

“That guy over there, in the red shorts? That’s Coach Awesome.” 

“Coach Awesome?” 

“And that guy over there in the blue? Coach Slurpie.” 

“Wow. What are they doing?” 

“Every time I think they’ll start swinging, they don’t. They spent the first half hour talking about the parts of their clubs.” 

“A club has parts? It’s not just a club?” 

“Right. So they’re just kind of standing around. You’ll like this, though: Coach Awesome asked each kid to state his name and his favorite food.” 

“What did H say?” 

“H. Noodles.” 

I laugh. 

~*~ 

Coach Awesome: [shouting] SKY HAWKS READY? 

Kids: Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh! 

Coach Awesome: [shouting] I SAID!…SKY HAWKS READY? 

Kids: Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh! 

Coach Awesome: DRIVE! 

Little clubs start swinging. H whiffs and whiffs and whiffs. And whiffs and whiffs. Coach Slurpie stops by to help him make contact with the ball. O distracts me for a moment, and when I look back at H, his ball is sailing across the sky. 

H jumps up and down. Coach Slurpie offers a hand, and they low five. 

It’s clear to me: These coaches know what they’re doing. H is competitive, and if he’s not great at something right away, he’ll give up on it. But here on the playing fields, he’ll try again. And again. And again. Because Coaches Awesome and Slurpie make him feel good about himself. 

Coach Awesome: Get in line! Right behind me!…Great! Now stick your arms out like you’re an airplane. We’re going to fly over to the shelter house. Ready, set, go! 

The kids buzz past us and race toward the shelter house. They disappear for the next half hour, and when I walk past the shelter house door, I see that they’re putting. 

~*~ 

And now I’m a fan of golf!

Because really, it sounds like a dream sport. Killing time, driving and chipping, chatting while your friends putt around? Is it really that social? And is it really that lazy? 

If yes, then sign me up, Coach Awesome. I’ll pay extra if I can drive the golf cart. 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Other Firsts: All the Cooks in the Kitchen

“Here’s what I want you to do: Pick up your paring knife…good…now pick up your potato…”

The chef teaching this Sur la Table cooking class is pacing from station to station. As he talks, he peels the brown flesh from the potato and lets it fall to the floor. “I want you to do what I’m doing. And when you’re finished, your potato should be shaped like this…”

He holds up his example: It is starchy and white, shaped like a perfect football.

I look at the knife in my hands and want to laugh.

I am not meant to wield a knife. Case in point: During a speech class once, I stood in front of the room to teach the finer points of pumpkin carving. I received a “C+”—something I wasn’t used to—and when I asked my professor why, he shrugged. “It wasn’t the speech,” he said. “That part was fine. But you and that knife? It just made people nervous.”

My potato sits heavily in my hand like a broken toy. I kind of swipe at it for a bit, then set it down. When I look to my left, I see that GB’s potato is perfect. Smooth surface, not a hint of peel, and shaped to meet all NFL regulations.

The chef peers over GB’s shoulder and lets out a low whistle. “Nice job, man. You could throw a spiral with that thing.”

~*~

That was years ago, before the boys were born. Back then GB and I cooked together a lot—the hard-core gourmet stuff, too: dishes requiring vermouth and brandy and rues and braising and God knows what else. We’d spend Sunday afternoons strolling up and down the grocery aisles, selecting the best ingredients, tossing them in the cart. Then we’d go home, throw on some music, unpack the bags and get down to business. I’d do the prep work, GB would do the hard stuff, and we’d talk and talk and talk.

Those were great Sunday afternoons. We laughed a lot. Plus there was always something ridiculously satisfying about chopping the hell out of a celery stalk. You don’t need knife skillz for that—you just need a knife.

After the boys were born, we traded our Sunday afternoon hobby for something a little less hands-on: The Food Network and The Travel Channel. Emeril’s smellovision. Those arrogant Bobby Flay throwdowns. Inna Garten + Paula Deen + butter. Giada and her adorable little kitchen.

And then, Anthony Bourdain, who is—to me—the maestro of the whole celebrity chef operation. The Thom Yorke of the kitchen. The JD Salinger of gourmands. He’s the guy who kicked us off spectator mode and back into the kitchen, this time with two eager boys to help us.

That’s why GB dug our old pasta maker out of the basement this weekend and set it up just to remind us what it can do.

~*~

Step one: Wash hands. Pose for picture. Hope the watermark on the pic will protect it from questionable websites.

Step two: Measure ingredients. Spill all over Mama’s clean floor. Say “Oh no!”—then pretend like nothing happened. Keep mixing.

Step three: Take break. Mess around with stuff. Show off Yoda tats.

Step four: Knead dough. Show off Silly Bandz.

Step five: Start cranking.

Step six: Keep cranking.

Step seven: Crank some more, muttering under your breath that your Play Doh noodle machine is faster.

Step eight: Go outside to play, come back inside to tell Mama something, forget what you wanted to say, tell Mama the sauce smells great and this was just the best day. Give her a hug and run outside again before she can get emotional and hug you until you can’t breathe and tell you what a good boy you are.

~*~

It was a great Sunday afternoon. We laughed a lot. Plus there’s always something ridiculously satisfying about kneading the dough and cranking it through a pasta cartridge and letting it dry and boiling it and slathering it with stuff and eating firsts and then heaping on the seconds. Not to mention how nice it is to simply spend this time together.

Cooking with GB is great. Cooking with GB and his clones is even better.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Other Firsts: An Honest Thought

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The strangest thing happened on my way to work a few weeks ago. I’ll either remember it forever, or I’ll forget about it completely. It’s too soon to tell. 

But here it is: 

I was heading northbound on 315, preparing to switch lanes, when a fussy blue Suburban cut me off. I threw up my hands like a saucy Sicilian grandmother, and the passenger flipped me the bird. 

I was affronted. Nonplussed. And in that moment of indignation, it came to me: The skeleton of a story. 

Every bone was accounted for: Rough character sketches, the main story arc, the makings of conflict, the sweeping sigh of resolution. Plus, the grip of an emotional undertow—a thick red spine knitted loosely through the core. 

I blinked and shook my head. It was the strangest feeling—a buzz, a pulse. Like my mind had been wiped clean to make room for some quick and humming coil of information. 

“I want to write this!” I thought. 

And then, “How can I write this?” 

~*~ 

I had a similar experience once before—two Aprils ago, I think. I was stepping off the elevator and onto the fourth floor when I tripped over somebody’s pen. Suddenly: The blue outline of a story! I could think of nothing else for the rest of the day. 

I even sketched it out for GB that night after dinner. He listened intently, then leaned back in his chair. “It sounds good,” he said encouragingly. “It sounds a little bit like Atonement. Right?” 

I paused. “Atonement?”—the Ian McEwan novel I’d read and reread and read again?—“ Nooooooooooooooo. It’s totally different. See?” I sketched it out again, only this time, I talked with stubborn desperation. Because secretly I knew he was right. The plot wasn’t the same, but the themes were identical. I was a copycat. A thief.   

I decided to write it anyway. Twelve pages in, I closed the file and threw it away. 

~*~ 

There must be a secret all the published writers know about breathing life into a story. I wonder what that ingredient is, and where I can find it, because this grasping I do—this scratching at the surface for something more—is getting me nowhere. So I really just wonder if I can buy it somehow. Take a class. Schedule some sort of creative implantation. I’d do it, I wouldn’t think twice. 

It makes me wish I could scroll back 49 years, creep into Ernest Hemingway’s study and say, “Listen, about ‘The Snows of Kilimanjaro’…aside from your obvious genius, how did you do that? Did you drink a magic potion? Suss it out in some sweat lodge? Because I read it, and I wish with all my heart I had words like that in me.” 

That’s what separates the hacks from the real thing. One group tries to write. The other just does it. 

~*~ 

Here’s the thing: I swore I’d start to write without worrying what anyone else might think. I swore I would do that, and I haven’t, and that’s just so frustrating. 

So maybe William Faulkner was right: Maybe courage is the main ingredient—the will to crack open the egg just to see what seeps out.

I haven’t tried to do that yet. Because what if I do, and the egg is empty. 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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